"Euuuurrrrrk!" I managed to say in reply, beating my arms frantically against the forearm that held me up. It was literally like striking wood, and I've punched enough wood to know.

Stevie's eyes narrowed, and I thought I heard something like the creaking of old leather at the same time. He simply stood there, staring up at me.

I fought down my panic.

Training. Martial arts. Krav Maga.

Right.

I grabbed the wrist that held me with both hands, pulling down and sliding myself up the wall a little, extending my neck slightly beyond his grip and freeing some space around my windpipe. Simultaneously, I bent my knees and planted the heels of both feet directly behind me, against the wall I was being pinned against. I relaxed my back muscles and pushed the soles of my feet off against the boards as hard as I could, swinging my legs up into the air between me and Stevie. The whole thing felt a little like doing a backward somersault.

Both legs shot up on either side of his outstretched arm before wrapping around it. I stretched out my back and rolled my head, effectively making it so he was no longer able to press me against the wall by my neck. Instead, all of my weight was now wrapped around his arm, which he was holding at shoulder height.

His arm, unable to cope with the physics of this new situation, came down fast. He fell forward and down, stumbling to one knee as he did, which allowed me to twist a little mid-fall and ram his head against the base of the wall.

I rolled on my shoulders as we both fell, and then twisted his arm a little more so that his elbow was lying against my chest. Once I hit the floor I tightened my grip, flexed my legs around his arm, and arched my back as far as I could. I heard him give a muffled cry of surprise. There was a spastic twitch from the muscles in his arm, and I heard a sort of soggy cracking sound, like a large stalk of celery being snapped in two.

Krav Maga for the win. A broken arm or hyperextended elbow would definitely make him more manageable.

Or so I thought.

Releasing my hold on his wrist, I gave him a solid kick to his face with the heel of my shoe. It connected smartly with his cheek . . .

. . . and that's the last thing I remember doing during that particular exchange.

The details were fuzzy, but when I once again became aware of what was happening to me, I could recall having been lifted up off the floor, slammed into another wall, kicked savagely in the ribs, lifted up bodily once more, slammed against the ceiling, and I was now back in a familiar position - pinned against the wall with Stevie holding me up with a single, powerful arm.

The same freaking arm I'd just attacked.

He drew himself up closer to my face and stared me in the eyes. I busied myself making strangled choking noises.

"What the fuck was that?" he asked, sounding both annoyed and surprised.

I tried to say, 'Sorry', but it came out as, "Skrrrrkkp!"

This is what's called 'not being at the top of your game'.

Stevie just held me there in an unconcerned fashion, like it wasn't taxing his strength in the slightest. Even as I was struggling to clear my airway and get some much-needed oxygen to my lungs and brain, I was marveling at how he could simply stand there, arm as stiff as petrified wood, his grip as solid and immovable as cold steel.

He stared at me for a few seconds more before coming to the conclusion that I couldn't breathe, probably from how purple my face was turning. Considering me for a moment, he used his free hand to grab a second handful of shirt from much lower down, released his grip on my neck, and then pinned me up against the wall with my shirt instead. Not much of an improvement, but at least I'd be able to breathe.

I coughed several times and spent a few seconds gasping, my hands reaching for my injured neck. My vision became a little clearer thanks to the increased oxygen. Still, something about what I was seeing - something about him - just didn't look right.

"Who are you?" he snarled impatiently. "You're not part of it, or I'd know. What are you doing here?"

I coughed a few more times before answering.

"Stevie," I half-choked, thinking furiously, hoping to find something to confuse him a little or otherwise cause him to let up. "It's me! What the hell are you on, man?!"

That caused him to pause. He appraised me for a moment, and I felt his grip on my shirt relax slightly.

"Stevie?" he whispered, his face pressing yet closer to mine, his fetid breath almost causing me to gag. "Stevie's not here, man."

"Huh?" I croaked.

He gave me a sinister sneer. "Stevie's gone . . ."

I stared at the face that was the exact match of the picture I'd been given. This was Stevie, I was positive. Same eyebrows, same cheekbones, same features, same everything.

Which meant we'd gone off the deep end. Dissociation, schizophrenia . . . probably from a toxic amount of chemical pick-me-up. It occurred to me that I may have actually damaged his arm with that move off the wall, and he simply wasn't noticing enough pain to care. Schizo, insane strength, no pain . . . I had to do something.

How did you get the attention of a drug-addled raving lunatic?

"I know where they are, okay?" I improvised. "I just . . . you're right. I'm not one of them. But I know who they are! And they know, man! They know everything!"

