 | by
Alec in Michigan |
Monday
“Hey! Brian! What’s up?” Mark called as he switched on his office lights.
Mark was an eerily cheery morning person, and it irritated Brian, who most days would prefer to lie in bed.
“Shut up, buddy. How was your weekend?” Brian asked, turning on his computer.
“Shorter than it should’ve been.” That was Mark’s usual answer.
“Same here. I’m going on a raid with the idiots from the FBI today.” Brian said as he settled into his desk.
“How nice.” Mark replied.
“Listen, Mark. While I’m gone today, I need for you to run a check of Logan International’s recent flights to Dublin. Look for the name Joseph Brunswick.”
“Okay. You wouldn’t mind me asking what this unauthorized check is for, would you? I am your superior, you know.” Mark added the last part with a chuckle.
“’kay boss. This check is a lead in the Bruno case. That’s about all you’re gonna hear, bossman.” Brian stated.
“A lead? Don’t you think you should report this to Internal Affairs?” Mark asked.
“No. They’d just muddle things, and let the guy get away. Like I said, I’m going to find him.” Brian’s voice was rigid with seriousness.
“Okay, okay. Just don’t get all dramatic… I know you can find him. You’re the best detective in the entire freaking state.” Mark said, his fingers already dancing across the keyboard.
Brian responded with a grunt, and a thought went through his head.
I hate Mondays.
The same storm front that had spawned the rain on Friday still hung over Boston, and the city was being pelted with wind, hail, and heavy thunderstorms. The dark FBI sport utility vehicle that Brian rode in was nearly the same color of the sky; A dark, brooding gray that screamed with depression.
“Check your weapon.” Brian ordered the young field agent next to him.
The man removed his Glock 22 from his holster, checked that it was loaded, and nodded at Brian.
Brian did the same with his standard issue Boston Police Department pistol.
“Good. Driver!” Brian called to the agent piloting the vehicle.
“Yeah?” The man responded gruffly.
“What’s our ETA?” Brian asked.
“Uhh, ‘bout ten minutes, Detective.” He replied.
I hope they haven’t fled by then.
Brian drummed his fingers absent mindedly on the rain streaked window.
After a long silence, Brian spoke.
“You ever been on a raid, before, Agent?” He asked the blond haired man next to him.
“No sir. I’m fresh out of Quantico, sir.” The agent responded, his voice crisp.
Hence the “sir” crap.
“I see. Did you enjoy Quantico?”
This should be good, Brian thought.
“Well, it was a very rigorous training program, sir. Let’s just say I wouldn’t recommend it for a family vacation, sir.” The agent seemed to loosen up a bit. He had been sitting with his muscles tense and his eyes darting around beforehand.
Brian chuckled.
“I bet you’re going to go pretty far in the Bureau, buddy.” Brian surmised.
“Thank you, sir.”
That was the last conversation that the agent ever had.
Brian entered the apartment slowly, his pistol out in front of him. The walls were covered in the cries of pain from residents, in the form of vulgar and strangely philosophical graffiti. Brian took a brief moment to read a sentence etched in red spray paint.
“Death is life.”
Brian chuckled mentally.
Ain’t that the truth?
Brian’s mind returned to the task at hand, and he continued down the hallway, the young FBI agent behind him.
Suddenly, a smattering of broken voices began to come from apartment 1D.
Brian held up a hand, and the agent halted.
“…us see the product.” A voice with a heavy Italian accent said.
“Si… only if… cash…”
Silence.
“Stack up at the door!” Brian hissed to the agent.
The man ran to the apartment’s entrance, stopping on the left side of the door.
Brian stood in front of the door, took in a breath, and went for it.
“BOSTON POLICE DEPARTMENT!” He screamed, and kicked in the door.
Special Agent Rick Palmer’s heart beat heavily. His breath came in short, quick bursts.
“Stack up at the door.” The detective ordered.
Rick’s heart picked up even more. Adrenaline flowed through his veins.
The detective kicked down the door.
Rick Palmer rushed inside the room, and in his peripheral vision, he saw the detective’s eyes widen.
“No!”
The shout barely registered in his head.
Rick let out an utterly pathetic scream as a Cuban drug lord raised his weapon.
There was a brief moment of pain, and then pure bliss as Rick’s world dissolved into white light.
“No!” Brian shouted as the agent ran into the room.
He saw the man hit the floor, a red hole in the center of his forehead.
Brian roared, and let loose with his pistol. He brought down the man who had shot Rick Palmer with a direct shot to the heart. The three other men in the room were brought down with shots to the knees. As the other men lay gasping for breath, Brian dropped to the side of the FBI agent.
“No. No. No, no, no. It’s not freaking fair…”
Then, a thought drifted to the forefront of Brian’s mind.
I hate Mondays.
Brian collapsed.
See more stories by Alec