Now both of them are hurt too badly to keep circling. They glare at each other as Bob pulls Jesse’s knife from his shoulder and tosses it aside. Bob means to say something smart but can’t speak, so spits instead. In ten seconds he’ll go in for the kill. Ten seconds of healing. Nine, eight, seven. He almost groans out loud when Jesse reaches into his jacket and pulls out an ice pick. The fucker is putting up more of a fight than he expected. Four, three.

Jesse walks toward him but stops out of striking range. Bob waves his blade, and Jesse watches it like it’s a swaying snake and he’s calculating when to reach out and grab it. Bob lunges and jabs to foil any attack the man might be cooking up, and Jesse backs up a step. Bob lunges again, and again Jesse retreats.

The third time Bob tries the move, Jesse deflects his strike with a sweep of his arm and counters with a jab of his own. The tip of the ice pick barely pricks Bob’s chest, but the sting is enough to flood him with fresh anger. Strategizing on the fly, he pretends to fumble his knife, drops it, and bends to pick it up. Jesse falls for the ruse, rushing in with the pick aimed low, meaning to get him in the throat.

Bob stops him in mid-thrust by grabbing his forearm, snatches up his knife with his other hand, and stabs upward toward Jesse’s chest. The bastard clamps onto his wrist, though, before the blade finds its mark.

They wind up face-to-face, chest to chest, Bob clutching Jesse’s right arm, Jesse hanging on for dear life to his. A slapstick tango ensues as they try to knee each other in the balls, spinning round and round until their legs tangle and they topple over.

Bob lands on the shoulder Jesse stabbed, and a bolt of pain nearly blacks him out. By the time the static clears Jesse’s got the ice pick between his ribs and is probing for his heart. Bob realizes his knife is still in his hand and thrusts it into Jesse’s belly. The last thing he hears before his body finally gives out is Jesse scream.

When he comes to who knows how long later, Jesse is facedown and out cold beside him. His head whirls when he sits up, but there’s no time to waste. He grabs his knife and rolls Jesse onto his back, straddles the sonofabitch, and lays the blade against his neck. He’s two strokes into dusting him when Jesse’s eyes pop open. The ice pick, Bob thinks. Too late. Jesse shoves the pick up through the bottom of his chin, through his mouth, and into

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