Decker charged him, protecting his own head. The two of them hit the ground, inhaling dirt and grit, trying to land punches. Decker had at least fifty pounds on Hersh, but being light, Hersh had the advantage of speed. Decker reached out, hugged him at the waist, but Hersh wriggled out of the grasp. They hit the ground again, but this time Hersh had positioned himself on top.

With the gun firmly planted in his hand, Hersh tried to aim, but Decker saw the move coming and made a play for the weapon. Hersh yanked the automatic aloft, out of Decker’s reach. With both hands, Decker grabbed Hersh’s wrist into a vise-lock and held the wiry outstretched arm, trying to point the barrel away from both of them.

Squeezing the wrist as hard as he could, hoping to pop the piece out of the fucker’s fingers.

Hersh hanging on to the weapon.

Son of a bitch had iron clamps for fingers.

Decker kept squeezing, feeling Hersh squirming on top of him. A moment later, something hard was jammed into his solar plexus. Psycho had knee-dropped him. Decker was forced to loosen his grip, but he didn’t let go.

Still, the sucker moved in. Decker saw his fate too clearly. The wrist flexing forward, the gun pointing at his face. The finger on the trigger.

The gun fired.

Instantaneously, Decker rolled to the side, saving his cheekbones from shattering, but the first slug ate through his left shoulder. He screamed.

The second bullet hit Decker’s left arm.

Blood spurting onto his cheeks.

A muzzle aimed at his face, a crooked smile behind it.

Once again, Decker rolled to the side as the gun discharged, the bullet whizzing past his temple.

Noam flailed his arms and shrieked out, “Stop it, Hersh!” He began to pummel Hersh’s back. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

Hersh was forced to push him away, giving Decker just enough time to move in. He kicked upward, made contact with Hersh’s belly, causing him to double over. But Hersh still had Noam’s gun in his hands.

Decker kicked him again, then scrambled for his own gun, just inches away. Blood had drenched his clothes; he felt himself growing weak. Inching over to his weapon, he knotted his fingers around the butt and fell onto his back just as Hersh had caught his breath. No time to aim. Decker picked up the gun and fired upward, pulling the trigger at the same time Hersh discharged his weapon.

Hersh’s bullet ricocheting off the ground.

Decker fired again. And again.

Hersh staggering forward, two intersecting red holes between his eyes—scarlet Venn diagrams.

Decker kept shooting.

Noam let out a blood-curdling scream.

Hersh’s forehead squirted fountains of blood. Then he fell, landing on Decker with a thud.

Decker pushed him off with his good arm and gripped the gunshot wound on his arm.