Zack’s mind raced at breakneck processing speed, searching for a solution, a way out. He flashed back to the last altercation he’d had with Griffin, when his team chief had ambushed him in the narrow passageway of the USS Carney. He’d been vulnerable, but he’d had a knife at the time. You have one again. You just need to grab it.

Zack felt his oxygen dwindling and knew Griffin was trying to cut off the blood supply to his head. If he lapsed into unconsciousness, he was dead. Wounded or not, Griffin had the strength to snap his neck. Given the circumstances, Zack regretted having called off Belyakov’s men. You set the rules for this bout, but it’s not over just yet.

Zack’s head was held in place, but he reached down and felt the handle of the blade. He grabbed it and immediately began to pull, just as he felt Griffin shift his weight behind him, and a large leg locked his arm to his side.

Full-blown panic settled over him like a cloak, passing into every fiber of his being. He was immobilized, and with every passing second, his oxygen supply slipped away. He struggled and squirmed, but to no avail.

“Sorry, little buddy. I thought you might try something like that. I told you once before, and you really should’ve listened—you can’t beat me. You never could. And now, you’re going to die for your arrogance.”

Zack’s oxygen supply ran out as Griffin tightened his arms around his throat. He felt the edges of his vision blur, and he realized he was close to unconsciousness, and then, oblivion. His ego and psyche rebelled at the thought, but he was totally helpless. Images of his wife and children flashed brightly in his mind. I’m sorry, honey. I’m sorry, Ethan. I’m sorry, Addison. I love you all. I tried. I’ll see you again someday. He thought he heard faint voices in response, but he felt himself slipping away, his consciousness fading, the blackness enveloping him before consuming him whole.

From far away, Zack felt a warm, wet breath fall across his neck, and he thought for a moment it was God’s welcome embrace into the afterlife, comforting and intimate. The tendrils of consciousness told him he was floating, but he didn’t know where or on what, but one word echoed in his awareness—acceptance.

A brilliant pain of a thousand stars exploding in his head bloomed before his closed eyes, and he slammed back to earth as sound rushed in like an avalanche. Voices, English and Russian. A helicopter. Footsteps running. All of it was a cacophony, but then his lungs expanded as he inhaled, and his senses reawakened as if his entire system had been overloaded with adrenaline.