I wake up in a snarling fit, furious and unrefreshed. My nap put me out for all of two hours, leaving a sick, restless feeling like I haven't had since the power naps between Taliban ambushes. Or the shut-eye we barely got in Sierra Leone, trading night shifts, planning for the next round of criminal fucks we'd have to meet to secure our cargo.

I'm as rested as I'll ever be in this empty bed. I run my hand along Kendra's spot next to me.

Fuck. That word is a black hole in the pit of my gut.

Pure regret. I see her eyes tearing up again while I got on the elevator, right after I told her we were over.

She betrayed me. I hurt her. We died with a whimper.

It doesn't seem real, but the images that won't stop flashing in my skull say otherwise.

Our loss sticks deep, a poison dart I just can't extract from the darkest chambers of my heart.

Why, why, why the fuck did it have to happen? Why did she screw me over?

Too many questions, and no answers.

My less rational side still isn't certain she did. It doesn't want to believe she'd turn on me, joining the assholes trying to steal my little girl. But Charlie showed me the truth. I read the statement myself, saw her handwriting with my own eyes. I'd be a total fool to listen to my heart.

Love won't bring Lizzie back. Neither will forgiveness.

I need decisions. Stone cold logic. Nothing less.

There are life and death consequences ahead, equally as heavy as the combat zones I've spent half my life in. If I want to bring my little girl home and cut the cancer from my company, I need info. Then I need solutions.

There's a lot I don't need, too.

Don't have time to cry in the corner over the bruises Sunflower left under my skin. I damn sure don't have time to miss her, nor should I after the rat-fuck trap she led me into.

So many unknowns. So little mercy.

I have to find Sam, or Victor, and find out exactly what I'm dealing with. Need to find out where my daughter is even more. I have to sit up, clear my head, and focus.

Nothing's more important. Time to get to work.

* * *

Jamie rings my phone non-stop, leaving several angry voicemails. I listen to them when I'm in my truck, heading for outer Scottsdale.

She doesn't know about Lizzie missing yet, thank God, which means mom doesn't know either.

“Knox, call back. We want answers. You can't hide it anymore.” Jamie pauses, sighs, and her voice drops lower. “Look, let's cut the crap, okay? You've been messed in the head for years. That's what worries me. You're my brother, as much as I wonder what I've done to deserve it sometimes. I'm scared you're making a reckless, crazy decision. I'm worried for Kendra, too. So is ma. I'd be crazy to stand by while you mess up my best friend while saying diddly about your engagement. Remember the insane crap dad did before his...you know. Call me. I can't let the same thing happen to you.”

Hearing her mention my old man's final days makes me clench the steering wheel tighter. I grit my teeth. Comparing the mid-life crisis he had before his ticker exploded to my very real dilemma is apples to fucking oranges.

I remember how much he pissed me off sneaking around. Came home to his end a kid, barely out of bootcamp, and left with no more illusions in my eyes. It hits me like yesterday. Everything.

The late hours away from our house. The letters from some woman named Judy he tucked into that Cuban cigar box in his office, where mom would never look. I wouldn't have found them myself if I hadn't stumbled home drunk one night from Danny's place after the funeral, and decided I shouldn't let his Cubans go to waste.

I fetched the letters after he died. Threw them into the old ammo box my grandfather left, where I still have the coins from Carson City he gave me as a kid, plus a few old photos.

Sunflower must be in half of them. Growing older, prettier, more irresistible in slow motion.

From the time she was just my bratty little sister's shadow, chasing kids with Supersoakers, to when I started to look at her like I knew I shouldn't. She blossomed into a young woman right before my life changed forever.

I've never opened those letters. Never had the will. If dad was a cheat living a double-life, then I don't want, don't need the fucking proof.

Don't want to know I staked my life on a lie when I gave his eulogy. Swore I'd be a good man, do right by my family, live in his footsteps and make him proud.

I've done that in spite of who he was.

