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And unlike him, I’m still in my prime. Maybe not my prime as far as the UFC goes, but certainly the prime of my life. In the best shape of my life. And more deadly than anyone he ever got in a cage with.

“Bring it, old man.” I don’t have to take off my shoes or anything else.

Without warning, he charges me, and we go down in the grass, rolling and swinging like our lives depend on it. Maybe they do. He still has a hell of an elbow and a cross that stings, but I’ve seen him favor his right leg. Just a little. Not enough for anyone but a fellow fighter to notice, so that’s where I focus my energy, sending kicks to his knee and thigh.

Finally, I push him off me and we both jump to our feet.

He swings but I easily move out of the way. He’s slow, and already winded, but he could also be faking, trying to make me drop my guard.

That’s not going to happen.

I kick out, catching him in the side of the knee, and there’s a faint wince.

Now I know exactly where to focus my energy.

But he surprises me, coming in with a barrage of powerful punches that bring us both down, grappling for dominance.

He’s stronger than he looks, but now that I know, I’ll simply adjust. Only one of us is walking away today. And it won’t be him.

I roll onto my back, and from there I’m able to kick out and send him sprawling. I turn and go on the attack, this time pinning him down by pressing on his bad knee with one of mine while going at his ribs with all my power. He pushes at me, the fingers of one hand squeezing my face. I know he’s going for my eyes, so I twist my head and continue to throw punch after punch.

I’m wearing him down, but he’s not giving up easily either.

Because he knows we’re fighting to the death.

This isn’t a sanctioned fight, an exhibition, or anything else—he understands that one of us isn’t walking away. What he doesn’t know is that it’s not going to be him.

He brings up his good knee, catching me in the ribs, and it’s enough of a distraction for him to wiggle out from under me and stand up. But he can’t fake the cut over his eye or the way he’s limping. The pain is real.

I’ve got him now.

I bring up my leg and make direct contact with his ribs. I follow it up with a solid kick to the side of his knee, and he goes down. I follow and land on his side, reaching for his left wrist with my right hand under his head. I press my weight down on his left elbow as I make contact with his left wrist and pull his left arm across his face, pretty much rendering him helpless.

My elbows fire down onto his ribs with the occasional crunch. He’s able to bring his hand underneath his arm to his forehead and heave, which frees him from the helpless position I had him in. He rolls like a log away from me as I try to maintain my hold on his wrist. The cut on his eye must be bleeding a lot more than I thought as my fingers slip free.

He scrambles to his feet on unsteady legs, and I rush forward. I bring back my fist and crash it into his nose. Blood spurts everywhere, but I just keep hitting him.

“Fuck you,” he hisses. “I never should have taken you under my wing.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” I reply. “Because I hate knowing that we ever had anything to do with each other.”

Blood is pouring down his face now, and when he bares his teeth, I see the man that would have killed Luna. The man who raped his cancer-stricken wife for an indeterminate length of time. The man who helped teach other men how to rape their unconscious partners. The man who kidnapped and did God only knows what to the woman I love.

I bring back my fist and smash it into his mouth. His head snaps to the side, blood covers his shoulder and my hand, but he swings back, roaring as he tries to claw at my face. Batting him away, I know what I have to do. I’ve only done it one other time—that was in the Middle East and I swore I’d never do it again once I came home—but I will for Luna. And for all the women whose partners raped them because of this man.

There are punches and then there are life-changing blows.

This is going to be the latter.

When my fist connects with the side of his jaw everything seems to move in slow motion. I don’t know if I feel or hear the crack, but in my head, it’s deafening. His head snaps back and he sinks to the ground. And doesn’t move.

His neck is positioned at a weird angle, and I’m vaguely aware of someone calling my name.

Luna.

It’s Luna’s voice.

“Elliott! Elliott!”