"Don't," I say, stepping out from behind her. I bring the Glock up, sights on his head. "Take the shot, Wren."
Ivan's eyes move to me. That dead smile again—the one that doesn't touch anything above the jaw.
"The walking dead." He doesn't shift aim from Wren. "You've lost two pints, minimum. Three? You're shaking, Bishop. I can see it from here."
"Steady enough."
"No, you're not. And we both know it." He tilts his head. "Here's the math. You pull that trigger, you might hit me. Might. But my reflex puts a bullet in her eye before I hit the ground. Is that a trade you're willing to make?"
The negotiator's dilemma. The impossible choice.
I hesitate. A fraction of a second.
That's all he needs.
Ivan shifts—not to Wren, to me. He fires.
BANG.
Gravel sprays from the dirt at my feet. A demonstration. A proof of speed.
"Next one goes in your kneecap," Ivan says. "Guns down. Both of you."
I look at Wren. Terrified. Chest heaving. Shotgun still up.
"Wren. Put it down. We can't win the draw."
"Kade—"
"Do it."
She lowers the Mossberg slowly, bends, places it on the rock. Stands with her hands raised.
"Kick it."
She kicks it. It skitters across the stone, five feet away.
"Now you, Bishop."
I lower the Glock. My fingers cramp in protest. I let it fall.
"Good." Ivan holsters his pistol.
He pulls the Karambit from his tactical vest—curved blade, wicked and fast. He walks toward us, unhurried, the knife turning once in his grip.
"I'm done with bullets," he says. "Too much noise. And frankly, Bishop—you've cost me men. I want you to feel this."
He moves toward me, angling past Wren. To him, she's a civilian. A bystander. A loose end to clean up after I'm gone.
He steps past her.
Wren moves.
Not away. Not back.
She reaches into her pocket.
"Hey."