When all this is over, I'm finding that damn box and burning it.

I don't ever need to read those letters. I definitely don't need to see more photos, including the ones with an older Sunflower holding Lizzie. I added those just a couple weeks ago, after our evening trip to Camelback.

We stayed until just past sunset, swapping Lizzie back and forth when she was too tired to walk, hiking to the peak. First real family outing.

Second time we saw those stars together since we were young and innocent and in denial. I thought they'd shine over our love forever.

Last night, they never looked so dull and dead, hanging over Phoenix like antique silver meant to be forgotten.

Yes, asshole. You need to forget a lot of things.

And I do, forcing my brain into combat mode. I need to stop a greater loss before it happens, before I lose my little girl forever.

I'm on the street I haven't traveled in a couple weeks, straight through Black Rhino's gates, when I really start focusing. It takes less than a minute to notice the black vehicles. More here than usual, and a quick drive around the back streets tells me they're parked near every entrance.

Heightened security. I don't see Victor's chopper parked on top of the tower's helipad. It's no comfort.

Wherever he is, he's far from oblivious. He knows my first, second, and third instinct will be to get to him or Sam. But it won't happen here.

I reach for my phone, inputting the address to his private road. He lives further out from the developed areas than I do in the best hills, just outside the valley. His neighbors miles away are tycoons and movie stars looking for a quiet escape from the West Coast hustle.

I haven't visited his place since two Christmases ago, when we tried to put on a brave face for Lizzie's second visit ever with Santa. It takes a half hour to drive out there, and another to find a hidden place in the rocks to park my truck.

Grabbing my binoculars, I peer between boulders, assessing the security situation and looking for weak points, imagining the places inside his sprawling mansion where my daughter might be.

He's light on bodyguards, just like me. Five minutes before I stop moving, a black SUV trawls up the road, pulls through his gate, and drives onto the backroads criss-crossing his property. He's got a patrol, but it's so sparse, he knows he rarely needs it.

It's easy to evade for a man with my skills. Getting through the gate, a little harder.

When I'm on his property, inside the perimeter, I take the path through his gardens. Everything is mausoleum white and overgrown, including the fountain. I stop behind it, listening to a cleaning lady whistling while she sweeps his patio.

It's hard as fuck resisting the urge to break past her. But I do, counting the minutes, hoping I'll find my way in that house without running into the wrong person.

I don't know how long Sam's been back, or what her state of mind is. If she's just come from rehab, odds are good she's there, too. Probably resting, getting help from his household staff, and maybe private doctors.

How do I brace myself to see a ghost? I don't know, but I will.

A late summer monsoon breaks through the sky just after I hear the woman disappear, closing the French doors behind her. I crouch in the rain, counting the minutes I always discipline myself to wait in these situations, a grace period to minimize undesirable encounters.

I'm lucky I remembered to bring my tactical jacket, despite the heat. It keeps me dry, repelling most of the water.

Ten more seconds. When I hit zero, I run, staying low to the ground as I reach the door and cup my hands over my eyes, peering inside.

No one in the hall.

It's a flimsy door. I think it'll be easy to break the lock, but I don't even need to. Fate throws me a bone. I realize it's unlocked as soon as I twist the handle, giving easy access.

I'm in, wracking my brain to remember the basic layout of the house.

There's a hall, a bathroom, a study and several guest bedrooms, I think. Also, the sun room with the old piano, where that lady he hired played us Christmas carols. It's the only place Lizzie would remember, and possibly find comfort in.

I'm almost there, when a soft murmur behind the door in the adjacent room catches my ear. It's a low voice, so hushed I can't make out any words. Someone talking softly, simply, rhythmically like they would to someone barely conscious, or maybe an animal, or a child.

My kid. Son of a bitch.

I press my ear against the wood, straining to hear more. The voice isn't much clearer, its words indistinct. It sounds more like a song. A story being read from a book, perhaps. I wait as long as I can stand, assuring myself there's only one person in there with her. Not with much confidence.

