My eyes detected the flashing arc of silver that was Dianne's blade. 

The razor keen edge sliced through the air, making its way from the level of Dianne's waist and jabbing upwards towards me. With the speed of a hornet, it rose to meet the underside of my belly, where the base of my ribs were. The sheer length and sharpness of the knife would be more than enough to gut me with a simple thrust. 

A finishing horizontal slice would easily open my stomach, spilling my intestines all over the warehouse floor. Spurred on by the image of that possibility, I brought down the two-inch chain that linked my handcuffs to meet the blurry arc, interrupting the blade's upward strike before it could stick itself into my chest. 

The knife grinding on metal had barely rung out when Dianne reversed her direction and drew the knife back. Diving forward, this time at my neck, I dodged to the side. The blade zipped past and punctured a hole in the air where my head had been milliseconds ago.

Dianne stepped back, feinted to the right, then closed in on my left. Knife waist level. Eyes forward. Knees bent.

I had seen Dianne dispatch people in the field before, on rare occasions when I was starting out as a contract man. She had taken down men much taller than I. Much faster than I. More adequately prepared than I. And now, facing her like all those men she had put down, I felt sick. Bile rose in my throat, a cold sweat broke out on my brow.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said evenly, my hands up in a defensive position in front of me.

"Yes, you do," Dianne replied, a cruel smile spreading across her lips. "You just don't want to yet."

"Don't life to her, Emerson," George called out, as he stood behind Dianne. "You know that's not true."

I made sure to keep Dianne in front of George's line of sight. Whenever Dianne stepped to the right, I stepped to the right. Whenever she dodged left, I dodged left. It was a game of not getting so close to Dianne that she could cut me, but staying within the small cone of safety that Dianne provided by George and his pistol. 

Snatching a glance behind Dianne's shoulder as we shuffled across the floor, I was shocked to see George raising his pistol, trying to get a bead on me. Although Dianne was barely five feet away from the barrel of his gun, George was still looking for a window to shoot. I bobbed back and forth like a boxer in Madison Square Garden, except I wasn't dodging fists. I was dodging a knife. And potentially, a bullet as well.

It would either be one or the other at some point. Deep down, I knew.

George was right. Dianne was right. I wasn't going to get out of this alive.

I had to choose. Knife, or bullet.

I chose the knife.

Dianne thrust the stiletto forward, straight at the center of my chest. It would have been a killing blow if it hadn't been for my manacles catching the underside of the blade. Sweeping it upward, I slid underneath Dianne's forward momentum and clutched the knife with both my hands. 

Clasping it in an awkward underhand grip, I twisted the handle. I jerked it and yanked it and pulled with whatever remaining strength I had left. Dianne released her hold of the knife, jerking backward, a mix of shock and pain clouding her charcoal-stained features.

I jumped forward, right leg first, and pressed myself up against Dianne. Throwing my hands over her head again, this time holding the razor-sharp edge of the blade against her throat. The point of her chin jammed into my left shoulder, and I heard her yelp in pain as the blade bit into the skin of her neck. Over her shoulder, I made eye contact with George. With his pistol still raised he stared back, his expression unrelenting.

George sighed heavily, "Same song, different verse."

I barked. "Drop your gun, George."

"Or else what?"

I shook my head. "No. Not 'or else'. I will."

I chanced a sideways glance at Dianne. Unlike a few minutes ago, she was facing me in the loop I made with my handcuffed hands and arms. Dianne's face was sullen, but not quite forlorn. Her gaze was distant and unwavering. A solitary tear streamed down her blackened cheek, parting the charcoal on her face. 

I was surprised to find that unlike so many times I had held a knife to someone's throat, I had felt distant and emotionally aloof. As if someone else had been holding the knife. But now it was different. I looked at Dianne's solemn expression. My hands felt the wooden handle of the knife. I felt the warm sting of Dianne's tear splashing on my shoulder and soaking into the cloth of my shirt. I slowly turned my gaze on George.

"I will do it," I repeated shakily, hearing the uncertainty in my own words.

"I suppose you might." George sighed. Then he chuckled. His gun hand swung from left to right. From me to Dianne. George said, "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Before he finished his sentence, I was already dodging left, bringing Dianne with me.

The barrel of George's gun followed us. He pulled the trigger, and the gun spat.

Dianne's body slumped in my arms.

The suppressor did what it was made to do. A resounding pop echoed throughout the warehouse. I flinched at the sound, then, at the sudden realization that I was still alive I looked at Dianne. She was slumping forward now, her knees giving out. 

Flakes of blood and fragments of skull coated the left side of my face. I opened my mouth to scream, but only a petrified gagging noise emitted from my throat. With Dianne's lifeless body pulling down on the blade of the knife, I let her go. She slipped through my arms like loose dirt.

I tried not to look at her face, which was completely covered in blood and brain matter. As she slid down to meet the ground, Dianne's bloodied forehead smeared across the left side of my chest. She hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, her body crumpling in on itself. There was no more Dianne. Just an empty husk of flesh and bones. I looked up to stare at George. The picture of him was blurry. My entire vision was blurry.

I wiped at my eyes, the back of my hand coming away wet with tears.

"Oh, oh my," said George in mock surprise. "That's really unfortunate. Oh, dear."

I clenched Dianne's knife in my hand. I pulled my wrists apart, snapping the handcuff's chain taut.

