In the last moment before he pierces me through the face, I shift my weight to the side and buck my hips upward.
It’s all part of the game.
It’s just enough force to send Ilyasov somersaulting over my head—and into the depths of the raging fires below.
I turn in time to watch. The motion of falling is slow. Ilyasov seems to pause in mid-air for a second, burnt arms flailing, eyes wide and panicked.
Then, almost in slow motion, he descends down into the flames and smoke coming from the floor below.
He disappears, but I think I hear him scream for a second. Just a moment of wailing. Then the rest of the sound is lost in the crackling of the fire.
It’s all part of the game, brother. All a part of the game.
As Gennady and I park out front, the smell of smoke hits my nostrils. I can see