Please, God, do me this favor. Let there be one.

I hated Victor and his wretched daughter before. Now, I want to send them to the darkest corners of hell for what I have to do next, scaring my little girl.

It's a small mercy I don't have to kick down the door. I throw it open, stepping inside, and see my little angel sitting cross-legged on the floor, a coloring book in her hand. She looks up excitedly for a second when she sees me, her tiny lips moving.

“Daddyyyyy!” She stands, wide-eyed, and comes running as fast as her stubby legs can take her.

I haven't forgotten the danger we're in. But damn if I don't allow myself this, scoop her up, and press her tight to my chest, kissing her forehead.

She's alone. For now. The voice in the room was Pebbles the fucking Dinosaur, singing a song about rainbows on the TV mounted in the corner.

I couldn't be more relieved. Too bad it doesn't last long. There's no way she's been alone for long.

Whoever's looking after her probably just stepped out for a smoke, a drink of water, or a bathroom break, maybe.

I haven't thought this far ahead, as crazy as it sounds. Didn't think I'd get to her this easy.

As much as every instinct in my bones is howling go, go, go, I can't just carry her out of here with a court order hanging over us. Not if I want to avoid a frenzied trip across the Mexican border next, and a very messy attempt to start a new life elsewhere, with fake names and a lot of suppressed memories.

No, damn it, it's too easy. I can't scar my little girl like that.

And if I'm being brutally honest, I can't walk away from everything else that should be mine.

Not Black Rhino. Not ma and Jamie.

Not Sunflower, as bad as I've salted the earth where we were supposed to water our future, and watch it come alive.

“How you been, peewee? Missed you like crazy.” Who the hell were you with? I want to say, but I can't just bark questions like she's an adult. “Are you with grandpa? Maybe Sam? Anybody?”

She shakes her head when I run through the list, smiling. I'm grateful she doesn't understand any of this. She can't hear my heart slamming my ribs like an engine spooling up to a hundred miles an hour, and I'm glad.

She shakes her little head. “Just her, daddy. Her.”

I think this is the first time I don't find her cuteness vague. In fact, it's a little creepy.

Too bad. I calm her with a soft bounce in my arms, then head into the hall, wondering how long it'll take us to encounter someone in this house.

A door opens on the other side of the level. Slowly, haltingly, I move toward it, squeezing my baby girl tighter, pressing her face to my chest. Servant lady stumbles out of what looks like the laundry room a second later.

Instant screaming.

I hear a hodge-podge of English and Spanish flying from her lips. I can't make out a single word, but the tone sounds like a plea for mercy. I lift my hand, careful to keep Lizzie close to my chest, shielding her as much as possible from this sideshow.

“Easy, lady, I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just need to talk to your boss. Where's Victor? Sam?”

“Ms. Wright?” she clucks, turning around, her soft brown skin nearly drained of its color. On second thought, it doesn't sound like a question. “This man...”

The woman stops, retreating behind the door. I hear a heavy sigh inside the laundry room, a chair scraping as somebody gets up, and footsteps that send my heart higher in my throat.

A second later, she's in front of me. Samantha Wright, my biggest mistake, the ghost who tortured me for four fucking years.

“Knox?” she says, looking me up and down like she's struggling just as much as I am with what's in front of her. “You're faster than I thought.”

That's when I notice it. Something's off.

Maybe it's the soft, almost restrained tone in her voice. But it's her appearance, too. She's Sam on the surface, but she isn't the same rebel who called to my drunken, stupid body like a siren when we conceived Lizzie in the bar. She's also not the haggard looking woman chained to her addiction I saw in the photos from LA.

More than anything, it's the hair that's changed. It's jet black, bangs cut short, just like I remember, but the color...it's the wrong shade of purple.

She's either had serious plastic surgery, or something a thousand times more fucked up than I imagined is happening. “Lizzie, listen to daddy. I want you to put your hands over your ears and cover them until I say we're good. Okay?”

