Though, as he pushed open the warehouse door, he found himself distracted by something a bit more, pressing. That of course being the raggedy looking man holding a knife to Cromwell's throat. Being the only part of his face not obstructed by the mask, both captor and captive catch a glimpse his eyes widening in shock, which forces a laugh out of the manic intruder. He shifts his head over to his right shoulder where a walkie-talkie sits, strapped to his shirt.
INTRUDER: Heh, yeah. You were right boss. Fell right for it!
The Horseman scoffs and makes his way through the empty warehouse over to the tiny office where the intruder had Cromwell. The intruder presses the blade further into his potential victim's throat; as far as he could without slicing anything important. Cromwell's eyes bulge out of his skull as the blade digs deeper and deeper into his flesh to the resounding laughter of his would-be-killer.
INTRUDER: Don't take another step asshole, or else this guy's blood's gonna paint the walls.
Shaking his head, the Horseman scoffs.
THE HORSEMAN: Go right ahead.
Cromwell would likely be shouting in anger were his mouth not covered by the intruder's gloved hand. The intruder, on the other hand lets the cocky, toothy grin of his fall into a shocked, mouth agape glare as he struggles to find a set of words capable of displaying what he's currently feeling. His grip on the knife weakens ever so slightly, to the concealed delight of the Horseman. And then, seemingly on demand, he snaps back into his psycho demeanor, though the cracks in his armor are indeed very prevalent.
INTRUDER: I don't think you heard me, old man. I'll gladly cut this little 's throat right here, right now.
THE HORSEMAN: I heard you. Go on, do it you fucking pussy.
INTRUDER: What the fuck?
THE HORSEMAN: Here's what's going to happen if I take another step. You aren't going to do shit. If you were, you would've done it already. You'd have killed him and been out before I even read the note. You either took too fuckin' long and were unlucky enough to still be here when I walked in and you know who I am. You know what I'll do to you when I walk over there, so you're trying to threaten me with the death of a colleague and "friend". The problem there being this asshole isn't my friend so I don't care that you're threatening him. When I get to you I'm going to flay you alive until you give up your boss then for good measure I'll flay you to death. Go on, cut his throat so we can get this over with. Or better yet, spill the beans and I promise I'll make your death quick.
The intruder stands, still as a statue with his grip on the knife weak at best. What sounds like static crackles through the walkie-talkie, catching him off guard and giving Cromwell the opening he needs to knock the knife out of his captor's hand and break free of his hold, before turning around and knocking him to the ground with a single, undefended punch to the jaw. The Horseman shakes his head and laughs, crossing the massive, empty warehouse on his way into the office. The intruder sits up in a daze just as the Horseman crosses through the doorway.
INTRUDER: Look man, I can--
THE HORSEMAN: Drop it. I don't care about your justifications. Who's on the other end of the walkie-talkie and where are they hiding in here?
Another burst of static erupts from the walkie-talkie, which the Horseman snatches off the ground and holds to his ear.
THE HORSEMAN: Excuse me, what was that?
VOICE: Clever boy.
The voice sounded like a disjointed combination of about a thousand different voice processors, the most prominent of which being Microsoft Sam. Chuckling, the Horseman looks around the office, finding no one there but himself, Cromwell, and the intruder.
THE HORSEMAN: I hardly believe that's what you were saying, Chekov. You sounded way too angry for that.
ANTON CHEKOV: Should've known Marx would be too much of a pussy to do anything.
THE HORSEMAN: Now that's more like it! Tell me Chekov, why are ya showing your cards so early? I mean, slashing my tires, orchestrating a, whatever kind of farce this was supposed to be all to get under my skin? Come on sweetheart, we just met. You gotta take me to dinner before you try all this foreplay.
ANTON CHEKOV: You think this is the big plan I had in mind? Nah, look closer.
The Horseman scans the room once more, finding nothing out of the ordinary save for the intruder, apparently named Marx, getting back to his feet and fiddling with his shirt, a concerned, tentative look in his eyes.
ANTON CHEKOV: You're not coming anywhere near Pasternak. Shame that we can't meet face to face, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made in the course of business. Isn't that right, Marx?
MARX: Please.
ANTON CHEKOV: Don't beg.
THE HORSEMAN: What the fuck's going on here?
ANTON CHEKOV: You always have been a bit of a glory whore, haven't ya? Don't worry, you'll be going out with a fucking bang.
THE HORSEMAN: Oh shit...
Quickly, the Horseman backpedals out of the office, shoving Cromwell forwards, into Marx. With his fingers barely gripping onto the door handle, he pulls the office door shut just in time for the blast.
's throat right here, right now.
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