In the next breath, he turned and saw Ramón grab Lisa by the upper arm and push her into the back of his van. Luke tried calling out to her, but his throat was dry and cracked and all he managed was a husky, spluttering cough. His bruised ribs throbbed.

“Move your ass, and don’t do anything stupid.” Xander exerted more pressure on his right arm. “I don’t want to have to kill you quickly.”

An unlikely memory occurred to Luke as they edged toward his car: a scene from Ventura Knights, in which Sebastian (Travolta) and Logan Knight (Luke) stood at the perimeter of the bad guys’ compound, having had everything they loved burned to the ground. “You sure you wanna do this, little brother?” Sebastian had asked, and Logan had replied, “When you don’t got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.” It was a cheeseball line, the same tired old shit Luke spouted in most of his movies, but in that moment, with his shoulder threatening to vacate its socket and his entire world being pulled apart (again), it seemed an enlightened philosophy.

Ramón grabbed the last, straggling woman and threw her into the back of the Econoline, then slammed the rear doors and hopped behind the wheel. Kitty had appropriated his keys, but he must have found a spare. The engine wheezed to life. The lights flared.

“Nothin’ to lose,” Luke groaned. He stopped dead and Xander bumped into him. “Keep moving, ass—” And that was as far as he got; Luke lunged backward, cracking the back of his skull into Xander’s mouth. It was a surprising strike, hard enough to stagger Xander. He dropped back a step, relaxing his hold on Luke’s arm.

The next ten seconds ticked by as if choreographed, and Luke hit all his marks. He twisted away from Xander, freeing his right arm, swinging his left simultaneously. It was a looping strike that began open-handed, but his fingers formed a tight fist a split second before impact, rocking Xander’s head to the side.

He was at least six inches shorter than Luke, but wide—a dense two-twenty, maybe two-thirty. Luke thought it would take a chain saw to cut him down, but this punch did it. Xander slumped to one knee, and that was all Luke needed. He sprang forward, grasping the loose gauze bandage on his left forearm and wrapping it around Xander’s throat. There was enough slack to go around twice.

He pulled as hard as he could. Xander struggled, clawing at the thin fabric, trying to work his fingertips between it and his skin.

“Fuck you,” Luke screamed. His arms vibrated with the effort. Blood sprayed from his open lip, peppering the top of Xander’s shaved skull. “Fuck you . . . FUCK YOU.”