He presses and continues to press even as the other man stills beneath his grip, the panicked realization dulling to glassy lifelessness, the thready pulse beating wildly beneath Rush's fingers fading to an erratic flutter, then nothing. His fingers continue to constrict as Fring fades into motionless quiet, his struggles weak and progressively weaker until he does not move again.

Rush checks for a pulse. He checks for the slight chance that the man may yet be breathing. There is only stillness, and silence.

He is no longer trembling. He shifts back and rises, smooth and controlled, one hand wrapped loosely over the abdominal stinging where doubtless a number of bruises have since unfurled in slow, painful inflorescence.

'You feel any better?'

He meets Asadi's eyes, his expression hard and blank, his breathing measured. She appears winded, but ideally not physically damaged. He inclines his head neatly at the cell beside them, the door behind which Greta is doubtless being held. Even over the wail of the alarms, the thunder of footsteps of ROMAC galvanized into organized panic, the dim pounding against the other side of the door rings faintly in his ears.

"In there," he says evenly. "I suggest we move quickly."