He’d gotten the wood from the oak trees on the property when branches broke off in the winds and fell to the ground, and he was slow but steady with his hobby, good for a couple of pieces every now and again. The tool he used was a hunting knife he’d been given by his commanding officer long ago and talk about oldie, but goodie. The thing was a masterpiece of weaponry that was deceptively humble, with no identifying trademarks, serial numbers or initials, and nothing to tip off the fact that it had been handmade by an expert for use by an expert. And Jim knew the thing like the back of his own hand, the stainless-steel blade a vicious piece of work, the handle wrapped in leather that had been aged with his own sweat.

Lifting it up, he measured the flash of the overhead light on the blade’s patinaed surface. Funny, he thought, here in this one-room apartment, being used to transform wood into a game piece, it was just a knife. In most other circumstances, it had been a deadly weapon.

The purpose was everything, wasn’t it.

As he went back to work, the blade made a soft scraping sound as he used his thumb to pull the knife toward himself, his hand carefully guiding each stroke, reducing the wood by increments to reveal the chess piece trapped inside.

Over the last twenty years, he’d spent hours like this: By himself. No radio, no television. Just a piece of wood and a knife. He’d made birds and animals and stars and letters that spelled nothing. Carved faces and places. Trees and flowers.

There were many advantages to his hobby. Cheap, portable, and he’d always had his blade wherever he’d been.

Guns had come and gone. Other kinds of weapons, too. COs as well.

But the knife had always been with him.

God, the day it had been presented to him, its flank had been mirror clear, and the first thing he’d done was take it outside of his quarters and rub dirt on both sides of it: Dulling all that bright-and-shiny, like sharpening the business edges, had been part of enhancing its utility.

The weapon had never failed him. And damn if he didn’t say so himself, but it cut up a nice piece of wood, too—

His cell phone went off, ringing from over on the bedspread. As he went to go see who it was, he put the oak branch down and kept the knife with him out of habit.

Flipping open the phone, he saw that it was an untraceable number and knew exactly who it was.

Pushing his thumb on the send button, he brought the cell to his ear. “Yeah?”

Silence. And then that deep, cynical voice: “Which piece are you working on?”

Fucker. Matthias the fucker always knew too much. “The queen.”

“Old habits die hard, don’t they.”