We come out of the house fast, Jackson already outside, pistol in hand, scanning the dooryard. “I heard him out in this direction,” Jackson says, his eyes flinty as he points toward the back area with the target range. “But he's stopped.”

“Follow me,” Nathan says, concerned. “Keep frosty, two groups. Carson, you are with me. Katrina, you take Jackson and Andrea, stay here and protect the house.”

I nod, sweeping with my pistol as Nathan leads us off the porch. I glance up to the second floor and see Melissa, a pistol in her hand, looking down on us with concern. She's still strong though, and she's ready to do what she can to protect BA if she has to. Andrea gives me a worried glance, but goes inside with Katrina and Jackson, locking the door behind her.

It's foggy this morning, foggier than normal at least, and we can barely see half of the dooryard as we go straight through. “Carson.”

“Yeah?”

“We stay together. We cover less ground that way, but it is safer. If you see anything, tell me. Orloff is a total sociopath, but the fact he prefers blades to guns gives us a slight advantage. Expect him to still be carrying though.”

I nod, and we head toward the direction Jackson pointed. Nathan's eyes sweep side to side and we move in a quick, but not rushed walk. Nathan is on my left, and we both have our pistols up.

“Why'd you tell the others to stay behind?” I ask quietly as we move.

“Because it may be a diversion.”

“Gotcha. And why the two of us?”

“I’m the best fighter, and you know the terrain best,” Nathan replies succinctly, then holds up his hand, signaling us to stop. I do, and he points, whispering. “Up ahead.”

I look where he points, seeing a large shape in the mist, underneath an oak tree that separates the dooryard from the beginnings of the fields that lead to the back. It's big, whatever it is, and I raise my pistol back up, flicking off my safety. “I'll lead. I get jumped... take care of Melissa.”

Nathan nods and I move toward the shape, details becoming clear as I get closer. “Oh no...”

Nathan, who's taken up a kneeling position covering me, calls out. “What is it?”

“Maverick,” I reply, walking closer. I reach the body, and I can barely contain my horror. The big, lovable dog, who never did anything worse than worm his gigantic, sleek head under your arm to look for more affection, lays dead.

The body's still fresh, with warmth and steam rising from him. Nathan comes closer, and I can hear a tremor in his voice as he looks. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he says, his voice quavering as he strokes the dog's big head. He looks over at me, and I see a tear trickling down his cheek.

“Come on, we need to secure the grounds. We’ll bury him after.”

“Okay.” We start to head back, Nathan's pistol up and ready. He's moving slower now, carefully, not letting anything escape his attention. I know part of it is that he's in pain, and he's angry. Unlike most people though, this causes him not to rush and make mistakes but to slow down, to try and go more carefully, making no mistakes at all.

We circle to our right, by the barn, when suddenly from the morning shadows something flies out of nowhere, splashing me. I'm temporarily blinded and jump back, wiping at my eyes. It stings, whatever the hell it is, and then the smell hits my nostrils. It's the rich coppery-sick smell of blood. I'm soaked, and I blink, wiping again to try and see.

What I see is Vadim Orloff, but this time instead of an ice cream white suit, he's dressed in speckled camouflage, dark blue and green. Nathan's got his gun already moving, firing, but the guy is fast, and I understand what Katrina meant by his freaky speed. He rolls underneath Nathan's shot and swings his hand, the knife that suddenly appears in his hand easily slashing Nathan's leg on the side.

Nathan tries to turn, but he seems to not be able to put any weight on the leg, and he goes to a knee. Orloff chuckles and gets to his feet, cocking his hand back to throw, but as his hand moves, Nathan falls to the side, the knife barely missing his head as he fires.

Nathan's 1911 explodes again in the dawn silence, and Orloff staggers back, holding his left shoulder. I bring my gun up, but before I can fire, Orloff laughs and looks at the wound which is just a scratch on the outside of his arm. I'm not sure, but I think he might even be bleeding less than Nathan, who's trying to crawl in the dirt but not making much progress. “Nice try, Green Beret,” he says, his accent stronger now, and I see Nathan collapse, his eyes wide. “The poison paralyzes quickly, but kills slow. You have earned my respect though, Nathan Black. Very few men would be able to have done anything at all. Congratulations.”

“Hey asshole,” I hiss, squeezing the trigger on my Smith. Orloff turns to me, his face amused as my pistol goes click, nothing happening. I squeeze again, confused. What the fuck?

“Smith and Wessons... pieces of Yankee shit trash,” Orloff says, laughing quietly. “If you're going to take on me, boy, you should bring a gun that can fire when wet. Even better, learn how to actually fight, and not rely on weak pussy weapons.”

I drop my Smith on the ground, advancing. Maybe there's a chance that I can get to Nathan's gun before Orloff can stop me. And maybe the Saints might win the Stanley Cup, even if they're a football team. Fuck it. I'm dead either way.

“I wouldn't if I were you, Yankee,” Orloff says, another knife in his hand. I take a step toward Nathan and the knife buries itself in the ground at my feet, and I look at Orloff, who already has another knife in his hand. “One more step, the next one is in your heart.”

“You're going to kill me anyway, so why the fuck should I stop?” I ask, turning to face him. “You don't care if I live or die.”

He nods, then shrugs, still grinning. “No, but I am bored. I had hoped that Nathan would be more of a challenge than he was. Tell you what, Yankee. You step away from Nathan Black, I put the knife away. If you can beat me, you win. I'll even let you go for your Smith. Inferior weapon for an inferior man.”

I dive, going for my pistol, but Orloff's on my heels, kicking it away before I can even get a finger on it. I roll, trying to get to my feet, but he kicks the back of my knee, sending me sprawling onto my back, and I'm left looking up at him as he backs away, still grinning that madman's smile. “Come on, Yankee. Even a pussy art dealer must be a better fighter than that. I know Russian women who could kick your ass.”

“And I know American women who would eat you for breakfast,” I reply, kicking out with my left leg, hoping to catch him in the balls. I'm off, but I at least hit his thigh and he backs up a step, grinning. “Come on, motherfucker.”

“Actually no, I didn't fuck my mother. I have, however, fucked yours,” Orloff taunts as I get to my feet. “Come on, Yankee. Your friends will not have ignored those shots for long. Finish this soon, or else.”

I charge, and he steps to the side, tripping me as I go by, sending me sprawling to my stomach. Before I can recover, Orloff stomps in between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the ground. “Stupid American. You and your fucking guns. You're not even worth killing. Do svidaniya.”

He rears back with his knife hand, but suddenly Nathan tries to tackle him. I don't know how, I don't think Orloff knows either, but Nathan clings to him with a bulldog's tenacity, until Orloff punches him viciously in the eye, sending him tumbling to the ground. “Nathan!”

I'm on my knees, but my back still is so pained I can barely move, and Orloff doesn't have time anymore. His foot comes around, I can see his boot coming toward my eyes, and then everything goes black.