"Come on, Garza," I growled, ignoring the rising bile in my throat. "Drop the gun. You know you don't really want it to end like this. Or are you too much of a coward? You can't fight a kid in handcuffs?"

I saw something snap in George's eyes. Like a high tension wire on a bridge splitting from thousands and thousands of pounds of intense pressure. A dangerous glint shone from George's glare.

He shook his head, his brow wrinkling. "If you think you're stupid enough to think I would stoop so low-"

"What's wrong, grandpa?" I jeered, playfully tossing the knife from my left hand to my right, then to my left again. "Can't do it? Lost your nerve? Don't want to get your hands dirty?"

"This is ridiculous," George rolled his eyes and pulled the trigger. But I was already a step ahead. Several steps, in fact. 

I lunged at him, the knife in my hand darting forward like the tongue of a snake. Even though I felt him unload two rounds into my body, I drove the knife straight into his chest. His neck. His stomach. That was the difference between pistols and knives. If the caliber of the rounds were low enough, one could take as many shots to the body as he could and keep going for minutes. 

Just as long none of them reached my head or spine. But a few carefully placed lacerations with a knife and a man would only last seconds. And I was slicing away faster than he could pull the trigger. For every two bullets he got into me, I returned with a slice of my dagger three-fold.

It was a strange sight. Neither of us seemed to defend ourselves from the other's attack. George emptied the magazine of his pistol, and I kept swinging and cutting until I couldn't move my arms. We both stood there for a solitary second, neither of us having the strength to continue. 

My stomach felt strange. I felt full as if I had swallowed a hundred coins and they were all crashing against each other in my intestines. Swishing back and forth in my gut. Gingerly, I laid a hand on my stomach. My chest. It came back thick with blood.

I looked up at George. He too was examining his wounds. He stumbled back, falling on his haunches. Failing to get up, he just sat there. His gaze cut straight through me.

Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth as he gurgled. "I should have. . . killed you when I had the chance." He then fell onto his back, his arms and legs splaying out as he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

I flashed George a wry grin and replied, "But you didn't."

I felt myself falling backward as well, but I didn't try to stop it. I didn't feel my back hit the warehouse floor. I didn't feel the group of bullets writhing in my chest and stomach. I couldn't feel anything. I only stared up at the ceiling and waited for the darkness to hold of me. I had felt it before, the first time George had shot me. And I could feel it now. But this time it was more evident; stronger. Closer. Nearer than ever before.

"No, you don't."

Somebody was speaking. I heard their voice, their faint, almost inaudible voice call out to me in the darkness.

"Emerson, hey Emerson!"

I face jerked sideways. Somebody's hand had slapped me across the face. To my surprise, I was able to open my eyes. I saw the face of Agent Dantino staring back down at me. His hair, which had been smoothed down only minutes ago, was now ruffled and mussed. Down by his side, he was holding his service revolver, which he was already placing back in his holster.

I noted. "A little late, aren't you?"

"Not late enough for you, though," Dantino started ripping open my shirt. His hands came away, completely covered in red. He began digging into his pockets. "I tried getting back up here, but I had to say hi to some of your friends on the way."

Dantino pointed with a bloody finger at his shoulder. The corner of his navy blue suit jacket was torn and shredded as if a rabid dog had chewed at it. I chuckled, my head dipping back. Dantino caught me before I could bash the back of my skull into the concrete.

"Woah, now. Steady."

"I'm not a horse-" I coughed, spitting up blood. Shaking my head, I looked at Dantino. "Don't worry about me. Worry about your men. Don't worry about me."

Dantino pulled out a white handkerchief from his back pocket and began dabbing at my stomach. After a few seconds, he stopped, his hand wavering over my chest. I only needed to look into Dantino's eyes to understand.

Dantino shook his head, dropping the handkerchief.

He cleared his throat, his eyes flicking back and forth between my wounds and my face. "We have the rest of your group rounded up. Emily and Mr. Thomas complied nicely. Others resisted, but they were taken care of."

"Any sign of Miss Alice?" I croaked, frowning at how weak my voice sounded. "Was she here tonight?"

Dantino shook his head. "Not that we know of, no."

"I suppose this still isn't over, then."

"No," Agent Dantino interjected. "It's over. Only a matter of time before we find her. She'll hear about this, sooner or later. By then, she'll be on the run."

"You'll never find her."

"I beg to differ," Dantino smiled weakly. He closed the flaps of my jacket, patting his hand on my chest. "Don't worry. She'll slip up eventually. And by then, we'll be waiting for her."

It was my turn to smile weakly.

I said. "Just make sure they don't get on the TRIUMPHANT. Remember? That was the original idea."

"We've got it covered," Dantino nodded. "I've talked with the mayor and the police. They're tightening up security as we speak."

"Good, that's good," I nodded slowly. "That's good." 

Dantino's face began to get more and more blurry. The sound of my voice began to become distant, as if someone else was speaking. Or maybe it was someone else's voice. It was hard to tell.

The voice that sounded like mine said, "Don't need a funeral or anything like that. Not for me. Nothing fancy."

"Nothing fancy," Dantino repeated, nodding.

The voice said, "I always wondered what it was like."

"Dying?" Dantino said, the sound of his voice fading.

The voice replied. "Yes."