The sound of Donovan's shoulder blades pounded loudly against the cement wall in the abandoned bread factory, and the iron grip around his neck slowly stole his oxygen. He clawed at the hand, struggling in vain to pry each finger away. After thirty years of housing baked goods, the building they stood in still retained the scent of fresh baked bread, and Donovan fought to inhale the yeast-infused air. Michael tightened his grip methodically.
"It would be best not to struggle," Michael whispered menacingly into his ear. "If you move, I may fracture your hyoid. That's the little bone in your airway that keeps it from collapsing on itself. If I break it, you will suffocate."
Donovan relaxed his effort, but did not remove his fingers from around Michael's hand.
"Now, would you like to explain to me why you misrepresented this little organization of yours? The name Michael McBride will never be taken seriously again if people find out I've become involved with the group whose last three bombings failed to detonate."
Fiona heard the voices when she entered through the doors in the back. She watched through the darkness of the derelict building, standing several feet behind the men. She was more captivated by Michael's intense application of force and demanding tone than Donovan's precarious situation. Michael stood with his back to her, his body leaning slightly forward with all of his weight resting against the hand that pinned Donovan to the wall. The sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled up to just below his elbows. His jeans hung loosely over his thighs, and Fiona noticed, not for the first time, that he filled out the rear of his jeans quite well. This part of his body had become a favorite of Fiona's, a shameless object of fascination. It represented so much of his strength- his ability to run quickly and quietly when in danger, his ability to scale buildings, and his ability to fight in close combat.
He made the act of pinning Donovan look simple, despite the trembling of his fingers and the visibly mobilized muscles in his forearm. She knew that if he ever tried to overpower her he would succeed… and she would enjoy it. She was content to continue on as a mere observer, but she knew she had to move this contentious situation along.
"You two need to develop better communication skills."
She spoke with ease, as if the wrath of two of the country's most deadly assassins was of little consequence to her. Her voice, soft yet confident, was disarming and Michael instinctively loosened his grip. He was disappointed that she had seen this vicious side of him. She was disappointed that she liked it.
"McBride," Donovan choked. He sucked in the air as his throat opened up, letting it fill his aching lungs back to their full capacity. "I'm just as suspicious as you are. Clearly, something isn't right, but this does not speak to my organization's credibility."
"Then who is to blame?"
Donovan's sight trailed over Michael's shoulder, and Michael turned his head slightly to look behind. Fiona found herself the object of the two men's gaze.