Misha’s gaze flicked down to Riley’s crotch, just for a second, then back up to meet Riley’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow. “I was about to ask you that. Looks like I’m not the only one who kept secrets.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Riley was up and off the bed before he knew it, McClane’s surprised Whoa! ringing through his head just before his fist connected with Misha’s face. No metal, no spikes, no force enhancement; nothing but two months’

worth of hurt and frustration from a man who had learned to throw punches in a little nowhere town west of San Antonio.

The lowlife liar went down with a satisfying lack of grace.

Good one, McClane crowed, firing off a quick drum roll of popping pats down Riley’s back, which was one of the oddest sensations he’d produced so far. Then he crawled all over Riley’s knuckles from the inside, checking for damage. Should’ve gone for his mouth, though.

“You keep out of this,” Riley ordered, too damn mad to give a shit about Misha overhearing him talking to himself.

What if he draws a weapon? McClane asked, hopeful.

Riley didn’t take his eyes off the man on the floor. His head was pounding again, his heart ached, and his stomach felt like someone had torn a hole into it… probably the asshole currently trying to climb back to his feet.

“Then all bets are off.” He glared down at Misha, noting the blood on Misha’s face with both satisfaction and dismay. “Your nose broken?”

Misha sat back down, apparently not quite trusting his equilibrium yet, and raised a hand to his face to prod at his nose. His fingers and knuckles looked bruised and scraped, not as though he’d been fighting but more as though he’d been setting up fence posts without wearing gloves.

Riley wanted to ask about it. Damned if he would.

“D’no,” Misha said finally, then turned his head and spat out the blood that had gotten into his mouth the second he’d opened it. “Fuck.” He spat again and looked up at Riley with a scowl. “Tell me that was not your best shot.”

He’s unrepentant, McClane pronounced, and insulting. And possibly suicidal. Can we kick him in the face?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Riley snapped, choosing to ignore both Misha’s bullshit and McClane’s suggestion. His voice was rough with thirst and tension. “Where are we?”

“New Mexico,” Misha said promptly. He tried to wipe away some of the blood, but mostly just smeared it over his chin and cheek. He glanced down at his sticky, battered fingers in disgust and promptly wiped them on his shirt. The results were gruesome: he looked like a cannibal with no table manners. Also, the fresh stains next to the older ones drew Riley’s attention to the fact that what he’d thought to be dirt looked a hell of a lot like dried blood.