I wait in one of the lower branches, peering down, until I see a man in a Pennywise mask. He’s got his AK up on his shoulder, aiming at one of Miko’s men. I drop down on top of him, hearing his muffled scream of pain through the rubber mask as his leg breaks beneath him.

I pull my Glock and shoot him twice in the chest. He stops moaning.

My family’s house is going up in flames like a tinderbox. Everything is burning—the pictures of my great-grandparents in their dusty frames. The posters on my bedroom walls. My mother’s piano.

I never could have let this happen if my father were still alive—it would have killed him. But like Yenin, I’m willing to lose something I love to get my revenge. I sacrificed a piece that had great value to me, to lure him out of his car.

And now I can see him, standing on the opposite side of the street, arms crossed over his broad chest, lank gray hair loose around his shoulders, craggy face illuminated by firelight.

Distantly, I hear the wail of sirens. I have minutes to kill him. Only minutes.

As I start to jog toward him, something explodes inside the house. I’m thrown sideways by the force of the blast, bits of leaded glass cutting the right side of my face and body. The heat from the inferno is so intense that the fighting is driven outward toward the street. Looking up, I see Mikolaj shoot Jigsaw in the face, then pull a knife from his belt so he can slash Slenderman once, twice, three times across the belly, chest, and throat.

Mikolaj moves with shocking speed and grace. He’s like a dancer himself—a cruel and lethal analog of his wife. In less than a second he’s seized Michael Meyers by the hair and cut his throat as well.

It’s almost like having Nero with me. Nero always prefers knives over guns.

But I don’t have time to appreciate any of this. I’m fixated on one thing only: the grizzled form of my enemy across the street. Glowing in the reflected flame light like the Devil himself.

I shove myself up off the grass and I run toward him, Glock still clutched in my hand.

Yenin has kept two of his biggest guards at his side. Both are wearing masks, but neither has quite the size to be Rodion. I’m disconcerted, wondering where the fuck his lieutenant has gone. I can’t imagine that Yenin would dispatch him for anything trivial.

I can’t help worrying about Yelena. If Rodion had a choice of where to go, it would be to find and drag home the object of his fixation. If he found Yelena . . . if he fucking even touched her . . .

Yenin’s guards see me coming. They already have their weapons drawn. The one on the left has the quicker reflexes of the two—but not quick enough. Before he can even aim at me, I’ve shot him in the neck and chest. His friend is slightly more successful. He shoots me in center mass before I can hit him between the eyes. Too bad for him my vest is stronger than his bullet.

The impact fucking hurts though, and it throws me off balance. This turns out to be a good thing, because it means that Yenin’s shot goes wide, grazing my bicep instead of the head.

Not wanting to risk another shot, I plow into him, tackling him like a football player. I let go of my Glock so I can grab his gun hand in both of mine, slamming his wrist repeatedly against the cement until his Colt skitters away beneath his armored car.

If at any point I actually did underestimate Yenin it would be right now, in this moment. He’s a 60-year-old man, four inches shorter than me. I should be able to pound him into the pavement.

But he has the kind of strength and strategy that can only be honed by a lifetime of combat. He attacks me with the rabidity of an animal and the precision of a sniper. He slams the heel of his hand up into my nose, then elbows me in the throat. Then he goes for his real target: my knee. He brings his foot smashing down on my formerly-shattered kneecap, right in its most vulnerable place.

It’s like I’ve time-traveled back to the lakeside pier three years ago. My kneecap breaks apart once more, in a supernova of pain that wipes all signals through my nerves. I can’t move or even breathe. All I can do is scream.

Yenin tries to roll away from me, his blue eyes gleaming with triumph. He’s getting to his feet, whether to grab for his gun or to kick me in the face, I have no idea. My pain-addled brain decides that he’s trying to run away, and whatever else happens, I’m not letting that happen. With every bit of strength I have left in me, I grab him around the knees and jerk his legs out from under him, sending him crashing down to the pavement once more. Then I launch myself on top of him, ignoring the shrieking agony as the pieces of my kneecap grind together.

This isn’t a fight anymore. It’s a fucking brawl. We’re punching and clawing and head butting each other, fighting with a viciousness that makes me want to bite and tear, to rip off his fingers and his eyelids, to destroy any part of him I can reach. I find those hateful blue eyes and I dig my thumbs in, trying to blind him.

This man took my father’s hand in friendship, and then he blew Papa’s jaw off, so I couldn’t even identify his face. He stole the last years of my father’s life—our last chess games together, Papa’s last opportunities to hold his grandchildren. Yenin will never have the chance to feel those pleasures himself. He doesn’t get to gloat. He doesn’t get to win. I’ll eradicate him off the face of this earth so he won’t feel another moment’s satisfaction ever again.

Yenin is strong but I’m stronger. He’s cruel, but I’m a fucking sadist. He’s dying at the hands of the monster he made.

Our hands are locked around each other’s throats and he’s squeezing with all his might. I choke him back twice as hard, until I hear the bones in his neck snapping. My fingers dig into his flesh until the blood runs down, and still I keep squeezing till the only light in his eyes is the sparks of my house burning down.

Only then do I let go.

And still I’m not done.

I cross the road, heedless of the bullets flying all around me. I’m limping along, leaning heavily on my good leg, dragging my screaming knee after me.

Mikolaj’s men are still fighting the last of Yenin’s soldiers. The fire is raging, and the sirens are drawing closer. With a crunch of tires on broken glass, I hear another car pull up. Someone shouts my name.

I keep walking.

I see nothing but fire. I feel nothing but rage.

This isn’t over yet—not till Rodion and Adrian are dead.

I’m searching for the hulking figure of the silent giant. Or the shock of white-blond hair of Yelena’s brother.

I almost step on Adrian.

He’s lying in muddy, trampled grass on the front lawn. His hair isn’t blond at all anymore because most of it has been burned away. The whole right side of his face and body is charred. I can see the smoking remnants of the rope around his left wrist, and a piece of the broken chair to which he was tied.

He looks up at me, one eye swollen shut, the other clear and tinged that particular shade of violet.

“Please . . .” he croaks.

I look around on the ground. There’s a discarded Kalashnikov a dozen yards away. I pick it up, limping back toward my enemy once more.

I point the barrel right between his eyes, my finger curled around the trigger.

“SEBASTIAN!!!” someone screams.

Not someone.

Yelena.

I would recognize her voice anywhere.

I’m frozen in place. Every impulse of my brain is screaming at me to kill Adrian, to do it now. He would shoot me, given the chance again. He’d shoot anyone I love. He might even shoot Yelena.