The smaller man doesn’t appear to be squeezing his throat or doing anything that would cause the other man such extreme pain. He’s just touching him, and yet the bigger man continues to make sharp sounds of agony that stab at my eardrums like blunt knives.
He presses his advantage, forcing his would-be aggressor to his knees by tightening his hold and pushing down. Once on his knees, the larger man’s body bows back in a vicious and awkward-looking arc, as if by some unseen force. It seems as if the smaller man is applying more pain to ensure compliance.
Still, it’s only when the smaller man gets his hands in the right position to snap the other’s neck that I act.
There must be some apprehension in him because I have enough time to run out from the alley and whip out my agency-issued tranq gun.
I thank my luck stars I’m a paranoid weirdo and decided to bring my tranq gun out on a dog walk tonight. Created by the R&D department of FISA, the gun is small and compact, easily hidden in a waistband. The tranq bullets are filled with another FISA-patented knock-out tranquilliser, double the strength of any ordinary sedative and fast working.
In the name of making my point, I fire off a warning shot over their heads to hopefully imply I’m serious about shooting one of them if they keep trying to murder one another.
Both men freeze in reaction to my sudden appearance, or perhaps it really is just the whiz of a tranq bullet passing over them.
Now that I’m closer to the two fighters, I can see how young they are. Far younger than I thought. Early twenties at most.
The larger man is undeniably attractive, with his defined jawline and full mouth. He has dark-blond hair, shorn down to military regulation, and oddly pale, mint-green eyes. It’s a startling combination, especially in the night as his eyes almost appear to glow like a cat’s. He’s got alarmingly broad shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs, all of which are accentuated by his fitted black clothing.
The other man is slimmer, but there’s a cord of muscle in his body that I can see clearly despite the hoodie he has on. He has black hair and dark eyes. His features are distinctly aristocratic. There’s something about his face that speaks of old money to me. I’ve been around enough of that in my life to recognise it.
It takes me a little longer than I’d like to realise I know him. Or at least, I’ve seen him before. We’ve never actually interacted, but I know he’s a FISA agent. He’s a genius, infamous within the agency for being the man who created the special material which all FISA-agent uniforms and body armour is made from. He personally designs the supersuits for everyone in the SSS unit. His name is Rohan Sathe.
Rohan and hisnot-friendlook at me with a mixture of emotions. The green-eyed man’s expression appears mostly blank despite everything going on around him. It’s only the tension in his body, which betrays his wariness.
Using Rohan’s hesitation to his advantage, he manages to deftly remove himself from his hold, getting to his feet and putting some distance between himself and Rohan. He doesn’t try to attack him again, or me for that matter.
There’s no hiding the abject fury on Rohan’s face. He looks ready to spit nails, which is a very common reaction to being held at gunpoint. Most people don’t like having a gun aimed at them. Funny, that.
I look at the man who I have temporarily named “Kitty.” He’s watching me with increasing suspicion. His eyes narrow on me as he likely tries to gauge whether I’m a true threat or not.
I haven’t decided on that one myself yet.
Rohan is glaring at me, a possible grudge forming in his mind. Some people just can’t let things go. It’s very sad.
Right, time for words and stuff.
“Okay, kids.” I swallow hard, beating back nerves. “I’ve really enjoyed the post-dinner show. Thank you for your hard work and dedication to entertaining me through my night-time walk. But ding ding, the bell’s gone, and playtime is over. I really think it’s time for us to pick up our football and go home.”
Rohan doesn’t seem to know what he should do with all of that. He squints at me like he’s staring directly into the sun, a look of disbelief forming on his face.
“Mate, seriously?” he asks, his tone openly patronising. He has an accent that is difficult to pinpoint the origin of. Not British but certainly European. It sounds like a mishmash of different accents all jammed into one voice.
“I’ve got a gun, twatwaffle. A veryseriousgun.” I jiggle the tranq gun a little for emphasis. “Borderline profound.”
That gets me another bewildered look. Slowly, he asks, “Did you just call me a twatwaffle?”
I nod in confirmation, and he proceeds to looks supremely offended.
“Don’t give out what you can’t take,” I advise.
Rohan frowns harshly, his dark eyebrows digging into his forehead at a severe slant.
“Twatwaffle, though?”
“You look kind of like a twatwaffle,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t know what to tell you. It’s probably your chin that’s conveying it the most. Usually is.”
Rohan is not happy. His dark eyes swerve away from me and move desperately around the street, the road, and the sky, as if he’s looking for help or divine intervention. Eventually, his gaze settles back on me.
“Have I just been attacked by the local lunatic?” he asks rhetorically. “Because I think I have.” He sounds distant, like he’s talking more to himself than to me. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”
