We hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury. His hands, like slabs of granite, found my throat and squeezed, cutting off the world, crushing my windpipe. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I brought the gun butt up and around, smashing it into his temple. Once. Crack. Twice. Crunch.
His grip loosened, his eyes glazing over.
I didn't hesitate. My other hand, the one holding my knife, drove the blade up and under his ribs, seeking the heart. I twisted the steel, feeling the grisly tear of muscle and organ.
He shuddered, a great, final exhalation washing over me, and went still.
I shoved his dead weight off me, gasping for air that burned like acid.
The masked man was crawling, dragging his ruined leg, a snail's trail of crimson smearing behind him, reaching for his fallen rifle.
I staggered to my feet. The world tilted and swayed. I limped over. I placed my boot directly onto the bullet wound in his thigh and pressed down with all my weight.
