The footsteps stopped directly outside the office door.
Don's fingers tightened around the knife handle until the muscles in his forearm protested.
Blood still coated the blade in a dark sheen, slowly dripping from the tip onto the dusty concrete below.
His pulse pounded against the cut in his palm and echoed behind his eyes, each heartbeat sending another throb through the shallow wound near his cheekbone.
He drew a slow breath through his nose.
Then another.
The rifle hung uselessly against his hip, supported by its sling.
His injured hand couldn't manage it properly anymore. The knife felt different. Simpler. Its weight sat comfortably in his grip, familiar despite having only held it for minutes.
The door began to move.
At first it opened only a few inches.
Then wider.
A figure filled the doorway.
Don attacked immediately.
His wounded arm came up first, creating the impression that he intended to swing the rifle stock.