What was I talking about? I had no fucking clue.

Stevie, however, took in my words with great interest, and actually appeared to think for a moment. Then, amazingly, he relaxed his grip and allowed me to drop to my feet.

Seriously . . . I could not believe that worked.

"Tell me," he grumbled, looking right at me and rolling his shoulders in a manner that promised additional violence. "And make it quick."

Quick? Back on my feet, and no longer being pinned to a wall by a guy trying to fuse my spine and my windpipe together? Oh yeah, 'quick' was my new middle name.

I coughed a little, hunched over, and held up a single finger in his direction, the universal gesture for 'gimme a sec'.

"Okay, it's like this," I panted. "They-"

Lurching backwards two steps, I whipped the Smith and Wesson out from my coat pocket. I fired rounds as fast as I could at every vulnerable point I knew, starting at the stomach and moving up to the head. As I shot, I was running backwards like a bastard, moving away from him with every bit of leg strength I possessed, trying to keep as much distance between him and me as possible.

He was on top of me by the time I'd squeezed off the fourth shot, and my gun was slapped from my hand with a snarl. The ground came up to meet me, then veered and missed completely as I found myself flying in a new and unexpected direction-

. . . and then I was slammed against the wall, again, pinned there by a familiar iron grip. This time around, he wasn't quite as gentle as he'd been before.

The back of my head really, really hurt, and I had trouble focusing on the face in front of me. Or maybe it was that he was holding himself so close to my face, practically nose to nose. I was close enough to smell seared skin from the powder burn I noticed just below his neck.

He shook me roughly, and I swear, he actually growled at me!

"Well then, enough fucking around," he spat, his voice sounding quite thick, and a bit different than it had the last time he'd spoken, like he had a cold. "You ain't one of them, but it's obvious you work with 'em. How many of you punks do I have to swat out of my way before you get the picture? None of them are safe! You hear me?!"

"I hear you," I wheezed.

His eyes narrowed at me, and he propped me up even higher against the wall.

"Well, let's just make absolutely sure, so there's no misunderstandings. Lets send those boys a message of a different sort."

He made a fist with his other hand and pulled it back, tensing his arm like he was about to put his fist through my head, the wall, and anything else that happened to be behind it. I frantically readied my legs to kick against the wall again, and was reaching my right hand into my pants pocket for my key ring. Specifically, I was reaching for the small canister of chemical irritant disguised as a key-ring floatation device, hoping to spray as much of it in his face as I could. If I twisted away just before he threw his punch, timed it right, I might be able to avoid it entirely, and-

"Martin? Is that you?" I heard a wavering voice ask from the other side of the door.

Both I and my opponent froze.

The handle to the heavy wooden door turned, and the door squealed in protest as it was pushed open with obvious effort. An old, frail hand emerged into view, pushing against the door as if afraid it might push back.

"Martin?" the voice called, again.

As suddenly as I'd found myself thrown against the wall, I was dropped to the floor and onto my feet once more.

My hand wrapped itself around my key ring, and I stepped back a pace, watching Steven. He gave me a look of . . . I can't really describe it. Panic? Embarrassment? It was a look that was like a cross between a frightened plea, and a murderous promise. He shook his head at me the tiniest bit, then turned to face the figure at the door.

"No, Ma . . . just me," he growled quietly.

He looked back to me.

I backed up another pace, and gave him a single terse nod. I saw his shoulders visibly relax.

Seemed this was a 'Time-out'.

The voice belonged to an elderly woman. Honestly, I don't need to say much more than that. Just close your eyes and picture a sweet, old lady with short, curly white hair, and you've got it perfect. I mean, she even had a shawl for crying out loud.

She peered around the entrance from behind large, old-fashioned glass spectacles.

"Oh, you mean it's not Martin? I thought I heard knocking," she said, pushing her glasses up with a single, careful finger. "Have you checked?"

"It's not Dad, Ma. If it was, I'd come get you," he replied in a voice that was both tired and sad.

"Goodness, he's been gone a long time, hasn't he?" She peered around the covered hallway a little more, her eyes finally settling on me, and her face lit up. "Oh! You've brought a friend over?"

I almost choked at that.

Stevie looked pained, and leveled another deadly glare at me.

"Yeah. He's here to see me. We got some stuff to do."

"Oh. Well would your friend like to come in? Maybe have something to drink? I've got some lemons."

The poor guy had no idea what to do. He stood there, stuck between his thoughts, looking from me to her and then back to me. If my head didn't hurt quite so much, I'd have been laughing.

