I park the borrowed Honda a quarter mile away from the location of Nathan's tracker, making sure that I've got his phone with me. I've been driving down this lonely dirt road for five minutes already, and I can see what Orloff is working with, if that's who I'm tracking. Isolated, private, and alone. It's the perfect area to kill someone.

I'm going to stop it, I swear to God. I get out of the car and double check my pistol. There's fifteen rounds in the magazine, and I jack the slide, loading the first round into the chamber. I'm ready, or at least as ready as I can be.

I head down the road, keeping Nathan's phone in front of me. I'm glad that I took the five minutes to stop and get a charger since even after driving for nearly thirty minutes the battery isn't close to being even halfway charged. There's no way I could have kept the charge going this whole time if I hadn't had the phone plugged in while I drove.

I want to run, but I can't trust I'm going to find it easy as I get closer, and I can't go rushing in blindly. I don't even have backup this time, but instead I have to depend on myself. Seeing the stupidity of what I'm doing, I mutter to myself. “Great fucking idea, Carson. Sure Katrina, I want you to stay behind and protect an underground hospital that nobody knows about instead of covering my ass. Great fucking idea.”

I shake my head and keep walking, sticking to the side of the road where I can melt into the treeline if I have to. There isn't a lot of cover, honestly. While we're not in the swamps or marshes, we're also not in the deep woods area either. If I had to call it anything, I'd call it scrub. The trees are shorter, stunted pines and other types that barely make good firewood for barbecue. Still, I'm not a woodsman, I'm not into hunting, and am in no way prepared to try and move silently between the trees like some sort of ninja.

I get to a point about fifty yards from the tracker and slow down even more, forcing myself not to rush despite the urge. I can't save Andrea if I'm dead before even getting her free. Afterward... well, that won't matter as long as she gets away freely.

I see the trees thinning even more, and up ahead, an open dirt lot. It looks like this used to maybe be the spot where someone parked a mobile home, or maybe a hunting trailer, and in the middle of it, maybe slightly off to the left of the small clearing, is a motorhome with a black four door sedan parked about ten yards away. It's not that big, definitely not one of those forty foot long custom jobs, but one of the smaller types that you build onto a truck frame. It gives me an opening, I think.

The front of the truck only has a small, maybe four inch window that hangs over the cab of the truck portion, and no view to the inside of the area. I circle around the clearing quickly, getting to that spot, and then walking quickly but quietly. Unless Orloff is hanging out in the storage spot, or maybe it's a tiny bed, up in that overhang, nobody can see me approach.

I get to the side of the motorhome and stop, checking carefully. There's a bigger window, but it's on the other side of the door, and the window on this side is smaller and higher off the ground. I half-squat and walk, stopping under the window.

Inside, I hear someone talking. Orloff. “If you wish, I can pass along the message afterward. After Peter gets here and I get my money, I will have the free time.”

Andrea's voice replies, and it's nearly the sweetest sound I've ever heard in my life. She's alive, and from the sound of it, unhurt and a bit pissed off. “You nearly killed him today, I don't think he wants a visit from you. The man with Nathan Black.”

“Brave, but stupid. Fought like a pussy with his stupid gun. You could have done better,” Orloff replies with a laugh, and my hand tightens on my Glock. He's right, Andrea could do a lot better than me. But that doesn't matter, because I'm here. A scrap of song comes to my head, a little cadence that Nathan would do when he was out jogging with Maverick around the property the few times he was there as he exercised, I think it's an old military running song. I ain't the killer, I'm the killer man's son, but I'll do the killin' till the killer man comes.

Goddamned right. Andrea sounds more pissed too, and in her words I can hear her hope, which touches me even as it hardens my heart. “Fuck you, Russian. I hope Carson shoots your balls off.”

Orloff laughs, and I check the safety on my pistol. One chance. “I doubt it.”

So Orloff expects Peter DeLaCoeur to visit? Excellent, it gives me an opening. I study the door for a second, and am glad again that Orloff chose a motorhome. It's got advantages for sure, including the fact that it's mobile, but you can't see shit from inside, except through a couple of medium-sized windows that I've avoided. The door itself doesn't even have a window at all. I ready my Glock and reach up, knocking on the door before stepping back and taking a two handed shooter's stance. Aim center of mass, and remember that he's going to be higher up than I am...

The door handle rotates, and the door opens. “Peter, you are...” Orloff says, before his eyes take in that it's not Peter DeLaCoeur standing in front of him.

“Surprise,” I say even as I pull the trigger on my pistol, the first round catching Orloff in his upper chest with the way he's bent over. I fire again and again, seven shots in total, all of them in his upper body. He staggers, falling out of the motorhome, but doesn't go all the way down, instead going to a knee.

“Ouch,” Orloff says, and I swear in his voice he's laughing. “That hurt, American.”

I notice that he's wearing something that looks like a warm-up jacket, and I belatedly realize he's got on some sort of body armor. I adjust my aim for his head, but he's moving already, rolling toward me, a knife in his hand and I jump, diving over him and rolling along the grass and dirt for my life.

“Stupid American,” Orloff says as he turns, quick as a snake, but I've got a few feet on him. “Did you think I trusted the son of a bitch Peter? Not a lot of padding, too heavy, but the plates are just fine.”

Orloff charges in just as I fire again, my round going harmlessly over his shoulder, and he tackles me to the dirt. I see his knife coming for my face, and I grab blindly, just trying to stop the fall of the executioner's blade.

I'm lucky, my left hand grabs his wrist and I push him to the side, the knife burying itself in the dirt a fraction of an inch from my ear. “That's it, Yankee,” Orloff says, his left hand cracking me blindly in the right eye and making my head ring again. Any more days like this and I'm going to end up punchy. “Make it fun.”

I'm bucking my hips, trying to throw this son of a bitch off of me, but he's got balance and position. Desperate, I think of my pistol, and jam the barrel against his left thigh, pulling the trigger twice. His jacket may be armored, but his leg sure as fuck isn't, and he screams, giving me enough space to buck him off. Still, he's fast, and before I can get to my feet he's already tackled me again, his weight driving me into the dirt.

“No more games, now you die,” Orloff says, but suddenly I hear a musical crash and explosion, and pieces of glass fall on the ground around me. Orloff's weight is off my back, and I scramble up, seeing Andrea standing there, the handle of what looks like a drinking pitcher in her hand.

“You son of a bitch!” Andrea screams, lashing out at the groaning Orloff with her right leg. It's a mistake as soon as she does it, I know it but I don't have time to say anything. Orloff's played possum before, he's too good at it, and as Andrea's foot makes contact with his ribs he rolls with it, grabbing her leg and pulling her down onto the ground with her.

I don't have a shot, but at least he’s dropped his knife as he rolls, Andrea trying to fight, and I look for a way to hit him, to do something. His leg comes toward me and I stomp him in the calf, trying to grab Andrea. I get her arm, but Orloff holds on, my pull bringing both of them up and sending me staggering when my grip on her fingers slip. I turn around, bringing my Glock up, but he's got her in a choke hold again, a straight razor somehow in his hands and at her throat.

“Don't move, American. Or else she dies now.”

Andrea's eyes are wide with terror as he strokes the razor down her cheek, not cutting but still scaring the hell out of her. “Carson?”

“It's okay, Andrea. Don't move,” I say, feeling a sense of icy calm drop over me. “What do you want, Orloff?”

“Peter will be here soon. In the meantime, why not play a little game?”