“Son of a bitch!” he cursed, leaping across the room to tackle his partner.
Johnson had just enough time to look up in bewilderment before Holbrook slammed into him, the younger man’s momentum carrying them back into the metal filing cabinets against the wall. A second later pandemonium broke out in the crowded room, the Goon Twins tripping over one another in confusion as they tried to figure out whether they should be guarding me or separating the two agents taking swings at each other. Behind his desk Santos was demanding that everyone “settle the fuck down,” but no one was paying him any attention.
The scent of burnt ozone and a loud pop filled the air a second before Holbrook let out a startled shout, releasing Johnson’s wrist as if burned. He staggered back from Johnson and tossed something away into the corner of the room.
“Arrest him! Arrest that wolf loving prick!” Johnson shouted, his eyes dancing wildly from the Goon Twins to Santos and back again, but no one moved to obey him.
Stunned silence descended on the room as everyone gaped at Johnson, the right side of his face swollen to twice its normal size and covered in black and purple bruises. Both of his eyes were swollen almost entirely shut, weepy and ringed in dark bruises, the bridge of his nose noticeably crooked.
Try denying it now, you bastard.
“What the hell is going on?” Santos demanded.
“He was using a glamour charm,” Holbrook growled, cradling his hand close to his chest, his fingers swollen and covered in weeping blisters. His eyes appeared glazed and unfocused with pain.
“Agents, please take Mr. Johnson into custody.”
“You’re gonna pay for this, Cray,” Johnson snarled as the Goon Twins advanced on him slowly, their hands outstretched, reaching out to subdue him.
“Give it up, Johnson. You’re busted,” I taunted, feeling vindicated.
“Fucking idiots,” he sneered, his face twisting into an expression of smug surety as he reached a hand into his pocket. I had a bad feeling about this.
Time slowed as I watched him pull a small, shiny capsule from his pocket and throw it at the floor in the middle of the room.
“Get down!” I cried out, but my warning came too late.
I felt the concussive force of the impact the moment the capsule struck the ground and burst open. The strength of the blast knocked me back in my chair, my legs scrabbling on the carpet as the chair teetered on its back legs before toppling over, spilling me onto the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs. I landed heavily on side, my bound arms pinned beneath me while pain engulfed my ribs, making me cry out.
My vision was filled with white speckles and there was a persistent ringing in my ears. The air, thick and redolent with the choking scent of burnt sage and amber, eddied around me and I steeled myself for the blow I knew was coming. A heavy boot struck me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me, leaving me gasping like a fish.
“This isn’t over, cunt,” Johnson whispered from somewhere close by, his sour breath wafting into my face.
Through the haze of pain and my gasping breaths I heard his footsteps retreating before I sank down into darkness.
***
“What the fuck was that?” I heard someone demand, but I couldn’t tell who it was or where the voice had come from.
My hearing was dulled, as if someone had dunked my head underwater. Shaking my head to clear my vision, the room gradually came back into focus, albeit a little fuzzy around the edges. The Goon Twins were still out, slumped together in a pile of slack jawed, ill-fitting suits and cheap haircuts. Holbrook was across the room, close to where Johnson had been, slowly pushing himself up to his knees while cradling the blistered mess of his hand to his chest. His face was contorted in pain, his breaths coming shallow and fast.
I tried to push myself up to my knees but only succeeded in grating my chin against the rough carpet.
“Err…can someone help me up?” I asked, blowing an errant curl out of my eyes.
Staggering across the room, Holbrook managed to right my chair along with me in it, and after fishing the keys to the cuffs out of the pocket of one of the Goon Twins, released me. Rubbing the irritated skin of my wrists, I scowled at Santos where he was leaning heavily on his desk, pushing mussed hair back from his red face.
Clearly still disoriented he mashed the intercom button on his phone and growled, “Marge, where the hell is Johnson?”
“Johnson, Sir? He left five minutes ago,” Marge’s voice said through the phone, full of confusion.
“What? Lock down the building! I want him found.”
“I told you that asshole tried to kill me,” I sniffed, pissed that I was too tired and sore to enjoy my moment of validation.
Chapter 23