A heavy hand came down onto her shoulder and spun her
around.
She was face to face with a large, extraordinarily fat
man in a black suit, with a red cravat concealing the
fleshy folds of his neck. The Fat Man from the portrait.
‘Well, well, well,’ wheezed the man with
difficulty, sounding decidedly unhealthy. ‘Lucky
me for listening to a snitch’s tip-off.’
Zyra winced at the garlic breath, and went for her knives.
Despite his bulk, this guy was lightning quick. One doughy
hand suddenly had her knife arm pinned to the wall and
another tightly clasped around her throat. Zyra’s
free hand desperately clung to the card-like key.
‘You’re so fragile,’ said the Fat Man,
his triple chin waggling as he spoke, his dark eyes flashing
with barely concealed excitement. ‘It would take
so little effort to clench my hand into a fist and crush
your pretty little throat.’
He tightened his grip, making Zyra gasp for air. A grey
haze washed over her vision. Unconsciousness was seconds
away.
