Chapter 3: I Acted in Self-Defense
In front of the conference room, Fisher lay on the ground, blood oozing from his ear as he clutched his groin and screamed in agony. Marky, legs splayed in a painful split, writhed and howled, his left foot twisted at a grotesque angle.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
“Stop it!”
“Pull them apart, quick!”
Roan’s movements were a blur; from the moment he shouted to the moment Fisher and Marky hit the ground, only a few seconds had passed. Most of the trainee agents in the office hadn’t even processed what was happening until the two were already writhing and wailing. Only then did the others finally snap to attention.
A few trainees close to Fisher exchanged glances and rushed forward, hoping to pin Roan down. Roan darted left and right, wielding the notebook he’d snatched from Fisher like a weapon, sometimes swinging it sideways, other times bringing it down like a hammer. He dispatched the would-be assailants with ease, showing no mercy—even the faces that seemed familiar from memory received a thorough, punishing massage.
“Fu—k!”
“Holy crap!”
“Jesus!”
The onlookers, a handful of trainee agents who’d been watching with amusement, were now flailing their arms in shock, unsure whether to intervene or which side to take. Fisher’s group outnumbered Roan, but none of them could best him.
Nearby, several female trainees stared, dumbfounded. Mona, for reasons she couldn’t explain, felt her whole body tremble, her cheeks flushed as if electricity were coursing through her veins. Then, as if remembering something, she shivered violently, her mind snapping back to clarity.
With a cold snort, Roan dropped the last challenger. He threw the notebook hard at Fisher, who was still writhing on the floor.
“Useless, the lot of you. You talk about solving cases, but a whole group can’t even take me down!”
“Aaagh—!”
The notebook went slightly off course and landed squarely between Fisher’s legs, prompting a fresh scream of pain.
Marky, still trapped in his painful split, glared at Roan, his eyes brimming with terror and fury. He shouted, “If you’ve got guts, don’t run! Assaulting another agent inside the FBI is a felony!”
“I’m not running! And who says this is assault? The whole thing’s on camera—a bunch of you ganged up on me. That’s self-defense!”
Roan pulled a chair from the conference table and sat down, crossing his legs with a mocking smile.
“In fact, I suspect you all had ill intentions toward me. When the senior agents arrive, I’m going to press charges for attempted murder!”
“Fu—k!”
The words “attempted murder” stunned everyone still standing. No one had expected Roan to escalate matters this far.
Mona, however, seemed unconcerned by his threat. Her cheeks grew redder... then, realizing something, she shuddered and her expression immediately cleared.
...
In the office with the large screen, the air was thick with silence.
On the surveillance feed, Roan sat calmly in a chair, awaiting the investigators. The five team leaders watching had varying reactions.
Team Leaders Two and Three seemed relatively composed, surprised only by Roan’s impressive skills. They showed little other reaction.
But when Roan mentioned charging the trainees with attempted murder, Augustus, leader of Team Five, threw back his head and laughed uproariously, while Team One’s leader, Broson, looked ashen.
“Hahahahahaha!”
Augustus was clutching his sizable belly, nearly breathless with laughter. “Excellent! I knew my instincts were right!”
He’d noticed Roan scrutinizing the room’s cameras before the fight, and surmised that Roan had guessed they would be observed by the team leaders, prompting him to strike out so boldly.
During the scuffle, aside from the last, errant toss of the notebook, every move Roan made fell well within the bounds of self-defense. If the dispute were to end up in court, barring outside influences, Roan’s chances of winning far outweighed those of Fisher and Marky.
Augustus’s laughter faded, but his eyes burned as he stared at Roan. “I like this kid. He’s smart, good-looking, and can handle himself—reminds me of my younger days!”
The other team leaders glanced at Augustus’s broad, dark face and hefty frame, then back at Roan’s striking features and model-like poise on the surveillance screen. Inwardly, they all scoffed.
“Hey, Broson,” Augustus said, turning to Team One’s grim-faced leader with a sly grin. “Do me a favor and let this go. Team Five is newly formed, and I could really use someone like Roan—quick-witted and capable.”
“No.”
“I’ll buy you drinks tonight.”
“No.”
“Oh?” Augustus arched an eyebrow, then gestured toward the monitor where Fisher was still clutching his groin and moaning. “Then I’ll have to speak with the division chief and ask why, after the last failed mission, only Roan in the three-person team lost points.”
“...Fu—k!” Broson snorted, slammed the table, and strode out.
“Good boy.” Augustus chuckled, grabbed Roan Greenwood’s file, and left as well.
The other three team leaders exchanged glances, shook their heads, and departed in turn.
...
Training Division, Interrogation Room.
“Hey, kid, you’re something else.”
Senior Agent Old York entered the room, dropped into a chair, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”
“No, thank you,” Roan replied, legs crossed. “I don’t smoke.”
“Good boy.”
Old York nodded approval, pocketed his lighter, and took a long, satisfied drag. He studied Roan intently, clicking his tongue in admiration before breaking into a grin. “You know, Roan, you’re famous now. On the twenty-third and twenty-fourth floors of the New York Bureau, everyone’s talking about the rookie who took on ten and walked away without a scratch.”
“I’m not that strong—they’re just too weak.”
Old York’s grin only widened at this. Americans appreciate strength, and as a red-blooded Texan, he admired it all the more. “Aren’t you worried?” he asked.
“About what?” Roan looked puzzled.
“Fighting among agents is a serious offense. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be suspended or fired?”
“I acted in self-defense.” Roan’s eyes grew wide and earnest. “There are cameras in the conference room. Everything is recorded. You can’t frame me.”
Old York laughed heartily. “Honestly, I like you, kid. If someone else hadn’t moved so fast, I’d have transferred you to my team in a heartbeat.”
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, still chuckling, then stood and opened the interrogation room door. “Come on, someone’s here to pick you up.”
“Thank you, sir.” Roan rose politely and stepped outside, where Mona awaited him.
She approached, handing him a golden FBI badge with a teasing smile. “Well, well, if it isn’t our one-against-ten super rookie, Roan Greenwood. So, how was the air conditioning in the interrogation room?”
“It was fine, actually—at least I didn’t have to smell Fisher and Marky’s bad breath or body odor.”
Roan accepted the badge and pinned it to his chest, tilting his head at Mona with a smile. “So, you’ve agreed to join my team?”
“No other choice. Fisher and his crew are all off to the hospital for injury reports. They’ll be too embarrassed to show their faces for a while.”
She shrugged, and together they walked toward the elevator. As the doors closed, Roan extended his hand, smiling. “Here’s to a good partnership.”
“A pleasure,” Mona replied, shaking his hand. “Oh, and if we crack the case, we split the bounty fifty-fifty.”
“Of course—just as we agreed.”