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I kick Noa in the knees as hard as I can, and of course he doesn’t budge. I try to do it again, but he stops me. With one hand, he grabs the underside of my knee while the other grabs my waist. He lifts me and throws me against the booth. The glass shatters from how hard he threw me, and I land on the concrete floor.

He marches towards me and produces a gun, pointing it at me. The trigger is almost released, but I am quicker. I grab a shard of glass and slash Noa’s upper thigh four times in quick motions.

“Ooohhh!” The pain is probably excruciating. Oh well.

A small window of opportunity arises as his grip loosens on his gun, while my grip on the glass tightens. Blood is running down my hand, and it’s time to paint his hand red as well. The glass glides beautifully over his hand, and he lets the gun go. I grab it and stand up.

And point it at him.

I want to shoot, not caring if anyone sees me, and the chance of doing it passes. Noa tackles me, and I lose the gun. We both lose our balance and tumble down the small hill. My body hits a soft patch of ground, and when I open my eyes, I am met by the Bosna River.

We both stand up, and a silence settles over us.

We hit the bottom hard.

Silence.

Not real silence. Rain hammers the ground around us, drumming against leaves and soaking through every layer of clothing. Somewhere above, tires hissed across wet pavement. My own breathing sounds too loud.

I push myself upright. Across from me, he does the same.

Mud is streaked down the right side of his face. A thin cut split his eyebrow, sending a ribbon of blood the rain immediately washes away. His chest rises and falls in slow, controlled breaths, each inhale measured despite the fight we'd just survived.

He looks at me, calculating.

I wipe the rain from my eyes with the back of my hand, though it doesn’t make any difference.

Neither of us move.

It isn’t hesitation.

It’s recognition.

We are both waiting for the other to commit first.

He rolls one shoulder, loosening it. I shift my weight onto the balls of my feet, ignoring the pull in my knee. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, ready to spring. His gaze flicks briefly to my stance.

If either of us makes a mistake in the next few seconds, one of us won’t be walking away.

For a heartbeat, we simply stare.

Two assassins.

Two predators.

Both exhausted.

Both injured.

Both entirely willing to finish what we'd started.

Then he tilts his head—barely a fraction—inviting me to make the first move.

I answer by cracking my neck.

We circle each other and attack like animals.

With the shard of glass still in my hand, I aim for his heart, and he dodges my attack by grabbing my arm and pushing me behind his back.