"My apologies, Ma'am," I said, my voice sounding a little bit more shaky and strained than I remembered it. "As much as I'd love to, I don't think we'll have time today. I do appreciate the offer though."

She beamed at me.

"Oh, you boys . . . always working so hard. Just like your father. Well, if you happen to change your mind, it wouldn't be a problem at all." She turned to Stevie. "Just don't be late for supper. I'm making chipped beef and mashed potatoes."

"I'm not hungry, Ma," he said, again with a trace of sadness.

"Well, I certainly won't be able to eat it all myself! Even with your father's help." Her eyes widened, and she appeared to have an idea. "You could even invite your friend when you're done! I'm sure there'll be more than enough to-"

"Ma," he interrupted, his expression pained.

"Ma'am, if we get done in time, and if I don't have any pressing commitments, I'll be sure to take you up on your hospitality," I said. "It sounds delicious - I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"Oh, look at the manners on this one," she laughed, pressing her hand against her cheek in an expression of either delight or embarrassment. "Well, you be sure to stop by if you can. It was nice meeting you, young man."

I bobbed my head to her and smiled with a little bit of actual pleasure. When was the last time I'd been called 'young man'? "Pleasure meeting you as well."

She smiled, turned herself around in a manner suggesting that every movement caused her an enormous amount of pain, and gingerly walked back through the door and into the building. The door slowly closed itself shut with a soft 'click'.

Both of us stood there in silence.

"Well," Stevie said, finally, "this is kind of awkward."

I shrugged. "Happens more often than you might think."

He stared at me a little, and then let out a short laugh.

"So what happens now?" he asked. "Do we find someplace more suitable, pick up where we left off?"

"About half of the time that's what people end up doing." I gave him a wry look. "The other half, everyone's just so embarrassed about the whole situation that they wander away, pretend like it never happened. Stuff like this is very unprofessional, after all."

He stared at me a moment, chuckled, and then stretched his neck a little, considering me. "I appreciate what you did there."

"I never involve others when I can help it," I shrugged, quickly taking stock of some of the stuff I still had on me. No gun, a couple of little gizmos that were pretty good distractions but lousy weapons, and a canister containing maybe two ounces of chemical irritant. Not a lot. "So, you wanna call this a draw, pick it up some other day?"

He didn't say anything to that at first, just stood there staring at me for a good, long while.

"Yeah," he said, finally. "We're done. Don't let me see you around here again."

"I can't promise anything, but-"

In a flash of speed that shouldn't even have been possible, he was in front of me, blazing with anger.

"You leave her out of it! I'm doing this because you're not one of them and you left her out of it! If you come around again, or bother her in any way, I finish what we started here! Got that!?"

"Look, you have my word about that . . . I'm not gonna involve her," I said, holding up my hands. "Is that fair enough?"

He let go of my shirt collar, which made me realize he'd been grabbing it. It scared me how fast this guy was.

"Fine," he growled, waving a backhanded gesture at me. "Get the hell out of here."

I didn't have to be asked twice. With surprise encounters, the whole trick is to survive them and get away. I mean, if your life is in danger, you protect yourself any way you can and worry about things like consequences and clean-up later. He was letting me go, that was good enough for me. I wanted to pick my spot when it came time for our next get-together.

I left the gun where it was, since I needed to ditch it before heading back anyways, walked past him and opened the door that I figured led to the parking lot area. I was correct. The sun beating down on my face was a stark contrast to the hallway interior, which I realized was cold in addition to being dark. I took a few steps into the light.

"And you be sure to tell 'em," Steven bellowed after me. "You be sure you let 'em know! Not much longer now - I can feel it! They can't hide . . . not from me!"

I waved a quick gesture of acknowledgement at him, and kept on walking.

My limbs spent a few minutes trembling and shaking. The adrenaline from the encounter was hitting me pretty hard, it was true, but that wasn't the only thing that was causing my heartbeat to quicken . . .

I was mad.

Though it wasn't at all likely I'd be reporting every last detail of this specific encounter, or sharing any of the things Stevie had said, at the very least it looked like I had a good reason to have another little 'chat' with Diavolo. This guy's family connections had been ridiculously easy to track down, and could only have been intentionally omitted from the file Shoe had given me.

Being left in the dark isn't my style. I don't work a job blind - not for anybody. He'd been warned. Once again, it appeared as though I hadn't been given all the information I needed, and this time it had almost been enough to get me killed.

I decided it was high time I shared my feelings with Diavolo about that sort of thing.