The silent runner ran up behind Number Four and clocked him over the head. Hard. The Russian dropped like a rock.

Help. It was help!

He spun left, facing the two Russians that way. Griffin felt the third Russian turn away to face this new threat, backing up against Griffin.

Mistake. Griffin flung his right elbow backward as hard as he could, aiming kidney high. Number Three cried out and went down to his knees as Griffin ducked a wild swing from Number Two. Unfortunately, that moved Griffin right into a vicious kick from Number One that glanced off his forearm and caught him on the chin.

Pain exploded in his face, and involuntary tears of stinging pain leaked out of his eyes.

Must stay on his feet. To go down was to die.

From behind him, a female voice grunted, “Four Russians. With orders not to kill you.”

Sherri.

Alive.

And here.

Fuckin’ A.

He’d already figured out the “four Russians” part. But they couldn’t kill him? Sweet. He could go full offensive. He did so, uppercutting the Russian on the right with his fist, while he snapped out a fast, lethal kick at Number One’s groin. Both shots connected.

He heard Sherri grunt in pain behind him, and a whole new level of fury flashed through him. He spun, grabbed Number Three by the throat, and whipped him around just in time to catch a vicious chop from Number One.

Sherri leaped to his right, defending his open side, holding off Number Two.

Number Three, struggling in his grasp, mule-kicked backward, and Griffin used the momentum of the guy’s one-footedness to kick the standing leg out from under the bastard, who went down hard. Instead of jumping back, Griffin took the aggressive tack and jumped forward over the prone man, who anticipated wrong and rolled toward where Griffin had just been standing.

Griffin stomped down with all his strength on the prone guy’s outstretched hand and felt bones crunch under his boot. He lunged up at Number One, slamming him into Number Three, which threw Number Three to one side.

The third Russian screamed and went down clutching his throat.

Sherri swung toward Number One and slammed whatever she was holding into the guy’s temple. He staggered. Griffin clocked him in the junk with the steel-toed tip of his boot, and the bastard went down to the ground in the fetal position.

Number Four was just rousing when Sherri lifted what looked like some sort of makeshift shiv. The guy put his hands behind the back of his head. Good call. She was vicious with that thing.

The sound of engines roared into range. The Hummers.

They screeched to a halt about twenty feet away, and SEALs poured out of both vehicles.

Number Four grunted, “Ohkonchatelnyui variahnt.”

“No!” Griffin shouted, grabbing at Number One’s jaw.