Convergence

Chapter One

Cool metal pressed into his sweat-coated forehead, and the sharp scent of gun powder filled his nostrils. Vivid green eyes flicked towards the ceiling, but instead of a warehouse roof, all he could see was a hand holding a revolver to his head. A bit old-fashioned, Allafair Holt thought, staring into a pair of brown eyes. He twisted his hands in their bonds, the rope beginning to dig into his wrists, and kept himself steady as he leaned a bit forward, off the back of the wooden chair he had been tied to. The man before Allafair stared at him angrily, attempting to threaten his way into Allafair's mind. But he could not let down his wall. Not yet. Not until he had learned more.

"Mr. Holt, do you take me for a fool?" Ian McMills asked in his thick Irish accent. He had the typical Irish looks—ginger hair and pale skin; freckles and a thin nose; and, of course, his brown eyes. Allafair considered replying that, indeed, he did find Ian a fool, but that would get him nowhere. Silence was his ally.

"Do you have nothing to say?" Ian asked, pressing his weapon harder against Allafair's skin.

"Just a chancer acting the maggot, boss," another Irishman said, approaching Ian from behind.

"If it were biscuits to a bear, I wouldn't keep tryin'," Ian growled back, removing the gun from Allafair's head. He turned to face his companion, raking his large hands through the orange field on his head. "He's definitely trying my patience, though."

"It's too bad we need him. Couldn't you bang him up a bit? Batter him til he's peeled?" the second Irishman said, eyeing Allafair as he twirled a knife in his hands. Ian shoved the sleeves of his long-sleeved, white dress shirt, and placed his hands on his hips, seeming to be deep in thought. In one swift movement, Ian whipped the handle of the gun across the right side of his henchman's head.

"Batter him up like that, ay?" Ian shouted, bending over the crumpled, moaning figure of the other man. "Ryan, you daft? I need him in one piece....in one perfect bloody piece if he'll be worth anything to us! A spy of British intelligence ought to be worth a pretty penny, wouldn't you say?"

The man, Ryan, groaned in answer, groggily climbing to his feet. "Yessir," he grumbled, holding his hand to the wound on his head. Slowly, he removed the hand from its position and studied the blood spread across it. Ryan was obviously shocked by the cruel treatment, giving Allafair the idea that Ian had finally given into his frustration. The frustration that Allafair had been trying to give him. It was time to make his move.

"Your efforts aren't worth much now, you know," Allafair said coolly, smirking at the angry gang leader. He had to play this moment just right. One tiny slip, one wrong word, and the operation could be ruined. He was treading on thin ice, thin ice that was melting at a steady pace.

Ian, wild-eyed, turned on his heel to face Allafair. "Decided to speak now, have you? And disrespectfully, at that. I ought to hit you upside the head like I did with that one. Want that?" he asked, carelessly aiming his gun in the general direction where Ryan sat at a wooden table nursing his head.

Allafair smiled, catching Ian off-guard. "I don't need to worry about your empty threats, now, do I? You need me....how did you put it?"

Ian's empty left hand twitched as though it wanted to become a fist, yet it did not take that form. It, instead, laid flat against his thigh, limply hanging, waiting to make its next cruel move. He said, "I need you in one....bloody....piece." The anger pent up inside was too much for him to take any longer. Ian took his left hand, and gave Allafair a swift back-handed smack across his left cheek. Allafair's head snapped to the side with the power behind the swing, and his cheek stung, but his smile returned nonetheless.