Page 273 of 7+Us Makes Nine

Finalizing my plan of action, I rose to my full height, a shade over 6’2”, rolling my shoulders. I felt my biceps struggle against the leather of my thigh length black leather trench coat as I downed the last of my morning coffee.

I ran my hand over my short, blonde hair as I headed for the exit.

One of the old detectives looked up at me, snarling.

“Where you off to, boy scout? Going to see if there’s any old ladies need helping across the road?” he asked, sarcastically. His colleague on the desk next to him snorted.

I coolly continue my strides forward, not giving him the satisfaction of a heated reaction.

A little while later I was cruising around the streets in my nondescript, large black sedan, eyes scanning the sidewalk for any signs of activity. It didn’t take me long to find what I was looking for.

It was only 9:45 am, and a group of young men were standing on a street corner, looking around nervously. There were five of them and they all looked twitchy as fuck and were either high or on a serious comedown. They were all skinny with slightly sunken eyes and scratched at their red skin intermittently.

I pulled up a safe distance away, seemingly unnoticed. There was only one car they were looking for; their dealer’s.

It only took another five minutes for a mean looking muscle car to pull up on the street next to the group. One of the meth heads approached the car and leaned into the window.

Bingo.

Now if these were serious gangsters they wouldn’t carry product around in their car. No, they would take the money, and one of their small-time associates would bring the drugs to the customer a little while later, after a gestured signal from the guys in the car.

I waited, and the young men walked off towards a street corner as the muscle car pulled away noisily. All the gangsters had in their car was a load of cash, and I knew that they would likely stash their earnings a few times throughout the day, in case they got pulled over.

Almost risk free. Almost.

I made a mental note of the license plate, trusting my photographic memory to recall the number later. If I needed it.

My eyes followed the group of men as they approached the corner. Two mean looking young guys approached from where the muscle car had turned, at the corner of the block. There was a quick handshake between one of the young gangsters and the lead junkie.

The exchange.

Now I had two options. I could bust the dealers, who likely had a sizeable amount of meth. But they were young, they wouldn’t talk, and it would announce to the gang that I was on to them. No, busting small dealers was a job for the street cop. I needed bigger prey. The top of the food chain.

Option two was to persuade the junkies to give me a sample of the meth they’d just acquired. Much easier, almost risk free and there would be no trace back to the gang.

I mean, the junkies couldn’t go to the police. And their dealers wouldn’t have much time for some whining junkie who’d just had some of his gear stolen.

No, if I left them enough meth to still get well tweaked, they would forget it ever happened.

I followed the junkies as they took a winding route back to wherever it was they got high.

Probably a disgusting meth den. Won’t be in there long, anyway.

I’d seen some godawful sights in my time undercover. Did some terrible things to people who deserved it. Strangely though, it didn’t seem to bother me at all. I mean, I felt fear and revulsion, but it simply didn’t affect me. I was able to carry on, cool and cold as anything.

The police shrink I’d seen after Kale had been shot and I’d killed two gangsters said I scored quite high on the psychopathy scale. Not enough to be inhuman, I still knew right from wrong and I knew what fear was like, sort of. I could just ignore it. Things that would break other men just washed over me. I was cold when I needed to be, highly intelligent and calculating. Fearless.

The perfect detective, the shrink had said. Suits me. Just means I’m damn good at my job.

The group of junkies had arrived at a detached bungalow on the seedier side of town. One in three or four of those houses was a meth den, and most were run down and looked uninhabited. Boarded up or blacked out windows. Overgrown yards. Busted gates.

They entered quickly and shut the door behind them. I pulled up at the end of the block and waited for a minute, counting the seconds slowly.

Give them time to get comfortable. Then I’ll scare the shit out of them.

After the minute had passed I unclipped the fully loaded service glock in my holster. I had another, smaller glock hidden in my trench coat, just in case.

I quickly left the car and jogged to the house. I wanted what I’d come for and then I’d be out of here in no time.

---