Liquidation

"Boys," Declan barked, gesturing to Alistair. "Teach the suit a lesson. Mess him up, but leave the teeth. I want him to be able to beg."

The bodyguard on the left, a man with a broken nose and cauliflower ears, stepped forward, raising his heavy pistol to pistol-whip Alistair.

Alistair moved.

It wasn't a frantic scramble. It was an explosion of kinetic efficiency.

As the bodyguard swung, Alistair stepped inside the arc of the blow. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and drove a Montblanc fountain pen into the man’s trapezius muscle with his right.

The guard screamed, his hand spasming open. The gun clattered to the floor.

Before the gun hit the obsidian, Alistair pivoted. He drove his elbow into the man’s throat, collapsing the windpipe with a wet crunch. The guard dropped to his knees, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

The second bodyguard hesitated. That was his mistake.

Alistair grabbed the heavy crystal decanter from the center of the table. He didn't throw it. He swung it like a hammer.

The crystal connected with the second guard’s temple. The decanter didn't shatter—it was lead crystal, dense and unforgiving—but the man’s skull did. He crumpled instantly, sliding down the glass wall of the boardroom, leaving a smear of red against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline.

Silence returned to the room, broken only by the wheezing of the first guard and the heavy breathing of Declan O'Malley.

Alistair set the decanter down. He looked at his suit jacket. A single drop of blood had landed on the lapel.

"You... you son of a bitch," Declan stammered, backing away until his legs hit the table. He fumbled for the gun tucked in his waistband.

Alistair began to unbutton his jacket.

"You brought livestock into a boardroom, Declan," Alistair said, his voice devoid of emotion. He slid the jacket off and folded it neatly, placing it on a clean section of the table. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them up, revealing forearms that were corded with muscle, contradicting the softness of his attire.

"You're a suit!" Declan roared, finally pulling his gun.

Alistair kicked the heavy obsidian table.

The massive slab of stone slid across the polished floor, slamming into Declan’s thighs. The impact knocked him off balance, and the shot went wild, shattering a pane of the soundproof glass.

Wind howled into the room, cold and sharp, carrying the roar of the city eighty stories below.

Declan stumbled, trying to regain his footing. Alistair was already there.

He didn't fight like a brawler. He fought like an algorithm. He parried Declan’s wild haymaker, trapped the arm, and snapped the elbow hyperextended with a sickening *pop*.

Declan howled, dropping the gun. He tried to headbutt Alistair—a desperate, street-fighter move—but Alistair simply sidestepped and swept Declan’s leg.

Declan hit the floor hard. Before he could scramble away, Alistair was on top of him.

Alistair grabbed Declan by the lapels of his cheap suit and slammed him back against the leg of the table. Then, with a precise, piston-like motion, he drove his fist into Declan’s nose.

* Crunch.*

"That," Alistair said calmly, landing another blow to the ribs, "was for the rug."

Declan tried to cover up, wheezing, blood pouring from his shattered nose. "Stop! I yield! I yield!"

Alistair paused, his fist hovering inches from Declan’s face. His breathing was steady. His hair was slightly tousled, the only sign of exertion.

He stood up, smoothing his shirt. He looked down at the broken man whimpering on the floor.

"Yielding is a feudal term, Declan," Alistair said, walking over to his briefcase. "In this room, we call it a merger."