Special Agent | ✓

Twenty-One

TWENTY-ONE

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Gavin liked to think he'd developed a somewhat cooler temper since joining the ranks of field agents working for The Agency. It helped in most situations to keep a cool head, especially when surrounded by frantic gunfire and fiery explosions. There were few times that stuck out in Gavin's mind as situations where he'd failed to keep that temper under wraps, though he always cut it close to properly exploding.

The current situation Gavin was in, however, cut it real bloody close.

Get me within an inch of that gun and I'll make a Pollock of your brain matter within seconds, Gavin thought sourly, eyes tracking the metal-edged curve of a gun hidden beneath the folds of one burly security guard's coat.

They were conversing in low Italian, and Locke once again found himself cursing the fact that he'd never picked it up, never mind that he spoke a handful other languages per Agency protocol.

I'm going to die. Chief Tibble will dangle me head-first from the Eye. Impale me on the Spire. She might as well spring for the dungeons while she's at it, to be bloody honest.

Locke was no pessimist — these scenarios were imagined with the utmost seriosity, as Chief Adina Tibble was enough of an authority to make any individual quake in their boots.

Fucking O'Reilly.

Locke's eyes shot to the doors at the far end of the room, contemplating his odds if he were to break out of the firm grip anchoring his wrists behind his back. He'd probably get shot, but he'd managed a solid dozen-kilometer jog while bleeding from gunshot wounds before, so he'd gladly take his chances. Then it was just a matter of locating the pesky analyst, who'd been swept away in order to engage in some sort of mind-games with the slimy Ricci.

Gavin gritted his teeth, eyes shifting back to the guards. The sounds of the ballroom outside were audible, but felt far away — distant enough to belong to another universe altogether. The glimmering guests were blissfully unaware of the drama playing out mere steps from them, which meant any attempt Gavin made at lethally subduing his companions might draw further attention.

Where the bloody hell are you, Davidson?

Unbeknownst to O'Reilly, Scott and Gavin had struck a deal that Davidson would infiltrate the fancy building should they fail to send proof of life within a certain time. Gavin had been robbed of his phone, and couldn't glance at his wrist-watch as it was wrenched behind his back.

Of all times to fuck up.

Locke's jaw tensed as he surveyed the room again, eyes skipping past the dusty floors, the dry wood of the doors. He listened to the music slipping in from outside, the band playing pleasant-sounding tunes that contradicted heavily with his current state of mind. Lucky for Gavin, though, that the notes from the orchestra were broken by the sudden eruption of a gunshot into the night.

Gavin's wrist tensed as the guard behind him bristled, opening a brief window of opportunity. Wrenching his elbow backward, Gavin felt it connect heavily with the guard's nose, a crunching noise erupting. Screams from the crowd outside muted the ensuing sounds of violence — Gavin kicked away from the guard which had kept his hands tied, ducking briefly to avoid the clumsy punch of another guard. Instead, he angled his hand and sunk it into the soft, exposed flesh of said clumsy guard's throat, a gurgling noise erupting.

Seizing the moment, Locke relieved the man of his gun and fired two rounds quickly into his forehead. The body toppled over, falling toward the ground. Locke grabbed the dead guard's throat, grunting as he swung the guard around as a human shield. Right as the other guards started firing, Locke hoisted the literal deadweight higher, inching backward.