Roman and Conor

"Looks like I've brought a knife to a gunfight," Conor commented wryly.

I looked up at him, then back down at my nicked , chipped, but impeccably maintained black AR-15, and then repeated the routine just for luck. I shrugged. "I like to be prepared," I said.

"I can see that, mate. You really need all that? How many boys you think Victor's bringing down, an army?"

I repeated myself. "I like to be prepared."

The wind whipped along and down the river delta, until it reached the reclaimed floodplain that we now stood on, huddled behind an old, rust -colored steel pillar for shelter. There were dozens of the pillars, all different heights and sizes, some which rose no higher than my shoulder, and others that towered over me. One hundred and fifty-seven, according to a green-stained copper plaque, one for every man from Alexandria who had given his life in the Vietnam War.

"Listen, fella," Conor smiled, flipping the K-bar knife, the only weapon he brought with him, in his hand like a circus trickster. "I wouldn't feel right, you know, shooting up a war memorial. Leaves a bad taste in the mouth, and all that," he said, adapting his thick Irish broke to mimic an old English Lord. "It's just not the done thing, you do understand?"

I cocked my head to one side, considering what he was suggesting. "If I've got a shot," I grunted. "I'm going to take it."

"Well, it's hard to argue with tha'!" Conor grinned. "And don't get me wrong, my friend, I like your style. But we've got to get serious. Victor's going to bring half a dozen men, maybe ten. You can't take them all out, not even with that," he said, pointing my chest.

I patted the rifle clipped to the front of my body armor. "I'm a good shot."

Conor sighed. "My man, I've been where you are, all torn up inside because someone's tried to keep me from my child."

I looked up and stared at the Irishman with a beady eyed, suddenly intrigued. A little voice at the back of my head told me that he was pushing my buttons, telling me what I wanted to hear. But another voice, a much stronger one, said he was telling the truth. Either that or he was an astonishing liar, damn near sociopathic, and my gut told me that that wasn't the case. I'd swum in waters teeming with sociopaths and psychopaths and serial killers and murderers for years, and Conor didn't have that vibe – where a man's smile didn't meet his eyes, where his laughter rang false, where it was more like he was a poltergeist inhabiting a meat suit than a person.

Conor was none of those things.

"Oh yes," he chuckled, a humorless laugh that seemed designed to cover over a deeper hurt. "The Antonovs are a pretty sick kettle of fish, when you get to know them. Except Maya, of course," he amended. "But she's a Regan now, anyway."

"What happened," I said, stating instead of asking, my manners disappearing in the face of an overwhelming to know the truth, to find someone who could share my pain. "Tell me."

"No," Conor said simply. "I'm not going to. It was a shitty time in my life, and it’s not one I'm like to revisit anytime soon. Not if I want to sleep tonight. I'll tell you something, though. Four years. Four years her da' hid her away from me, four years I didn't know my son existed. Look into my eyes, I dare you, and tell me I don't know what you're going through…" He said, facing up to me, feet, hips and jaw all set firm.

It was the only answer I needed. "We've got movement," I grunted, sidestepping the awkwardness in the time-honored fashion of men all over the world – ignoring it. "Two – no, make that three black SUVs, rolling in fast."

They really were, speeding off-road across the floodplain, kicking up dry dust behind them as they crashed through small sandbanks of deposited mud and silt. I almost nodded with approval. Avoiding the road – and a potential ambush – was good tactics, whatever I thought of the man himself.

"He's done this before," Conor murmured, his earlier bravado disappearing as the enemy sped into view. He was a brave man, I thought, without doubt. But he was a fighter, not a killer. Killers can fight, and fighters can kill – but there's a difference the size of the Grand Canyon between the two.

I clapped him on the shoulder. "You're right," I said, placing my rifle on the ground and pulling an Israeli combat knife from my ankle holster. "We need to get in close, pick off the men on his perimeter one by one. Can you shoot?"

"Depends," Conor laughed weakly. "If I'm supposed to hit anything or not…"

I picked the black rifle off the floor, flicked off the safety and handed it to him. "You know how to use it?"

He nodded. "I've had… some experience."

"Good." I flipped the knife between my two palms, testing its easy balance. The iron tang of spilt blood was already tickling my nostrils. Victor was going to pay today. "If it's going to shit, use it. I do my best work with my hands anyway. You know the plan?"

Conor shrugged, his face wrought with tension. "Kill as many as we can, for as long as we can, and buy the girls some time?"

I bared my teeth, in a grimace that was somewhere between a smile and a snarl. "You got it. Good hunting."