The headlights of a vehicle suddenly flashed across the group, distracting the four gunmen for less than half a second, which was all the time Griffin needed to act. Had Zack not turned to emphasize his insult, he might’ve seen the blow coming. But his complacency had cost him, and the powerful punch struck Zack on the right side of the head. He staggered forward to his left and bent over, his equilibrium momentarily destabilized.

Sucker punch or not, get distance, Zack, or he’ll own you. He fought the vertigo and sidestepped away from Griffin, but it wasn’t far enough. As he turned to face his nemesis, the rushing fury of Griffin Huntsmen came at him like a freight train. Like Belyakov said, karma. It was always going to come down to this, he thought, and prepared to stand his ground.

The hulking form of his former boss slammed into him like a tidal wave, carrying both men to the pavement with a jarring impact.

Griffin let out a grunt of pain as his right shoulder hit the road, triggering a white flash of agony inside his head. The pain was a blessing that temporarily dulled the raging storm inside him.

For Zack, the only benefit was that the tackle seemed to clear his head by knocking his equilibrium and the tiny crystals inside his ears that controlled it back into place. He found himself flat on his back, and while his mind had cleared, the onslaught had knocked the breath out of his lungs. He inhaled like a stick shift stuck in gear, struggling to get out of first. He glanced left and watched Griffin roll away from him onto his side, seemingly oblivious to his wounded shoulder. Better get your breath quick, buddy. Round two is upon you, the voice of his high school wrestling coach urged.

Close by, Belyakov was speaking loudly in Russian to his men, and Zack caught the gist of it, especially “kill him.” His lungs suddenly filled with oxygen, and he screamed, “No! He’s mine, no matter what!”

Energized, Zack rolled to his left toward Griffin and lashed out with a straight right punch that landed on the back of his injured shoulder. Griffin roared in pain, but rather than writhe around on the pavement from it, he bent forward and kicked backward, striking Zack squarely in the Kevlar vest.

The blow stopped Zack cold, and the bulletproof material absorbed a significant amount of the shock. Unfortunately, it forced him to change tactics, and rather than press forward, he rolled to his right and rose to his feet, hands in front of him. Standing before him like a crazed, wounded maniac was Griffin, ready to continue.

Both men knew the time for talking had passed, and Griffin beckoned Zack forward like a boxer at the end of a grueling twelve-round fight, urging his opponent to engage in combat one last time before it all came to a close.