“K.” My little girl knows not to mess around. She presses her tiny hands as tightly as she can to her head. I pull her closer, forming a protective shield with my body before I step up to the stranger in front of us.

Fake Sam looks scared now. She backs against the wall when I'm still a few feet away, her cheeks twitching. “Hey, hey, let's not get crazy here. Not in front of Lizzie. We had to do it. I'm really sorry you're not taking this well, but you didn't leave us much choice. We –“

“Shut up. It's my turn for question time,” I growl, reaching for her head with one hand. She whimpers when I grab her hair, ball it in a fist, and don't stop pulling until I know there's no escape. “You're not Sam. You just look like her. Who the fucking hell are you?”

She stops cringing and looks at me, licking her lips. Whatever twisted secret she's holding in, I want it out in the open. Now.

Preferably before I have to separate the purple stripe from her scalp.

“Vete! Vete! Police on their way, Ms. Wright!” Servant Lady reappears, a defiant look in her eyes. She shoos me with her hand, standing in the doorway behind Fake Sam, as if I'm just one more pesky desert lizard invading the house.

I share another look with Fake Sam. Even her eyes glow unnaturally, glistening with tears, or maybe because they're fake contacts. I can't tell. I just pull the hair bunched in my fingers harder, stumbling backward when it comes out in a fistful.

Far easier than any natural hair should. It's a wig. Underneath, it's all dirty blonde, fading pink tips at the ends. Servant Lady screams, pointing at the mess in my hands, and then at the imposter in front of her.

It takes me several seconds to remember where I've seen her before. It's Lydia. Pinkie the Hedgehog, Gannon's lazy assistant. Apparently, she lives a double life as an undercover merc, or Victor recruited the psycho artist I pummeled to double-team me hard.

“Forget it, Juanita,” Lydia says, staggering back and grabbing at her arm. “Tell them not to come. We're hosed.”

Servant Lady looks bewildered, terrified.

That makes two of us. Difference is, I don't go numb. If there's any chance at all she'll do as she's told in this blind stupor, and Fake Sam wants to work with me, I'll jump on it and count my blessings later.

Slowly, I crouch down, letting Lizzie touch the floor. I hold her little hand while I reach into the tactical pack strapped to my left leg. I fumble with the zipper and reach inside, holding up eight thousand dollars in crisp hundreds. I've filled the small space to capacity.

“Take it, lady. It's yours, if you'll call 9-11 back and just tell them there's been a huge mistake.” I don't wait for her to comply before I look at Lydia. “And you, Pinkie, we need to talk. I want to know why you're running around calling yourself Sam, dressed just like her. Cooperate, and we both stay out of trouble.”

Lydia flips her natural hair, hands on her hands, rolling her eyes. “Please, Mr. Moneybags. You'll have to do better than that if you want my help. Bidding starts at double whatever you're giving her.”

I grit my teeth. Juanita steps out behind her, tentatively, and snatches the money from my hand. I watch her retreat back into the laundry room, phone pressed to her ear, listening quietly as she mumbles something about a false alarm.

“Fine,” I rumble, standing up. I smooth a hand through Lizzie's hair, gently ruffling it, trying to keep her calm. “Let's talk. But the second you scare my little girl, rattle her worse than she already is by this crap, it's a different game. You won't like the ending.”

* * *

Half an hour later, we're sitting in the sun room again, Lizzie safely in the corner with her kid's show, and hopefully out of earshot, too. I'm sitting across from the gum-smacking receptionist, watching as she twirls a green line of goo out of her mouth around her finger, and pops it back in.

She chews extra loudly and glares. It's the dumbest intimidation tactic I've ever seen, or else she's just that bored with the sky falling around her.

How did this woman ever pull it off for a single second?

“Twenty thousand dollars. More off the books if you testify. That's my final offer, and I'm losing my patience.”

