Smoke hung thick in the air, tension thicker still. Naught but the sound of cards flipping and marriages failing could be heard. Glasses clinked, whiskey evaporated; satisfaction lay elsewhere. Men muttered, not to anyone in particular, not about anything in particular, but rather to affirm that they were still alive, that another mission lay ahead of them, that a spiteful God had not yet torn them loose from a hateful world - as they deserved, they would often nod, and would further confirm with a pensive drag on their John Player Specials. Tattooed flesh covered muscles made iron-hard by years of strenuous labour; by no means unfamiliar to them was the rough and tumble of city life. Lurching alcoholic, leering ethnic, rowdy teenager: all had met their match in the form of one of these men.
The doors burst open. Dim light met harsh, and hearts pounded.
“We’ve got a call-in on the 61 Express. Guy’s got to take his kid to Kenora today. It’s for fencing or something, I don’t really know.” The dispatcher narrowed his eyes. “Which one of you motherfuckers wants it?”
Silenced reigned amid the shaved heads and navy blue parkas. Then a grunt, the scraping of a chair, and the imposing bulk of Specialist Jack Henry filled the doorway. Looming over the dispatcher, he stubbed his cigarette on the man’s forehead and blew smoke into his face.
“Fuck you. We’ve lost two guys on that run this month. Who’s going to want it?”
Tears of pain streamed down the dispatcher’s face. Through gritted teeth:
“Chief says there’s time-and-a-half for whoever picks up the slack.”
Henry grinned.
“Well, that’s more like it.” He drew his sidearm and pulled the slide, loading a fateful round into the chamber. Brushing past the dispatcher, he made his way to the garage.
“Fuckin’ college kids won’t know what hit ‘em.”
The dispatcher shook his head.
“On-call guys. Fuckin’ cowboys. Nothin’ but fuckin’ cowboys.”
I really like this one.
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