“What, this?” Nathan tossed the Sig Sauer onto the carpet at the man’s feet.

His expression confused, the bouncer looked down at the gun and unconsciously wiped his nostrils with his thumb and forefinger. Cocaine.

If this guy had any sense of reality, he would’ve surrendered right then and there, because he was now face-to-face with a shirtless opponent, covered in menacing scars who looked like he belonged in a bare-knuckle, cage-fighting match on an alien war planet. But this man wasn’t thinking straight. No doubt he was accustomed to winning fights. Well, that was about to change.

Ignoring the gun at his feet, the bouncer lowered his head and charged.

Nathan saw it coming.

He sidestepped and shoved the man into the wall. The guy’s head struck the drywall and left a cereal-bowl impression in its surface. Nathan kicked him in the ass, making the impression deeper. The man grunted, cursed, and yanked himself free.

Nathan stepped back. “It’s a little cramped in here,” he said. “Shall we finish this in the living room?”

“No problem.”

Nathan gestured toward the door and moved aside, allowing the bouncer to exit the bedroom first. He pointed at Cindy. “Stay here.” Following at a safe distance, he sensed his opponent disappear around the living room corner more than he saw it. Then he heard a metallic sound and knew what it was.

The fireplace iron.

Nathan took loud, deliberate steps down the hall and stopped four feet short of the corner. The poker’s black form whooshed and penetrated the wall where he would’ve been had he kept going. He kicked the bouncer’s arm, pinning it to the wall, and had the satisfaction of feeling the mid-ulna and radius bones snap. The hand released the iron and fell away.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Nathan said. “Had enough?”

He stepped into the living room and the bouncer charged again, surprisingly fast, but not fast enough.

Nathan ducked low before thrusting upward with all his strength.

The man literally flew over Nathan’s back and landed with a grunt. He rolled onto his belly, tried to get up, and seemed surprised when one of his arms didn’t work.

“Broken,” Nathan said.

“You’re a dead man.”

Nathan spread his arms and looked down at himself.

The bouncer struggled to his feet and lunged forward with a left jab zeroed at Nathan’s jaw. Anticipating the punch, Nathan jerked his head to the right and snapped up with his left elbow, smashing the man’s nose. That was a bingo. For 99.9 percent of Earth’s population, that level of blunt-force trauma did the trick. Party over. Lights out. Send the babysitter home. But this man simply wiped his nose and squinted at the fresh blood on his fingers.

“It was cocked about thirteen degrees to the right,” Nathan said. “It’s straight now. No charge.”