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momentum of the missed blow pulled the man forward. King raised an elbow to jab into the man’s back, but before he could, the man charged, burying his shoulder into King’s gut. King fell back under the weight.
    In the second it took the pair to fall to the pavement, King completed his assessment of the man’s fighting ability. He was a brawler. All heavy punches and big blows, concentrated into a single devastating attack. Old-school fighting. It worked wonders against people who didn’t know how to fight, but King’s abilities could be matched by very few people.
    As he fell back, King dropped his weapon, took the man’s trench coat in both hands, and hopped up, placing his feet against his opponent’s waist. With all of his weight pulling on the man, King controlled the fall. When they struck, King rolled and pushed with his legs, sending the man sprawling into the grass.
    King stood as the older man climbed up and raised his fists in front of his face like a boxer. He came in fast, taking hard swings that King easily dodged or deflected. With the element of surprise gone, the man didn’t stand a chance.
    After dodging a jab to his face, King caught the man’s arm and, once again, used the man’s own momentum to fling him to the grass. The man climbed to his feet slower than before, which gave King time to pick up his weapon and aim it at the man’s back.
    The man raised his hands in submission. The fight was over.
    “Turn around,” King said.
    The man turned around, head lowered, then slowly looked up at King’s gun. King blinked as recognition and a flood of memories and emotions hit him all at once. The man standing before him was his father, Peter Sigler.
    “Don’t shoot,” his father said.
    King gave his father an up-and-down glance. He wore an old gray suit beneath the trench coat. His face wasn’t exactly clean-shaven, but neither was King’s. His once-black hair was now peppered with gray, especially on the sides. And despite the wrinkles marking the fifty-five years on his face, his body looked well, and strong. For a moment, King felt as though he were looking through a time portal at his future self. But there was something off—the fear in his eyes.
    King lowered the weapon. “I’m not going to shoot you, Dad.”
    Peter’s eyes went wide. He hadn’t got a good look at King’s face while staring down the barrel of his handgun. “Jack?”
    The man’s hands started shaking. He took hold of one with the other and squeezed. “I didn’t know who you were. I thought you might be—”
    “Be what?” King asked.
    “I don’t know, with the church. A gardener. I thought the graveyard might be closed.”
    He was about to ask why he’d run from a gardener, but then thought, Of course he ran , that’s what he’s best at. Running. That didn’t explain the brawling, but his father was a stranger to him now. Who knew who he’d become.
    King turned his back on his father, looking toward his mother’s grave, silently asking for guidance and the will to not pull the gun on his father again. “Then you weren’t here to see me.”
    King holstered his weapon and moved to walk past his father.
    “Well, I’m seeing you now, aren’t I?”
    For a moment King’s angry resolve held out. But seeing his father again in the wake of his mother’s death … it was a pain he didn’t want to carry on his own. He motioned with his head for his father to follow him. “You hungry?”
    As King walked away, he wasn’t sure if his father would follow or run again. But a moment later, the sound of scuffing shoes on pavement revealed his old man was done running. At least for the moment.

 

FIVE
Fort Bragg—Decon

    “WHAT IS SHE doing here?” Keasling asked about Fiona, who was sitting comfortably in the seat that was normally occupied by King.
    “This has something to do with my grandmother,” Fiona said to the stout but gruff brigadier general. “And who killed her.”
    Queen quickly cleared her