“And you think you’re going to stop me?” Alan lunged.
The man jumped back, kicked at his knife hand. Alan slashed again, and the man grabbed a serving tray off a cart, using it as a shield. The blade punched through thin metal with a screech.
Alan wrenched the knife free. They scuffled down the galley, crashing into carts, scattering cutting boards. He heard a voice somewhere—female, sharp with fear—but couldn’t look, couldn’t take his eyes off his attacker.
“Ry!” A woman’s voice. Concerned.
Someone he cared about. Good. A distraction.
Alan headbutted Ry. Felt the man’s nose crunch. Blood exploded between them.
The man staggered but held on, twisting with Alan as they slammed into the counters, bloodying everything they touched.
Finally, Alan broke free. Wiped his wrist across his face.
“Whoever’s left in here needs to get out right now,” The man called Ry said, not looking away from Alan.
Alan smiled. It felt wrong on his face—too sharp, too hollow. “I know you’re weak. I saw you go down in Italy. I know one good shot to the knee and this is over.” He set the knife down on the counter, held up his hands. “See? I don’t even need it.”
A feint. An invitation. Come at me. Let’s end this.
Alan grabbed the blade and lunged.
They collided over the prep station. Ry blocked with the serving tray again, metal screaming as the blade punched through. Alan wrenched it free, slashed, felt the edge catch flesh.
The man’s fist connected with his ribs—right where York’s knife had gone in months ago. The old wound screamed. Alan’s vision went gray at the edges.
And then?—
BAM.
The sound was so loud it reverberated through his bones. The world went white, then gray; then he was on his knees somehow, the linoleum cold under his palms, blood dripping from his hairline.
A woman stood over him. Dark hair tumbling from its pins, heels gone, breathing hard. She held a cast-iron pan like a weapon.
Ry’s knee slammed into the center of his back, driving him flat. A hand wrenched his arm up, bent his wrist into a submission hold that sent lightning bolts of pain up his shoulder.
“Don’t move.” Ry’s voice was ragged. “Don’t even breathe wrong.”
Alan didn’t move. The fight had gone out of him—not because of the pain, but because some part of him had been waiting for this moment since Seattle. Since Sophia. Since he’d realized he’d lost any reason to keep fighting. Revenge simply wasn’t enough anymore.
Footsteps. Jake appeared in the doorway, blood covering his face, a giant welt swelling over his eye. He held a gun—where he’d gotten it, Alan didn’t know. Didn’t care.
“Dude—sorry.” Jake’s voice was slurred. He grasped the counter as if the world were spinning. “He got the drop on me.”
Another woman rushed into view—brown hair pulled back, worried eyes. “Jake!” She grabbed him, helped him slide down to the floor. “I need some ice and a bandage.”
“It looks worse than it is?—”
“That’s a serious head wound.”
The woman with the pan knelt beside Orion. “You’re bleeding too.”
“Good job with that pan, babe.” Orion’s voice was tight with pain, but there was something like pride in it.
“Teamwork,” she said, and Alan heard her smile even though he couldn’t see it.
More footsteps. More voices. The cavalry arriving.
