Specifically how do you handle confrontation?

An easy target: young girl, alone, burdened with a bag and coat, walking and distracted.  He came out of nowhere, it seemed, and hooked his arm through her bag, which was slung crosswise across her body.  Using the strap and his greater weight, the man in dark clothes pulled her into the dark space between the buildings without a sound.  He swung her by the bag, intending to stun the girl against the brick wall, but he found himself spinning in a full circle when the counterweight disappeared and he was left holding the girl's messenger bag.

Bewildered, the would-be mugger and, quite possibly, rapist, scanned the narrow corridor for his prey, wondering why he didn't hear her fall or cry out or slip on the garbage.  The girl's bag dropped from his flailing hangs when his head was jerked back by a strap around his neck and he found he was incapable of anything but a wheezing, choking sound.  His feet flew out from under him, and he hit the ground hard, his remaining air whooshing out of his lungs and his head ringing with the impact.

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The back of Harry's fist connected with the side of her head and she reeled, giving him enough time to shift to a more stable stance.  The litter-filled hallway was cramped and dangerous.  Harry had already had a pile of old furniture bounce off his shoulder as it fell and he knew it would hurt later.  Unfortunately, his reverse punch didn't knock her out and she came at him hard from the shadows.  Harry blocked and gave room as he could, knowing the end of the hall was somewhere close behind him giving no escape.

23

The waitress looked tired and sad because she was. It had been a long, hot morning that was working its way into a longer and hotter afternoon. The diner's big metal fans blew the heat and smell of fry grease around the dining room without cooling anything. A single TV played cable news in the corner and it was quietly reporting about death somewhere in the world.

There were still four customers from the morning. Gus and Bob and Pat would stay right on through lunch, sitting at the counter, reading their papers or watching the news, occasionally talking to one another. The waitress refilled their coffees: regular, regular with cream, and decaf. A tough-looking trucker lady had come in at 10:30, parking her rig along the side, and ordered a late breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, coffee, coffee. Extra sugar.

The waitress wore baggy khaki pants and a tank top under a thin, blue, button-up shirt. A newly smeared apron was tied around her waist. She wiped the side of her brow with the rolled-up sleeve on her upper arm as she cleaned the last table. The bell on the screen door jingled, but she didn't look up until she heard the three regulars' conversation stop and she didn't hear the sound of the newcomers taking a seat.

There were three men. Men looking for trouble. Men who had found it.