The man, who was quicker than he looked, spun around and took hold of King’s gun hand, pointing the weapon to the sky. With his free hand, the man took a swing at King’s face. Thick knuckles brushed across King’s nose. If he hadn’t jerked back, his nose would have no doubt been broken.

The momentum of the missed blow pulled the man forward. King raised an elbow to jab into the man’s back, but before he could, the man charged, burying his shoulder into King’s gut. King fell back under the weight.

In the second it took the pair to fall to the pavement, King completed his assessment of the man’s fighting ability. He was a brawler. All heavy punches and big blows, concentrated into a single devastating attack. Old-school fighting. It worked wonders against people who didn’t know how to fight, but King’s abilities could be matched by very few people.

As he fell back, King dropped his weapon, took the man’s trench coat in both hands, and hopped up, placing his feet against his opponent’s waist. With all of his weight pulling on the man, King controlled the fall. When they struck, King rolled and pushed with his legs, sending the man sprawling into the grass.

King stood as the older man climbed up and raised his fists in front of his face like a boxer. He came in fast, taking hard swings that King easily dodged or deflected. With the element of surprise gone, the man didn’t stand a chance.

After dodging a jab to his face, King caught the man’s arm and, once again, used the man’s own momentum to fling him to the grass. The man climbed to his feet slower than before, which gave King time to pick up his weapon and aim it at the man’s back.

The man raised his hands in submission. The fight was over.

“Turn around,” King said.

The man turned around, head lowered, then slowly looked up at King’s gun. King blinked as recognition and a flood of memories and emotions hit him all at once. The man standing before him was his father, Peter Sigler.

“Don’t shoot,” his father said.

King gave his father an up-and-down glance. He wore an old gray suit beneath the trench coat. His face wasn’t exactly clean-shaven, but neither was King’s. His once-black hair was now peppered with gray, especially on the sides. And despite the wrinkles marking the fifty-five years on his face, his body looked well, and strong. For a moment, King felt as though he were looking through a time portal at his future self. But there was something off—the fear in his eyes.

King lowered the weapon. “I’m not going to shoot you, Dad.”

Peter’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t got a good look at King’s face while staring down the barrel of his handgun. “Jack?”

The man’s hands started shaking. He took hold of one with the other and squeezed. “I didn’t know who you were. I thought you might be—”