At the sound of automatic gunfire, my dad pulls his punch and glances toward the rear of Trailer 1. In the distance, the Jeep, with Agent 24 and Kayla, disappears around a curve on the mountainside road. They're falling back because the grenades blew off the back doors of the trailer, leaving the interior exposed, making it possible for Zero's guards to stand at the opening and unleash a hellfire of lead on the people responsible for destroying the Mind Benders. Agent 24 doesn't have a choice. He has to pull back or else they'll be easy targets.

After the explosion, the semi-truck still has wheels on the back of Trailer 1. Based on memory, I recall the first trailer having double axles with two tires on each end of them. So, if the grenades blew away the last axle, it should have another on which to roll. That fact is obvious, since the truck is still in transit. That being said, Zero must not want to risk stopping. If she knows Agent 24 is now on our side, she'll want to get as far away from him as possible.

My dad turns to me. "Looks like your friends are abandoning you. Now, it's just you and me. Man against boy."

"I don't want to fight you."

"It's a little late for that. This is round two. Ding, ding."

He hurls a powerful hook, aimed at my chin.

I remember the last time we went at it, moments ago, and it wasn't pretty. My dad dominated me. He jabbed, crossed, hooked, and basically had his way with me. When I tried to return fire, he blocked each punch as if it were child's play. Round one went to the old man. But this time he's injured, which means I have a chance.

Immediately, as his fist nears my chin, I morph into Agent 23 mode. The fight slows down, and I anticipate his next few moves. I see his plans as if he's telling me what he's going to do before he does it. It's like I'm reading from The Collective's playbook. After the right hook, his next move is a left hook, and then he wants to go for the knockout with an uppercut. Seems like an act of desperation. He's afraid he won't win if the match goes into the later rounds. With that in mind, I'm seeing a fight pattern with Collective agents. It seems they love to resort to punishing uppercuts, as well as strangle holds. They relish a quick victory, but I suspect it's my dad's injury that makes him desperate. He wants this fight to end as soon as possible.

My counter is swift and efficient.

I block his hook with my forearm, draw in close, and smash my elbow into his abdomen. As he gasps, I whirl and nail him with a back-fist to the cheek. Just as fast, I spin away from the danger zone. I don't want to stay too close to him. I want to use my speed as an advantage. As I put distance between us, I'm about to add a front kick to the mix to throw him off balance for an even bigger roundhouse, but he charges into me, and drives me to the trailer top. He hasn't seen me in action. He was unconscious in the back of the van at the fort, and in the Mind Bender chair at the warehouse. But he knows I received a partial download from The Collective's martial arts and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu skills, with a little judo tossed in for good measure. His wrestling move sends us to the deck toward the front of the semi as the truck continues to haul it down the highway with Agent 24 and Kayla in the Jeep, still out of sight to avoid gunfire.

My dad rustles on top of me, his fingers clawing at my throat. I know what he's going for, so I swing my knee over and hold him off from getting too close. But he shoves my leg aside and presses in against me. His hands strain to clench my neck like a hangman's noose. The growling snarl on his face speaks volumes. It says everything. He wants to kill me. My dad wants to murder me.

My eyes dart about, searching for an angle to defend myself. I need to gain an advantage that will counter his overall strength.

That's when my gaze dials in on his wounded shoulder—the puncture from the grenade shrapnel.

Even though he acted like it was nothing to rip the metal sliver free, I know it had to hurt. He has to feel pain, but maybe he can block it out with mind over matter? Or maybe the Mind Bender forces him to ignore it to accomplish its directives? I'm about to find out.

My next move is risky. I need to release my grip on his arm to go for his shoulder, which bleeds through the tear in his shirt.

I reach across and scrape at his chest, my fingers crawling toward the wound.

The moment his hands lock around my neck; I cram two of my fingers into the gash. They sink in deep, about an inch. At first, he only flinches, but then I twist my nails in and dig around in the flesh until he groans in agony. As I jam my fingertips deeper, he yells out and releases his grip on my throat.

While he grimaces in pain, clutching his shoulder, I kick him over me with both of my feet. I use an upward thrust and vault him over. As I scramble upright, his body flips and his spine cracks on the hatch that gives access to the interior of Trailer 1.

