crashed

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crowbar—one of six—was still in the umbrella stand by the door, and headed for the library. He still wanted to double-check something before he turned in for the night—what there was left of it.
Certainly the last thing he ever expected when he took this job was to get involved with elven warfare.
But the moment he reached the library door and turned on the light, something crashed through the window.
Glass shards flew everywhere. Something dark skittered and spun across the floor, banging into the furniture, skipping across the rug, spewing a yellowish gas from one end. It spun like a dervish, and Sam made the fundamental error of gasping in surprise.
The stinging of his throat and eyes told him how great an error that had been.
Tear-gas. Just like Belfast. Only this time he hadn’t gotten such a big whiff of it.
Coughing and choking, Sam covered his nose and mouth with his hands, and ran, stumbling, for the door. His eyes burned painfully, streaming tears, making it hard to see; and his lungs felt as if someone had poured hot lead into them.
He fumbled at the lock and wrenched at the door handle until it opened, slamming it into the wall. He dove through it, tumbling out into the cool, fresh air and dropping to his knees on the concrete, his lungs screaming for oxygen.
Falling to his knees was all that saved him from the knife that thudded into the doorframe above him.
He started back, then jerked his head around in the direction of the curse that came out of the darkness, just as the house alarms—which he

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