Page 100 of 5+Us Makes Seven

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.

The junkies had shut the front door, probably locking it. The front gate was off its hinges, tangled with overgrowth on what was once a lawn.

I approached the front door carefully. It was rotten and looked flimsy. Half the windows in the house were smashed, and had been lazily boarded with cardboard. Curtains were drawn at the remaining windows.

I smashed the door in with a powerful right foot and marched through the corridor, turning right into the living room. I walked over what seemed like years of detritus and garbage. The place stank.

I heard swearing and scrambling from the room as I entered. The guys were sitting around, two were trying to gather up the drug paraphernalia that was scattered around the room. One was lying down. One was taking a bit hit on a glass pipe, eyes wide as he studied me.

The last was rummaging around in a draw next to an old, stained couch.

“Don’t even think about it. If you’re going for anything that even resembles a weapon, a gun shaped lighter, I will put a bullet between your eyes.”

I had drawn my glock and was holding it in my right hand, supporting the grip with my left.

I waved the gun at the guy, who had turned around to face me.

“Oh fuck, man. We’re all screwed. No way, I can’t get busted. I’m not even high yet, man!” The junkie lying on the floor had rolled to face me, and was squinting at me through bloodshot eyes as he whined pathetically.

“Shut up. No one is getting busted as long as you do exactly what I say. Now, no one move unless I say so. You’ll have to trust me when I say I’m a mean shot with this. Unless you want to find out the hard way.” I surveyed the room. No one moved. Most were twitching, but none made an effort to get up or run.

“You, on the couch. Hands on your head. Good, now lie down. Head and hands on the opposite side of the chest of drawers.” He obliged, his hands trembling and movements shaky.

“Now, which one of you is the least fucked up?” I asked, inspecting the three men sitting in the living room, garbage scattered around them.

“I, uh. I guess I am. I’ve only had one hit so far,” one said as he raised his hand sheepishly, as if he was in class.

“Good. All I need is a sample of meth. And some info. Then I’ll leave you all to get as high as you like.” He nodded at me enthusiastically.

“Anything, man. We don’t want no trouble, y’know.” He passed me a small plastic baggie of meth, leaning across the room to stretch a skinny arm at me cautiously.

“Don’t give him our stuff!” One of the other guys was on his feet suddenly, frowning. “That’s ours! We earnt it!”

I stepped forward and pistol whipped him savagely on the side of his head as he tried to grab the baggie from his junkie friend. He crumpled to the floor, holding his temple.

“He told you not to move, idiot! Do you want to die, man?” the helpful junkie said, frowning at his friend.

“Listen to your buddy,” I said menacingly, as I took the baggie of meth. I glanced at it briefly. It had the same hue as Lucas’s biker meth he’d brought me. And was plenty enough to get a quality sample or two.

“Now, I need some info. I’m looking for some old associates of mine. Guys who can help me out. It’s very important you tell me the truth now.” I lowered my voice to a gruff monotone, lowering my gun slightly as I pocketed the meth.

“Any of you heard of Freddie Biggs? John “Goldie” O’Hanlan? Or “Shaky” Joe Nelson?” I studied them in turn as I listed the names of my previous police informers. Ones I knew had at least a small chance of being alive, and in town.