“This is my fault, Rathven,” Finch said. “I’m sorry.”

Bosun: “Your fault? Because you didn’t kill me when you had the chance?” An odd expression of sadness and contempt.

Not for lack of trying.

“No, because I ever went after you. I should’ve left you alone.”

A snort from Bosun. “I don’t believe you.”

I don’t believe myself.

The fungal gun complicated things. Even if Finch got a shot in first, Bosun’s gun could go off in an unexpected way. Infect them both.

“Where’s Stark?” he asked. Knew the answer. Had to start somewhere.

Flat, emotionless: “Gone, but you knew that. You didn’t hide him well enough. I found him all crumpled up in the alley, thinking he was someone else. Then he died. There was nothing I could do … He’s somewhere safe. For now.”

A wave of dizziness washed over Finch. Let it come, bent at his knees to stop from falling. As if he were back on the boat with Wyte, heading out to the Spit to meet Stark and Bosun for the first time.

Said: “I wasn’t trying to hide him. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he, you, kept coming at me.”

Bosun ignored that. “I came here to kill you, maybe kill her, too. I still could.” In a speculative tone. Like weighing whether to skip stones across a river or keep their smooth weight in his pocket.

“You didn’t bring your muscle.” To remind him it was two-to-one odds.

A sharp, curt laugh from Bosun. “No muscle left. They wouldn’t follow with Stark gone. Now it’s just like old times. Or would have been.”

Finch, in an even tone: “Why don’t you just leave? No one gets hurt then. Because you’ll get hurt even if you manage to take out one of us. You know that.”

Could see Rathven was having a harder and harder time holding on to the revolver. Didn’t want her to drop it. No idea what Bosun would do then. Even with Finch ready to put a bullet in his head.

Bosun looked up at Finch for a second. Nothing there but a low animal cunning. But unmoored somehow. The eyes older than before. “Here’s a deal for you: give me the memory bulb powder and then I’ll leave.” Could sense the intent.

Something in Finch rebelled at that. Wyte resurrected, even as a shadow. Along with Stark and Otto. Each haunting the other inside of Bosun’s mind. Dead but not put to rest.

“That might drive you insane, Bosun. All kinds of things might happen.”

“He’s my brother!” A shriek. A scream. Something horrible and lost rising out of Bosun. Finger twitching on the trigger. Finch saw now the incredible control Bosun was exerting over his own impulses. To kill. To strike out. Weighed against that the promise of seeing his brother again. No matter how perverse the homecoming.

Could hear Rathven’s sudden intake of breath in the aftermath.