The smell of magnesium and sulfur choked the air as the flare gun’s muzzle hovered inches from the Norton’s high-pressure fuel line. Snake’s face was a mask of twisted scar tissue and sweat, his eyes bulging with the desperation of a man who had lost his place in the world. Behind him, the roar of the red-wolf helicopter grew deafening, the downward pressure of the rotors whipping the sea spray into a blinding mist that blurred the line between the deck and the abyss.
"One move, and your father’s little miracle becomes a Roman candle," Snake shrieked over the wind. "Dax took my status, he took my club, and he took my dignity. I’m taking the only thing left that makes him breathe."
I froze, my fingers digging into the cold steel of the deck. I could see the reflection of the flare’s spark