“Really? Guess it's gonna be a long evening, then. You don't hear boo until I'm fifty thousand richer.”

“Cut the shit, Pixie. We both know this is ending at thirty five. I'll round it up to forty because I'm a nice person. Forty thousand, cold cash, plus a really nice trip to Vegas, all expenses paid for.”

She frowns. “But I've always wanted to see Cancun.”

“Fine. Mexico,” I growl, regretting my volume when I see Lizzie turn toward us for a second, questions in her innocent eyes.

There's nothing I want more than to keep them that way. That's why I agree to this money-grubbing bitch's demands.

She smiles, flashing her pearly whites. “Awesome. I'm super glad we could hash it out. That rich idiot, Gannon, only paid me ten even for the acting stunt. Severance, he called it.”

“Where's Samantha Wright? The real one?”

She sniffs once, her smile fading. “Dead. Do you really think I'd be here right now if they had the real deal?”

I always knew it. Still feels like a bullet in my gut, certain and final in its impact. “You know that for a fact? How? How did she die?”

“Well, I saw the files. Gannon gave me plenty, even showed me a few old tapes he got from Victor Wright. Tried to learn her mannerisms so I could do the job perfectly. I had a little acting experience in college, and I'm not that rusty.”

You did a piss poor job. I keep my comments to myself, leaning back in my chair, never warming the coldness in my eyes.

“Sad to say, there wasn't much to work with. Those tapes...ugh. They let me watch so I'd know how to act. Wasn't much to see. The woman was dying. Total junkie, stuck in some expensive rehab place, talking out of her head while her organs shut down. They had her so doped up all she did was call for some guy named Jake. Never mentioned the kid, or you, or anybody else. Not even once.”

What little sympathy I had a few seconds melts. Addiction is a demon, but fuck, she couldn't muster a goodbye for Lizzie one damn time?

Kendra's smiling face fills my mind. I see her clear as day, the only woman I ever loved, who ever gave a shit about my own flesh and blood. Only one Lizzie ever called mommy without breaking me in two.

Then she betrayed me. Or I believe she did, and I treated her worse than a stain on my rug.

“Hey, does that help? You're looking kinda out of it. I mean, Gannon said Mr. Wright told him you thought she was gone for years. He stressed I had to be on-point, and the appearance had to be just right to be believable. I thought he did amazing work with the makeup. Only second guessed himself about a million times and had me sit for hours while he worked. Guess it was hopeless, considering how you knew her, and saw through it from the get-go. You were right.”

I wish I still lived in a world where being right counted.

“What about Kendra?” I ask, head-on into the next question burning me alive. “How'd they get to her? What the fuck was it – an offer? A threat?”

My hands grip the cherry wood arms of the chair so hard it hurts. Any tighter, and I'll break them, or snap my own fingers first.

“Huh?” Lydia blinks a few times, cocking her head. “They didn't do anything. Thought you'd figured that part out since you saw through the disguise so quick.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your lawyer, whatever his face...he was sloppy when he took down that statement about what happened when Kendra quit. And holy shit, that was the best way to go out I've ever seen. Except for how he went ballistic on her after, I mean.” She narrows her eyes, giving me a look like she can't believe she has to explain everything. “Gannon called him in a rage a few days after you busted up his face, and he could talk again. I thought you knew?”

I don't know shit. Just regret not pitching Charlie off his balcony, thirty floors to the steaming Phoenix pavement, when I had the chance. My eyes go to Lizzie, the only thing in this room that gives me some peace.

Shaking my head, I lean forward, a warning in my eyes. “Get to the damn point. This isn't cocktail hour.”

“Well, Gannon was pretty pissed, like I said. I heard the whole thing. He was screaming in his office, making all kinds of threats, some your guy should've recorded if he was any use. That was about a day before I think his beating hit the local news, and your buddy, Wright, got in touch. Your lawyer told him to back off, that he had solid evidence against him if he didn't. My boss is too stupid to know when to quit. He must've pressed your lawyer's buttons because he got Kendra's statement faxed over. That's how he had her handwriting to work with when he came up with those stupid grids, and spent a week hunched on the floor like a monkey, practicing his letters over and over again like he was back in grade school, making me help check for similarities...hey, are you okay?”

