Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythmic pounding of a lone fist into a punching bag echoed through empty gym in Crawford's office. Breathing, deep and controlled panted in accompaniment.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Crawford danced about the bag on his bare feet. Right, left, right, left. His fists alternated, flashing through the air, striking the bag. His thoughts roiled and splashed about his head as he punched the bag.
(Who the fuck does he think he is? My mind is my own, not his to trespass on. . .)
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Crawford began to duck and weave about the bag while jabbing at it. Soon, the jabbing gave way to uppercutting.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
(Those eyes. I can't get those eyes out of my head)
Sweat started flying off of his body in a fine spray. The strikes became more and more erratic. His breath was ragged.
Thudthudthud. Thudthud.
(Those. . .)
Thud.
(beautiful. . .)
Thud!
(eyes. . .)
"NO!"
THUD!
With the last jab, the battered punching bag fell from the ceiling. Crawford stood over it, collecting his breath, his thoughts. Sweat glistened on his bare torso. He walked over to his bag and put on his glasses, and with a savage motion, he gripped the tape on his hands between his teeth and started to wrench it off. The ringing of his cell phone buried in the bag startled him.
He dug it out and put it to his ear. "Crawford speaking. . ."
"Crawford, we need your team for a special assignment."
Crawford smiled. Right on schedule.