and, as the poker got past him, twisted half around and delivered a kick to Evan's stomach that knocked more air out of him, though it left Nolan exposed to the backhand slash of the poker.
But between the loss of breath and his drunken state, Evan's reflexes weren't responding as they usually did. Nolan got his hands on the poker as it came at him and brought it over his own shoulder and he turned and leveraged himself into Evan's torso, pulling him over his back, slamming him down, judo-style, half against the coffee table and half onto the floor. Evan felt as though he'd broken his back, but if he simply lay there and let Nolan come at him, he knew that he would have no chance and that his enemy would kill him here and now. So in desperation he kicked out again, this time hitting Nolan hard in the knee, spinning him half around and down against the brick of the fireplace, clattering in the tools still left against the hearth.
When Evan tried to move to get up again, though, his body wouldn't obey the frantic commands of his brain. Pushing against his own inertia, he rolled himself over and over again, hoping to use the coffee table as a shield as Nolan picked himself up, slowly now, as though sensing his advantage.
Still struggling for breath, the images of Nolan straightening up doubling and blurring before his eyes, Evan forced himself to a knee, hoping to get his hands on something he could use for a weapon. The only chance was the poker, on the floor midway between them. With an animal growl, lunging, he got his hands on it just as Nolan's one foot came down, pinning his hands to the floor, while the other foot cocked and exploded at Evan's left ear, knocking him headfirst against the wall, from where, now unconscious, he crumpled to the ground.
There was no time. He woke up again and, with his swollen tongue, tasted blood in his mouth, felt its crusted residue on his dry and cracked lips. Through the room's door, although the room itself was dark, he could see Nolan fumbling in the closet, where Evan knew he kept the gun.
The pain in his head had now spread to his back, his neck, his legs. He could not move a muscle. The slightest effort-opening his eyes the smallest crack, a quarter-inch twist of his head, a twitch in his knee-and the world, for his sanity and protection, went black.
The footsteps came closer, almost shuffling with a slow deliberation.
Even in the darkness, Evan felt a shadow fall over him. Nolan had the gun in his hand.
Then the whispered words. 'You stupid son of a bitch.'
Evan did not move or respond in any way. Did not feel that he could.
Nolan stood over him. Whatever damage Nolan had done to him, and Evan realized that possibly it was severe enough to be life-threatening, the fight had not been without its own consequences for the commando. From the way Nolan was moving, he was clearly hurt, physically compromised. With one arm so badly injured, it took him a couple of tries to rack a round into the chamber.
Evan had no option but to attack again, and he twisted and kicked, hitting Nolan below his knees, knocking him down. Evan scrambled, grabbing for Nolan's gun hand with both of his. Getting ahold of it. With his one free hand, Nolan swung in tight again and again, hard jabs to the side of Evan's head.
But even to protect his head, Evan didn't dare release his grip on Nolan's gun hand. To let go of the gun was to die.
Grabbing the barrel with all of his strength, grunting with the exertion, he finally lifted enough to get the gun and the hand that held it off the ground. And then he twisted it, and twisted again.
And at last the gun was free and in his hand, the barrel now tight against Nolan's forehead.
It was over.
Nolan went limp, the fight suddenly all out of him. He held his arms out against the floor in an I- give-up gesture. For a full second that felt like a minute, neither man moved.
And then in a lightning strike, Nolan screamed and threw a last jab in the direction of Evan's head.
And the gun went off.
