I lay on the floor, my cheek pressed hard against the cold, cracked tile. Blood runs down my face and I can feel it swerving to avoid my eyes. I want to curl up inside myself and accept defeat. But I can't do that. To let him win again means that all of the fight was for nothing.

It takes all of my strenght to push up from the floor. Without the icepack of tile a new flow of pain erupts along my side. I suck in my breath, but my grown of pain does not go unnoticed. He watches as I stand, rising to my full height, only a few inches shorter than him. He laughs at my feeble atempts to move toward him.

"You never did learn when to keep your head down, did you boy?" He growls, lifting my chin with his thick fingers. I meet his gaze defiantly, then dilberately look down and spit on his dirty boots. His hands leave greasy stains on my tan Armani suit. A backhand leaves me on the floor again, this time coming to a stop on my back. I can already feel a bruise forming. I push myself up again, unwilling to lose this fight. I took enough of his crap twenty years ago. I will not stand for it now. He narrows his eyes

"This isn't a fight you are going to win again." I hiss, straiting my spine and pulling back my shoulders. He kicks my behind my knee and I fall, kneeling, in front of him. He grabs my hair and pulls my head painfully back.

"I think I already have." He whispers in my ear. Too bad for him that after twenty years of training, his moves have become predictable. I grab the hand that is in my hair and use it to pull myself up. I spin and pull it behind his back. With a rush of adraneline I push him down on the floor and pin him beneath my knees. Pulling the gun out of his pants and pressing it to the back of his head, I tell him words that still send shivers down my spine when they are said to me.

"Welcome to Miami, Frank."