On the surface, I'm a rock. A stern, immovable boulder, timeless in my anger, looking through her at my beautiful daughter because if I look anywhere else, I'll explode.

Inside, it's volcanic.

Rage at my stupidity, falling for this obvious shit I should've seen coming after two wars, and three tours in hellholes chasing blood diamonds.

Pain at my loss, and pain without mercy, knowing I deserve every end of the finger pointing for making what they tried to pull a thousand times worse.

Agony. Fiery, sharp, and fatal.

A snake named remorse bites my heart, injecting truth venom, making me feel every rotten thing I did to my woman, my love, my beautiful almost bride. And all because I got so twisted up in the games these fucking liars played, I became one myself.

I'm on my feet, standing, pacing the room. I don't say anything before I walk over, lift my little girl high in my arms, and hear her laugh.

It's the only way I remember how to smile, even if it's empty and full of pain.

“Yo, are we done, or...?” Lydia shifts her chair around to face me, brow furrowed, wondering if I've lost my mind.

“No. You'll do what you're paid for, and right now I need a babysitter.”

“Um, what? That's not what we agreed –“

“Two thousand dollars to shut up, stay close, and watch my kid. Should be on the house for how you've torched my life, and Kendra's too, but there might be something left to save. Lucky you. Shake your ass,” I growl, shooting her a sharp look. “We're getting out of here and visiting asshole's studio. I need evidence. You'll help me find it to nail his coffin shut. Then you're coming along while I visit my girl and explain everything.”

* * *

I can't get my sister on the line, and I don't know why. We swing by ma's place anyway before we head downtown. That's where I learn my sister went out this evening.

With Sunflower. And she hasn't been back for hours.

Shit. Ignoring the dirty looks ma gives Lydia, I tell her she's a substitute babysitter, and now I need to get her home. I'll find out if Jamie needs a ride on the way. Lizzie is already asleep by the time I pass her to grandma.

When we're back in my truck, the bubblegum mercenary isn't even staring at her phone. She's looking down at her fidgeting hands, face pale, too afraid to look me in the eye. Can't blame her when my rage might cause spontaneous combustion across a room.

“I'm really sorry about this. I didn't expect anyone else would get involved, you know.”

“Quit apologizing. I'm not changing our terms or my mind. If Jamie and Kendra are all right, you walk with the payment we agreed to.” And if they're not...

I roll over the nightmarish options in my head. I see myself digging a lonely grave out in the desert, and there's not a shred of remorse. It's too kind a fate for the self-serving creature next to me, and it isn't a tenth of what I'll do to Victor and Gannon if they've hurt my family, my wife.

No. Fuck this anger, this static in my head. It isn't helping. I force myself to grip the wheel, a road bound meditation, eyes locked on the highway, heading into Phoenix.

I'm somewhere else. Inside the stormy landscape where possibilities multiply, a thin roll of the dice all it takes to determine which thrive, and which die. I'm between Schrodinger's cat and cosmic miracles, where everything is uncertain, dread building in my heart.

I reach through the darkness for an anchor, the lone emotion blazing like a beacon in my heart, throbbing for the same people over and over again.

Kendra. Lizzie. Jamie. Ma.

Kendra.

“Oh, Jesus – he's here!” Lydia gasps, covering her mouth, pointing to the black car parked at the end of the narrow alley as we near the studio.

Unsurprising, and irrelevant.

I know what I have to do.

