Nauseous, dizzy, badly bleeding, Dewey climbed to his feet.

Daryl, the referee, stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching with a blank expression on his face.

It felt like they’d been at it for hours, but for the first time Daryl made a motion: two fingers. Two minutes left in round one. Only a minute had passed.

“Motherfucker,” Dewey panted, blood coursing down his chin and onto his chest as he regained his knowledge of what it felt like to stand on his own two feet.

*   *   *

Bond parked his Audi S6 on a quiet residential street off Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. He found the alley that ran behind the line of town houses that included Dewey’s. He scaled a brick wall that bordered the small backyard, slipping quietly over the top without making a noise.

Once inside the darkened property, he climbed a tree until he came to a branch that hung over a third-floor eave, then jumped to the terrace. He took a thin, hard titanium card from his wallet and slid it into the seam between upper and lower windowpanes. Bond jimmied the latch open, climbed in, and took the stairs to the first floor. There he found the case of beer along with a small collection of empties. Next to it was a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, a third of it depleted. On the side of the bag, he saw a word scrawled in chicken-scratch handwriting: WHITEWATER.

Bond sighed. He took out his cell and started to dial Calibrisi. Before he hit Send, however, he stopped. He put the phone back in his pocket and stepped to the front door. He didn’t want to pass it off to Calibrisi. He wanted to help.

Back on Wisconsin, he hailed a taxi instead of driving. He knew if he drove his Audi to Whitewater he’d likely never see it again.

*   *   *

After the first big scrum, Dewey and Tino were squared off along the edge of the ring, Dewey catching his breath, Tino studying an opponent he should’ve already beaten. They didn’t bother circling each other. Dewey had his left hand on the rope, clutching it for stability. Blood poured from his mouth. Splatters of fresh crimson dotted the mat.

Tino’s face was bright red and drenched in sweat. His left fist was shut. His right fist was open. A pair of broken fingers jutted unnaturally into the air.

The crowd was in a frenzy. In unison, they chanted Tino’s name, urging him on.

Dewey glanced to his left, ringside, through the opening in the ropes. The man in the wheelchair was staring at him.

As much as Dewey wanted the rest that would come with the end of the round, he knew that if he didn’t end the fight now, he would likely die in the second round or, worse, have to forfeit.

Don’t be afraid to die.

Dewey stepped into Tino’s range, slowly and deliberately. As he did, his eye was drawn to the wall near the door at the back of what was now a standing-room-only crowd. There, he saw Bond, his arms crossed, watching. Bond noticed Dewey’s glance. He nodded at him but remained in back.

Dewey moved closer to Tino. He jabbed the air in front of him, punching left right, as if he was softening up an invisible layer of protection in front of Tino.

It’s time to return, Dewey.

Tino charged. Like before, it came out of the blue. His bare feet battered the mat as screaming and cheers erupted from the crowd.

This time Dewey was ready.

Tino lurched at Dewey’s midsection, diving, hands out, a low, guttural scream emanating from his throat as he again sought to take Dewey to the mat. Dewey waited one moment, then another, timing it, watching as Tino came within a few feet, then a foot, then inches, tuning out Tino’s grunt, which was supposed to distract him, to instill fear in him. Dewey felt it then, not small traces or even just a burst of it. He felt the fire of the adrenaline hitting his entire body. He lashed his right foot high into the air as Tino’s fingertips made their initial brush against his torso. His kick was brutal and deadly accurate, greeting the right side of Tino’s skull with a punishing thud. Whatever momentum Tino had was immediately interrupted. His head snapped awkwardly sideways. He tumbled to the right and down to the mat, dropping onto his back near the rope, helpless, stunned.

The crowd was silent. Mesmerized. Dewey remained focused on his prey, wiping his bloody mouth with the back of his hand. He bounced ever so slightly on the balls of his bare feet as he stood over Tino, waiting for him to get up.

Tino gathered himself to his knees, then looked up, expecting Dewey to kick him, but Dewey remained squared off, fists clenched, blood dribbling from his mouth.

“Get up,” he mumbled.

Tino got to his feet, shaking his head, trying to knock the proverbial cobwebs out. Dewey moved in. They punched at each other, back and forth, their fists flying so quickly that most could barely register the number of contacts. Every time Dewey started to create a series of successful punches, Tino’s leg would come out of nowhere, either his foot or knee, catching him anywhere he could, but Dewey was winning the fistfight. Tino’s left eye was cut, swollen shut, and bleeding. His left cheek was covered in a sheen of blood, as were his shoulder and arm.

Dewey punched Tino back into the corner, ignoring his kicks, absorbing them, beating on Tino’s head. Tino moved his fists up to protect his head. Dewey lowered the focus of his punches to Tino’s torso.

Beneath Dewey’s withering pounding, Tino seemed to duck down, behind his hands.

“Stop,” Tino muttered, barely above a whisper, loud enough for Dewey to hear, but no one else.

Dewey stopped punching long enough for Tino to lurch up at him, headfirst, the front of his skull striking Dewey above the left eye, sending him flying back to the mat, where Tino pounced on him and began to punch and knee him furiously.

All Dewey could feel was the numbness that precedes the sharpest of pains, and at the front of his head, the fog of a concussion.

Somewhere in the distance, Dewey heard the bell, ending the round. Tino kept punching until, a few seconds later, he heard Daryl yelling at him to get off.

Dewey struggled to get up. He put a hand down and started to push up but spilled over onto his side. He was dizzy and nauseous. He climbed to his knees, weaving, then grabbed the rope. He vomited over the side of the rope as he clung to it. Dewey crabbed along the rope to his corner. There was no stool, but an arm handed up a bottle of water. Through his open right eye, Dewey saw a young black kid staring up at him.

Daryl came over.

“I can DQ him for the head butt,” he said.

Dewey took a sip of water, spat it out, then focused his eyes across the ring. Tino was sitting on a stool.

“No,” Dewey said, shaking his head.

“I thought I heard him call ‘stop,’” said Daryl.

Dewey’s eyes remained transfixed on Tino. His dizziness was quickly abating.

“No,” groaned Dewey. “He didn’t call ‘stop.’”

A half minute later, the bell clanged for round two.

Dewey stepped to the center of the ring, weaving slightly, his fists down at his sides. He watched Tino as he circled him. The crowd was quieter now. There were still chants of “Tino, Tino,” but they were fewer and farther between.

Dewey didn’t move his feet. He stood still, moving only his head, tracking Tino out of the corner of his eyes as he circled him.

It’s time to return. Your job is not done.

Dewey waited for the moment when he could no longer see Tino. The blind spot, behind him, shielded by his swollen left eye, out of reach of his right. His training came back to him: Delta, advanced hand-to-hand combat tactics, taught over a grueling summer in the Utah desert, almost always at night.

You will learn to fight during the day, but you will come to know the night. Darkness is the adversary of most, but not Delta. We will teach you the night.