Myron moved fast now. He rolled up to his knees, getting his hand ready for a palm strike to the nose or throat. Dad was involved now—no time to waste. He had to put this guy out of commission in a hurry. He grabbed the man’s hair, pulled him out of the shadows, and straddled his chest. Myron cocked his fist. He was just about to snap a right into the nose when the light hit the attacker’s face. What Myron saw made him pause for a split second. The attacker’s head was turned toward the left, looking with concern at Myron’s father. His face, his features . . . they were so damned familiar.

Then Myron heard the man—no, he was a kid, really—beneath him say one word: “Grandpa?”

The voice was young; the snarl gone.

Dad sat up. “Mickey?”

Myron looked down as his nephew turned back toward him. Their eyes met, a color so much like his own, and Myron would swear later that he felt a physical jolt. Mickey Bolitar, Myron’s nephew, pushed the hand off his hair and rolled hard to the side.

“Get the hell off me.”

Dad was out of breath.

Myron and Mickey both snapped out of the stun and helped him to his feet. His face was flushed. “I’m fine,” Dad said with a grimace. “Let go of me.”

Mickey turned back to Myron. Myron was six-four, and Mickey looked to be about the same. The kid was broad and powerfully built—every kid today lifts weights—but he was still a kid. He jabbed Myron’s chest with his finger.

“Stay away from my family.”

“Where’s your father, Mickey?”

“I said—”

“I heard you,” Myron said. “Where’s your father?”

Mickey took a step back and looked toward Al Bolitar. When he said, “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” he sounded so damn young.

Dad had his hands on his knees. Myron went to help him, but he shook him off. He stood straight and there was something akin to pride on his face. “It’s okay, Mickey. I understand.”

“What do you mean, you understand?” Myron turned back to Mickey. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Just stay away from us.”

Seeing his nephew for the very first time—like this—it was surreal and overwhelming. “Look, why don’t we go inside and talk this out?”

“Why don’t you go to hell?”

Mickey took one last concerned look at his grandfather. Al Bolitar nodded, as if to say all was fine. Then Mickey shot Myron a hard glare and ran into the darkness. Myron was about to go after him, but Dad put a hand on his forearm. “Let him go.” Al Bolitar was red-faced and breathing hard, but he was also smiling. “Are you okay, Myron?”

Myron touched his mouth. His lip was bleeding. “I’ll live. Why are you smiling?”