He grunts as he rolls off the hatch and rights himself, his glare making him look more sinister and determined for a quick resolution to this duel.

"It doesn't have to be this way," I say. "The Collective has bent your mind. If you let me, I can help you."

His eyes soften. "Really?"

"Yes." I nod. Maybe I'm getting through to him?

He straightens out his back and pops a few vertebrae. All the while, he inches toward me. "Because I thought I could help you."

"How so?"

He smudges his lips together into a slight smile and shrugs. "Help you receive the rest of your training and directives." His jawline and brow harden into a scowl. "From The Collective."

He lunges at me, raising his leg, and stomps his foot into my stomach.

I bowl over; the breath expelled from my lungs.

He twists my hair in his fingers and pounds his fist into my nose. Cartilage cracks. I wince and wail out from the pain searing its way through my nostrils.

With my hands clutching my bleeding nose, he shoves me backwards. Once and then twice.

"I've never been one for all the fancy karate," he says. "I prefer a pulverizing bare-knuckle fight—I like to hear bones break. The carnage of a good beat down leaves me feeling invigorated."

As he finishes speaking, he draws near me again, and as he does so, I channel all my remaining strength and fortitude into a last-ditch retaliation. When he's three feet away, I spin and lower my center of gravity, sweeping my leg around, and swipe his feet out from under him. His back and head slam against the trailer.

I leap on top of him and start choking.

Now, I have the upper hand.

I wrench his throat, cutting off his air supply. Hate burns through me. I see images of my mom's dead body in our house, in our living room.

His cheeks flush with blood. He glows red, and the strength wanes in his eyes. As I choke him, I realize that not only do I want to suffocate him; I want to kill him.

I want to kill another human being. I want to kill my dad.

That's not me. I can't do this. I wail out in frustration and agony, and guilt as I continue to strangle him.

I'm not a murderer. I don't want to kill my dad—I want to save him.

The tears burst from my eyes, and I release my hold on him. He gags and spits and coughs.

I back away from him as he rises; the tears streaming down my face, salty as I lick my lips. I hope he won't come after me. I wish that he had blacked out and was his old self again. But the glare in his eyes says otherwise.

As he stumbles toward me, off balance and beaten, my mind recalls a particular move in my fight skills arsenal.

My dad's reaction time has slowed after I choked most of the life out of him. He swings, but I step aside and watch his knuckles sail past my face. As he follows through with the missed punch, I latch onto his arm, whip him around, and coil my arm around his neck from behind.

I'm not as strong as my dad, but I'm not a pushover.

With my arm wrapped around his neck, I brace that wrist against the fold of my other fist and lock the choke hold like an iron clamp.

He struggles against me, but I hold on.

He emits strangled sputters and grunts. And then, after a long, intense, life draining moment, he passes out. Unconscious. Blacked out.

When he goes limp, I release him and lower him to the top of the trailer. In this surreal moment, I kneel beside him and can't help but look up at the mountain towering above us. As I wait for him to revive, I realize the gunfire has ceased because the Jeep is nowhere in sight. Up ahead, a bridge looms, spanning a lake.

My dad stirs.

His eyes open, and he gazes up at me.

I expect a snarl. But he smiles warmly.

"Aiden," he says. "What happened?"

I hesitate, unsure of what I'm hearing.

Then I realize. "The Mind Bender had control of you."

I help him stand as the semi approaches the midway point of crossing the wide-open flat bridge. With my back to the trailer's right edge, my dad glances down at his hands and circles around to face me. He appears in deep thought.

"Don't you remember?" he finally says.

"What?"

"Zero said the Mind Bender's you destroyed were the latest versions. Their spell is unbreakable."

"But we did it. You're free." My countenance falls as the words leave my lips.

He shakes his head, his eyes squinting into slits. Then he turns to the side and stares at me with a knowing grin. "No. Afraid not."

Before I can react, he sidekicks me in the stomach, launching my body off of Trailer 1, out over the guardrail of the bridge, hurtling me back-first toward the placid waters of the lake. As I plunge, the wind speed whips around me, roaring past my ears.

I struggle to breathe because the kick knocked the air from my lungs.

Zero and Agent 1 are getting away. The last view I have is the semi entering another mountainside tunnel after crossing the bridge.

When I strike the water, everything goes black.