He came forward, swerving his hips to one side even as he leaned down and slammed the butt of his knife against Rickard’s extended arm. The armor did nothing to protect his forearm from the power of the blow. His knife jumped from his fingers as they opened in reflex. It was a move worthy of Musashi himself.

Crash through their defenses, cut them down.

Hunter palmed him under the chin. The hand felt like a wedge of wood as it drove his jaw up and back. Rickard felt the bone snap up near his left ear. The pain was excruciating. Rickard almost blacked out.

He wove on his feet.

Hunter actually stopped him from slipping off the roof. He clamped a hand on the neckline of his vest while he readied the knife in the other. Then Hunter tugged down and Rickard realized what he was doing. The vest was fastened down the front by a flap of Kevlar that concealed a zip. The zip itself was the weak point of his armor. Hunter jabbed through the plastic zipper like it wasn’t even there. There was more Kevlar behind it, but only a narrow strip. Hunter merely angled the point of the blade so that it slid around the armor and into his chest.

Rickard could feel the steel pushing into his body.

How was this even possible?

He was better than this . . . better than Hunter.

He grabbed Hunter’s wrists. Tried to stop the pressure. Hunter was weakened by the loss of pints of blood—how did he still have the strength? Hunter’s face contorted with effort, beads of sweat breaking along his hairline, and Rickard felt the knife slide in another half inch.

He thought that having his jaw broken was bad.

That was nothing.

“Noooo . . .”

“Yes,” Hunter told him.

Rickard reached for Hunter’s face, trying to gouge his eyes with his thumbs. Hunter twisted out of his grip, pushing even harder on the knife.

“You won’t hurt Alisha now, you bastard.” Hunter pushed again and Rickard felt something pop inside him. “You won’t hurt Imogen Ballard. You won’t hurt any woman ever again.”

“No . . . I won’t.”

His answer wasn’t agreement, just resignation. Hunter, it seemed, didn’t like the tone of voice he delivered it in. He pushed on the knife again. Blood frothed between Rickard’s lips. Sign of a punctured lung, maybe something even worse. Whatever, he knew that he wasn’t getting out of this alive. He spat the mouthful of oxygen-rich blood in Hunter’s face.

He could feel the serpent inside him.

But it was shuddering now.

Not with rage but fear.

And ignominy.

The serpent was dying.

“At least I’m not going to die alone.”