Eugene lay in a heap at the feet of his nemesis. Antonio Sanchez, Gallo de la Lucha, was victorious.

“You never should have came here, gringo.” Sanchez mocked. “It was nothing personal, you see? It was only business. But, now you’ve come to my home and made this personal. Now, you force me to make an example of you.”

“An example of me?” Eugene began through split lips. “What more could you do to me? My wife raped and murdered, my children killed, my home incinerated, my freedom taken for crimes I didn’t commit…. you have nothing left to take from me.”

Antonio drove the heel of his white cowboy boot into Eugene’s face, mashing his eye socket. Eugene rolled over, writhing in pain. He had been shot six times, beaten, stabbed, and never once opened his clenched left fist. Gallo de la Lucha was curious.

“What do you have there? Why have you held it so tightly through this abuse?” he asked.

“It’s a dead man’s switch,” Eugene spat, “set to detonate the explosives underneath this mansion.”

His hand opened.