“Hey, hey, what the fuck are you doing?” she hisses as I park the truck, reaching behind me for the tactical gear in its steel case. Her scared eyes double their darkness when she sees me pull the nine, check to make sure it's locked and loaded, and stuff it into the holster near my belt. “Deals' off. I can't be a part of this, buddy. I totally did not sign up to be an accessory to murder and –“

“Shut up.” I grab her wrist, twisting it into a helpless position, waiting until I see the look that recognizes I'm not fucking around. “You'll stay behind me. I'll keep you safe. You know the place better than anybody else. I want to go in through the front. He won't expect it.”

“You know what happens if he catches us, right?”

My look hardens. “And you know what happens if he's hurt my sis and the woman I'm marrying, yeah? He's not alone in there.”

She looks past me, noticing the other vehicle in the lot, behind the artist's black car. The lump scraping her throat as she swallows is loud and audible. “God. Okay, okay, if we have to...”

“Make it fast. Stay behind me. If you've still got a key or something, I want you to have it ready by the time we're at the door.”

For once in her life, the hedgehog listens. She even beats me to the entrance by a pace or two, hands over her face, looking through the glass. By all appearances, its empty in the waiting area, her old desk bare except for a few wires hanging out.

“We were closing up and moving out this weekend,” she whispers, fumbling her code into the keypad next to the door. “Bastard didn't even offer real severance outside this stupid acting gig. Said what I'd made on this job was more than enough.”

I'm grateful Gannon is such a snake I've turned his little pet. But if he's as big a viper as I think he is, the same as Victor, I should also be very afraid, knowing he's in there with Kendra and Jamie.

My turn to swallow worry, pain, bitter optimism. That last emotion, I cling to when the door opens, and I blow past her, storming into the building. I haven't charged in with my gun drawn since Africa.

It's alien here in Phoenix, brushing past the receptionist's desk, slowing when I get to the studio's door. I give myself two whole seconds, listening for voices, any obvious hints at what I'm walking into.

There's nothing. It's eerily quiet, except for something that sounds like a fan running. My hand hits the door before my brain consciously realizes it's someone breathing.

Heavy. Strained. Helpless.

I'm in, eyes adjusting to the darkness, ears tuned to the most sinister words I've heard outside a bad action movie. Only, this evil fuckery is right in front of me. “A pity you're so clueless. If you had any idea how rich your gorgeous, alabaster skin is going to make me on the black market once it's picked from your bones and cured, you'd simply –“

“Knox!” Two women scream my name in unison.

“Asshole!” I slam into him like a freight train, knocking him away from the table he's leaning over.

I hear something heavy and metallic hit the floor, see it slide across the room, silvery and sharp in the dull light. He's lost the knife he was holding. I've also lost my gun, knocked out of my hand in the struggle with this prick.

I can't see where it went, and there isn't time to sweep my hands over the floor looking. Not if I want to keep the edge.

Fine. Let's do this the old fashioned way.

My fists take over, slamming into his putrid face, hellbent on erasing him from this world.

Screams surround me. The artist is faster than he looks, and greasy, too. It's hard to get a hold around his throat, so I just keep punching. His hands go everywhere, desperate and weaker than mine, but he's frantic. Completely drunk on adrenaline, which makes Johnny Average a beast.

I look around, searching for a weakness. But I'm in too big a rage, too distracted when I look up, watching Sunflower's green eyes go bright with a plea, her face turned toward me from the table.

“Your side!” she yells, a split second before another voice behind me starts screaming the same thing.

“Knox, holy shit, behind you!“ That voice belongs to my sister.

And it's the last thing I hear before the resounding gunshot. Hellfire cuts through my guts, rips through several organs, draining my life shockingly fast.

Gannon's eyelids flutter hatefully under me. He's getting stronger by the nano-second, and I'm getting weaker, trying like hell to hit him one more time.

But I can't.

I'm shot. I'm paralyzed. I'm losing a lot of fucking blood.

I collapse on top of him, a lifeless weight, vaguely noticing how he struggles to get his hands between us to pry me off. More screaming, so much more, but I can't tell from who.

I can't make out anything.

I'm dying.