I move at the same time. We collide mid-reach, hands grasping for the weapon. He’s faster—gets his hand on the grip first. I grab his wrist, keeping the barrel pointed away from me.
We struggle. He’s strong, but I’m younger, fueled by rage and desperation. I twist his wrist and he drives his knee into my stomach. Air whooshes out of my lungs but I hold on. I can’t let him get control of the weapon.
“Let go,” he grunts. “Let go before?—”
I don’t let go. I torque his wrist harder, forcing his hand back. His finger’s on the trigger. If either of us pulls?—
The gun fires.
The shot is deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet goes wide, punching into the wall, but the recoil breaks his grip and the weapon goes flying, skittering across the floor, away from both of us.
We break apart, both scrambling for it. Racing across concrete on hands and knees like animals.
James gets there first.
He rolls, coming up with the gun aimed at my chest. His hand is steady, his eyes are cold.
“Stand up,” he orders.
I comply slowly, hands visible, watching for an opening, any opening.
“This is over, Dredyn. Your friends are gone—probably dead in those tunnels—the guards outside are dead, and in a moment, you’ll be dead too. I’m sorry it came to this, I really am. But you left me no choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“No. Not always. Sometimes the choice is made for you by circumstances, by other people’s decisions.” His finger tightens on the trigger. “You decided to come here. You decided to threaten me. You decided this ends only one way. So I’m making that ending quick, painless. That’s the last gift I can give you.”
“Wait—”
“Goodbye, Dredyn.”
I see his finger start to squeeze, see the moment of commitment. See my death in his eyes.
Then, something changes in his expression.
He looks down.
There’s a knife protruding from his shoulder—my knife, the one from my belt. The one I pulled during our struggle and buried in him while we fought for the gun.
I didn’t even realize I’d done it.
His hand wavers and the gun dips just a little.
I move, closing the distance in three strides. I grab his gun hand, forcing it up and away. My other hand rips the knife out of his shoulder. He screams and I grab the gun as it falls from his weakening grip.
Now I’m the one holding the weapon.
Now I’m the one with my father at my mercy.
He drops to his knees, hand clutching his shoulder. Blood seeps between his fingers.
“Do it. Finish it,” he rasps.
I point the gun at him.
My hand is shaking.
He looks up at me. “You can’t, can you? Even now, even knowing what I’ve done, you can’t kill your own father.”
