Chase stood poised, the muscles in his stomach aching, face hurting, wondering just how Simms was feeling after everything that had happened. His eyes moved from the baton, and then back up to Simms face. He had the chair. He had cuffs within reach. He had the other half of the plastic shard in his waistband. One on one. His odds were probably as good as they were going to get. And, odds were, on the off chance he'd even consider complying Simms was just going to break his ribs anyway.
"How about you come over here so I can bash your fucking skull in," he countered, his fingers flexing around the metal.