At a cursory glance, both appeared to have been beaten about the head and face. A trickle of blood ran from Sir David’s nose and mouth. Desmond, the Prince of Darkness, was standing before Ambrose with a length of iron rod in his hand. Ignoring Hawke’s sudden appearance, he drew it back and struck Congreve against the shin of his wounded leg. The detective screamed out in agony, his body straining backward in his chair, his face a rictus of pain. The explosive chatter of the SAW automatic weapon was deafening in the small room. All eyes swiveled toward Hawke, who had the ugly black weapon at his hip. He squeezed the trigger and fired another burst into the wall just beyond Desmond’s head, showering him with chunks of plaster. “What de fuck, mon?” “Drop the rod, Prince,” Hawke said evenly. “Now.” “You disrespected my family once. Once is all you get.” He raised the bar again.
