He had been about to inject something into Kenzie’s saline bag—into her IV. The realization distracted Ted. The Russian saw this and moved in. He threw three quick jabs, which Ted easily deflected, but they left him off-balance. He had too much weight on his back foot, and when the next kick came up, he couldn’t move fast enough to avoid it. It caught him in the side, just above his waist. Ted felt himself falling and grabbed the man’s leg as he went down. It was a sloppy defense. Never close with an opponent unless you control the action. They hit the floor together. The Russian was on top.

People had noticed. A nurse screamed. A deep-voiced man was yelling orders, but Ted ignored him. A flashing red light spun on the hallway ceiling, sending shafts of blood-colored shadows across the Russian’s straining face. He may have been on top, but he did not control the action either. He was protecting the syringe while attempting to choke Ted with his free hand.

Ted bucked hard and then brought his legs up into the air. When the Russian reared to regain his balance, Ted locked his calves around the man’s head and rolled to the side. They slammed into the cart again, sending it sliding out into the hallway, where it crashed and fell over. More screams.

The fight had none of the grace and elegance Ted had brought to the sport of wrestling seventeen years earlier. He was out of shape, out of practice, and outmatched. And the stakes were deadly serious. Already he could feel his energy flagging, his muscles complaining and straining, his side aching where the kick had landed.

They were flailing at each other, their punches without weight or leverage. Neither was willing to break away and risk having the other take advantage of his retreat, and so they scrambled, pushed, deflected, and hit wildly and with no effect.

Then Ted felt a searing blow land on his shoulder, both a thump and a sting. He gasped in pain and terror—what in hell was in that syringe?—but for the briefest moment, his adversary’s neck was open, unguarded. Ted grabbed the Russian around the throat and squeezed. The man thrashed, for the first time showing fear, and swung his right arm in a wide arc, smacking Ted in the temple. Without the encumbrance of the syringe, he was able to inflict real pain even at those close quarters.

Ted felt another blow land and another, the last directly on his ear. He lost his grip on the man’s neck and felt himself sliding away. The fight was all but over. He was losing. He drew back his hand, formed a fist, and drove it down with all of his remaining strength into the man’s Adam’s apple. Something broke.