Control

"I'm not going to pretend that this is the first time a gun has been pointed at your head, Carlton, so I won't draw this out,"  Riggs sneered. His hand was shaking too much to hide, but not enough to lose its aim on Wembley's forehead. The air in the warehouse behind the auditorium was heavy with the sound of anxious breathing. More than once, Riggs struggled to swallow and gather in a breath. He clutched the funny looking jackknife-type weapon in his left hand, threatening to drop for slippery, sweating palm. He eyed it cautiously, then began again, his voice lower, "I'm taking this out of here, and we're not going to kill this one."

Wembley started, "Riggs--"

"RIGGS NOTHING! I'M LEAVING WITH THIS!" bellowed Riggs. His chest heaved, but his speech seemed very controlled. He turned his gaze to Park, who was leaning luxuriously on a stack of wooden pallets. The smoke of a new cigarette billowed up toward the ceiling. Riggs was furious. "So, you think this is amusing, do you Park? That I'm threatening to shoot your mentor, my mentor? The man who played himself as our father for ten years?

"No, that cool demeanor can't be disrupted. The façade of control won't be broken by anything, even now. You're disgusting, Park. It's all for the show, isn't it? Who cares if you win if you don't look good, isn't that right, Park? ISN'T THAT RIGHT, PARK? I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU DON'T PUT THAT CIGARETTE OUT, I'LL SHOOT HIM RIGHT NOW!"

Riggs shook violently, his finger hooked around the trigger. Park looked up at him with a curled grin, raised his hands to plead innocent, and spit the lit cigarette out of his mouth. As Park pressed his boot to extinguish it on the floor, Riggs turned his mean, wary eyes back to Wembley. He was doing a much better job of looking frightened-- though Wembley's body was calm and steady, his eyes were wide. He stared at the barrel of the suppressed handgun, then at Riggs' eyes. He began again, "Riggs, look around you. You know the security in this building. You know your chances of making it back out of here with that weapon in your hand. Look at the decision that you are making, Riggs. This is not worth it."

"YOU'RE WRONG!" screeched Riggs. "I'm not staying here for you to manipulate me more! I'm not doing what you say! You're gonna get caught, I'm gonna leave, and that's it! I'm through, old man!" He backed toward the door, clutching the H-50 under his arm, keeping the gun pointed at Wembley. He shook as he tried to manage the awkwardly-shaped weapon under his jacket. Then, in one motion, he slipped the gun into a shoulder holster, and vanished the warehouse door. Riggs was gone.

Park lit another cigarette. Wembley turned to him and frowned. "You won't be bothered going to get him, then?"

"You told me that gun's not loaded with anything deadly. So, no, I'm not gettin' 'im." Park smiled as he took a drag. "He could've chosen one of six different routes out of the building. When they catch 'im, we know where he'll be."

Wembley put together his tools loudly. He clamped up his black bag loosely and with an angry-sounding clattering of metal. "Mr. Park, the penchant you have for assuming you have control over a given situation rivals that of Mr. Riggs, which is obviously troubling."

Park took notice of this as an insult. He wrinkled his face in offense, cigarette hanging from his partly open mouth. Wembley gathered his bag over his shoulder and started for the door. Park grudgingly put out his cigarette and followed him. Wembley put his ear up to the door, listened, then stopped Park with a raised hand. He whispered, still frowning, "You would do well not to flaunt your ability to understand the forces at play in front of the others so loosely. It is a gift that is best kept silent."

Park smirked and reached for another cigarette. Wembley slapped his hand away. "We are leaving!"