The Overseer by Conlan Brown Page B

mere inches apart. “I know you feel an obligation to help, Mr. Bathurst,” he said with a calm voice, suddenly and eerily lucid. “But I simply cannot allow that.”
    Devin Bathurst looked the man back in the eye, neither blinking. They seemed to size each other up for a moment, then Devin spoke. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid that I can’t let this go.”
    Angelo’s eyes remained fixed on Devin. Hawkish and predatory. Steady and calm. “Mr. Bathurst,” he said again, “I cannot allow that to happen. And Hannah cannot be allowed to help.”
    Devin studied the other man for a moment. “I think that it’s time for you to go.”
    Angelo’s hand was on Devin’s chest, as if by magic. A rough shove, and Devin felt the small of his back hit his desk, his body tipping backward.
    “I cannot allow you to continue with your plan!” Angelo barked.
    “Take your hand off me,” Devin replied, unflappably.
    Angelo shoved again, slamming Devin’s shoulder blades into the desktop. “ I cannot allow it! ” Angelo shouted, ravenous. The man’s hands moved to Devin’s collar, grabbing fistfuls of shirt. “Do you hear me?”
    Devin took a deep breath, looked Angelo in the eye, then jammed his fingertips into Angelo’s side—watching as he backed from the desk, sucking for air. Devin stood, facing Angelo, and then saw a shift in the other man’s demeanor.
    Angelo came at him—fast and ruthless.
    They slammed into the desk—papers scattering, a cup of pens clattering. Grappled, spun, hit the bookshelf—a loud thud. Their bodies clawed at one another as they hit the shelf again and again—books raining down in an avalanche.
    Angelo—attacking with savage blows, arms swinging wide. Devin holding his arms close, trying to protect his sides from the onslaught.
    Devin took a punch to the face. He saw stars. Took a blow to the stomach—suddenly nauseous, pain running up his sides like a zipper.
    They spun again as Devin grabbed a fistful of long hair, tugging hard—swinging for Angelo’s throat.
    Angelo blocked, knocking away a series of perfectly executed moves—saw an opening—kicked Devin in the back of the knee.
    Devin hit the floor, landing on his knee. Felt an arm reach across his chest and grabbed on—performing an expert throw, sending Angelo tumbling onto his back.
    Vicious blows traded from one to another as Devin came in fast. Punches turning to grappling as they tumbled across the office floor, grabbing for throat, gouging at eyes, delivering elbows and punches.
    They hit the side of the desk. Papers falling. A picture toppling—glass cracking as the frame hit the floor.
    Devin lost control—not certain what had happened in that moment. Both sitting—sides pressed against the desk. Angelo was behind him—arm around Devin’s throat, squeezing tight. Vision blurring. A blood choke.
    Devin coughed. Losing strength. Punching over his shoulder directly into Angelo’s face, causing him to flinch. Devin capitalized, lifting to his feet—Angelo on his back—flung his back into the tall windows.
    Lightning. Glass crashing.
    Angelo shoved off the glass, pushing forward, trying to send Devin face-first into the floor.
    Devin captured the momentum—spinning all the way around—Angelo slamming into the glass again.
    Glass flexing in expanding cracked circles.
    Devin broke free—pressing the advantage—throwing punches. Shoved back with precision—slamming into the desk. Back hitting the desktop. Breaking free of Angelo. Rolling away—off the other side.
    A moment of hope—looking for a way to make the most of—
    Angelo was charging him—shoulder slamming hard— ramming Devin into the bookshelf again. More volumes tumbling—hitting the floor in a flapping mess.
    A blow to the side. Devin sucked air, unable to breathe.
    Angelo reached for the desktop—grabbed the lamp. Devin saw it coming in full swing—raising his arm to protect the side of his head—pain shooting through his forearm in a