When Roland makes his getaway, Deacon-- doesn't move, doesn't even break the circling pace he's taken around the room as he wipes off his mouth with a sleeve, sniffing once before brushing fingertips, tacky with drying blood, across the loose papers on Pascal's desk. His trust is that Mitchell will do his thing, and Mitchell does do his thing, and then moves.

By the time Pascal is bouncing off impact of the wall, Deacon's hand is gripping the wrist clutching the weapon. It smashes into the wall, a spurt of flammable chemical and licking flame going no where except to peel some paint off said wall before it clatters to the ground, Roland driven down after it with a shove.

Then, Deacon's boot comes down at that awkward angle of knee, and there's the gristly crunch of ligament and bone twisting, dislocating. No more running away.

No head injuries, either. There needs to be discussion.

"What, us? We're not innocent victims," Deacon follows with. Agrees, toothily. He backs up, giving space, and his hands fan out in what be a gesture of some other sort of innocence if they weren't dirty. "Maybe that's you. Enlighten me whose fault it was, Roland, and you don't have to be a smear on the ground like your dogs outside."