My fist connects with his face, but I don’t give it my all. Not yet.

He shuffles backward with his pale hands raised, as though he’s trying to escape. I stalk toward him. He made a choice, and now, he’s going to pay the price. A real man doesn’t make a choice and then run away from it in fear.

He tries to duck a few times, but it’s too easy. Anger begins to pulse. Why won’t he defend himself?

I suck in a hard breath, my hands wringing together. Rituals.

“Get one in, asshole!” I scream, my voice echoing around the concrete walls. I barely sound like myself.

The mosques begin prayers; song echoes all around. But this alley is good and dark. No god is watching.

He punches my face, fist weak. It doesn’t make a dent. I throw my gun off to the side. I want to feel contact. I want to know my fists killed him. I hit him in the side of the head again. He drops to the ground. My feet scuff against the concrete littered with sand. I kick him hard in the ribs.

“You ready to die?” I growl. “Motherfucker!” I yell. “Get up! Get the fuck up! Fight like a man.”

I drop to my knees, punching his ribs. He’s frozen in fear. Crying for his mom—Arabic words I’ve learned by heart. My body is on auto, fury trained on this body lying on the ground. I want to kill him. He’s going to pay. No one takes my brother’s life without punishment. My muscles vibrate as I go in for punch after punch. Retribution isn’t sour. He thinks he’ll get away with ambushing us? He thinks he can shoot my brother and walk off into the fucking sunset?

A big pair of arms moves behind me, pulling me back. “What in the fu—calm down, Slade. Holy shit, man.” Vincent’s voice is behind me yet feels far away. His words ricochet between past and present.

I’m grabbed beneath my arms and thrown off to the side. It’s Vincent. He’s shaking me. My head clears, and I see what’s before me. I’m in the Mile’s holding cell. A red-haired man is spread on the floor and beaten to a bloody pulp.

I turn to Vincent. His chiseled face is drawn with worry. I open and close my mouth as he steps away from me and moves beside the guy, feeling for a pulse.

“He’s still alive.” His voice is full of relief.

My eyes go dry. I lean my head against the cold cement wall, tightly shutting my eyes. I can hear Vincent calling a doctor.

“What’s going on with you?” He drops the phone into his back pocket and sits to his haunches next to me. “The last few months, I’ve noticed changes. You aren’t as focused. You’re zoning out. Have you been sleeping?”

I look up to see his dark eyes, shining, concerned. I don’t respond because what the fuck am I going to say? The truth is that I’m losing my grip, and it’s getting worse. I’m living in this horrible in-between, where my past keeps invading my present. They’re twisting together, turning my life into a fucking nightmare.