But there is a noise. Just enough to distract Brendon from his observations. Just enough to give him warning. But not enough time to react.
The noise is Martin's sidearm, which is already halfway out of its holster by the time Brendon has processed it. The motion continues with Martin's arm arcing down again, gun in hand, and his elbow landing firmly in Brendon's gut to drive the wind out of him. It completes with the forearm snapping out to knock Brendon across the length of the elevator. All the motions are precise, as if Martin had calculated them in advance with a protractor and a calculator with reverse Polish notation and rehearsed them repeatedly until he could perform them in his sleep. Nothing is wasted.
As Martin finishes the arc and turns to bring the gun to bear on Brendon, he yells, "Elevator, emergency! Code Gamma Nine One One! Gamma Nine One One!" The elevator responds by suddenly and stomach-lurchingly stopping. Martin is in the corner, braced against with shoulders against the wall and feet firmly on the floor, ready to bring the gun to bear on Brendon when the jolt of the elevator's braking is over.
There's no question in Brendon's mind or in his abused body that he's dealing with Royal blood here; Martin hit him with his full strength. Which means either that Martin didn't care if he killed Brendon or he has some reason to think Brendon is tough enough to take it.
Brendon doesn't even have time to think before his body starts shifting inside to repair itself while he gasps for breath. In the split second after, he realizes he isn't crossing that distance in time to avoid taking a face full of whatever that gun shoots.
"What the f**k was that for?", Brendon yells as he raises his hands slowly, trying to buy some time.
Martin has wedged himself into the corner, as far away from Brendon as he can get. He's a little wide-eyed, but his aim is rock-steady. In the dust brought up by the elevator's sudden halt, Brendon can see a thin beam of red. It's probably centered on his face, not that Martin would miss at this range anyway.
"Don't f**k with me, man," Martin yells back angrily. He moderates his tone, or at least his volume, a little as he continues. "We're gonna play 20 questions now and you better have some good answers, because I don't have 20 bullets. We'll start with an easy one: WHO KILLED MY FATHER?"
Martin is, of course, Matt Damon.