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He carried no weapon that I could see.

I stayed down, letting him come closer.

Thoughts fired at the speed of light.

How did he find me here?

Simple.

He was expecting me.

He’d done the same Google Earth reconnaissance I had, determined the Milk River was the best way into town, the field I had crawled across the safest approach.

And he had waited for me to show.

I’d messed up.

Been so intent on finding the best way into a quarantined city that I had failed to consider that someone of my intelligence would have identified the same route.

I should’ve chosen the second-or third-best option. Or at least been remotely prepared for this potential outcome.

But that was all beside the point now.

When he was within four feet, I launched myself at him.

He simply stepped out of the way.

I shot past, falling, then struggled to my feet, ripping off my respirator for a better field of vision and letting my backpack slide off my shoulders.

He looked at me, tucking his hair behind his ears.

“Hi, Logan.”

I could feel my mind running a search, trying to match this voice to every human being I’d ever encountered.

As if reading my thoughts, he said, “We’ve never met.”

“How long have you been waiting for me?” I asked.

“Three nights.”

“Where?”

“Abandoned car in the junkyard.”

I’d walked right past him.

“My sister here?”

He just laughed to himself as I scrambled to determine if he was here to kill or capture me.

“Get your samples?” he asked.

We met in the living room.

I clocked his left shoulder edging forward, his right torquing back, slipped the right cross that would’ve put me on my ass, brought a left hook through his face as he tilted off balance, then caught him across the bridge of the nose with a vicious elbow.

He stumbled back, blood sheeting down his face.

We traded blows, some missing, some landing. Even my hardest strikes seemed insufficient—it was like fighting an oak tree.

After I caught him in the left temple, he shook his head and charged, his meaty arms opening. My mind was shrieking, Do not let him get you on the ground.

We were in the hallway that led past the stairs to a family room, and as he went for my legs, I jumped straight up, pinning my feet against the walls, then dropping straight down on top of him, my knee driving into the back of his head with a sickening thunk.

As he lay stunned on the hardwood floor of the hall, I wrapped his long hair around my right hand, closed it into a fist, and smashed his head into the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four.

Impossibly, he struggled to his feet, but I clutched his back, clinging to him, my right arm around his neck, squeezing with everything I had, trying for a blood choke that would cut off the artery to his brain and give me a precious few seconds to figure out— He crashed me into the wall, the force driving the air out of my lungs, then spun around and launched back into the opposite side of the hallway, so hard I cracked the drywall.

My ribs were in agony now.

He slammed me into the wall.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until I couldn’t hold on anymore

Until I couldn’t breathe.

My grip released.

I crumpled to the floor, and as I gasped for breath, the man rained down a series of blows on my face—



* * *



—

When I came to, I was lying on the kitchen floor and the man was at the dining room table pulling a syringe out of a small black bag.

Everything hurt.

I felt broken, the pain edging beyond what I was capable of compartmentalizing.

I watched him tap the side of the syringe, and as he turned toward me, I closed my eyes.

The floor creaked as he approached and knelt beside me. I felt his warm hand on my shoulder, knew the needle was coming.

I opened my eyes, opened my right hand, and thrust it straight up into the man’s soft throat.

It was a perfect strike.

He made a terrible gasping sound and dropped the needle, clutching at his neck.

His face turned red.

Panic filled his eyes.

I rolled over and came to my feet, staring at the man as he tried to breathe. He seemed to be getting a trickle of air, but not nearly enough. I figured he had two minutes of deeply unpleasant consciousness remaining. Four to twelve minutes before brain death.

“I crushed your trachea,” I said, groaning against my own pain. “I could let you asphyxiate or I could save you.”

He nodded violently, his face turning purple.

“You have a knife in that bag?”

He nodded, fighting to breathe.

Fifteen seconds.

The man’s black bag lay open on the counter. Inside was a 9mm Kimber Micro, handcuffs, vials, syringes, and a Viper-Tec Blue Phantom knife.

I hurried back over to the man, who was now sitting against a kitchen cabinet, choking to death.

“Lie on your back,” I said. “Move your hands.”

Forty-one seconds.

It was an odd thing to go from trying to kill this guy to saving him inside of a few seconds, but he had information.