inaudible mumbling under his breath. ‘I should be home, I could be sleeping…..’That was a laugh in it’s own right. Did he ever TRULY sleep anymore? Even so, a disturbance at the local bar wasn’t his ideal Friday night activity. He’d never seen the man before, bold enough to raise his voice and demand the chief of police to leave.                                                                                                       ‘ You wanna fuckin’ run that by me again? ’

it’s murkwell and someone wants him dead. someone else — doesn’t. he doesn’t have time for this. they don’t have time for this. it’s on. it’s one linear and violent ministration. stand up. walk over. push him. there’s no chance for eye contact. no chance to make a connection. and this? this he can’t prevent. strong hand, effortless in experience, shoving the officer back, not even watching him stumble from his stool, whipping him around. there isn’t one moment, one second where they stop, palm against back continuously guiding him with intent through the back door. the back alley is dank, a steam rising from the vent.

              ‘ you deaf or what? listen you  — ’  and then it goes off. glass bursting into the air, everything’s white. an explosion hitting the back of my jacket. fuck, is this worth the damage to my jacket? my ears are ringing, no doubt his too. covering them doesn’t do much, i don’t know why i do it. reflex, right? i’m human. sometimes i find i’m having to remind myself of that. but i know it’s not big enough to tear through the bodies of the drunks inside. the bartender, though … poor bastard. we’re all gonna be feelin’ this in the morning. some more than others. luckily, we’re the former, but then, luck’s got nothin’ to do with it, so we keep pushing forward.

earl’s shoulders are hunched, protecting his neck instinctively. he looks back, hears screaming through the decimation. typical. after all these years, he plays his cards by that tune. a span of forty seconds has passed between him making a move and being interrupted, a further five to check any damage, scope the scene going up in flames. the kind of person this guy is, denvers, his enforcer can predict his next move before he even has enough time to get over the blur of events. one minute. a second more and he’s going to be pushing past, wanting in. nothing more can be risked, it was a close enough call as it was.

              come on. i look back and our eyes finally meet. i can catch him out before he realizes what that thought processing in his head is. 

the expression on nashburn’s face has barely shifted passed hard-pressed. hand clamps down on bicep, ushers him gracelessly through the bombsite of garbage and glass, towards the waiting vehicle. an inconspicuous suv: he’s done his research, always does. and it’s always something that crop up with him, transportation, no-one really knows how he gets them so quickly. face turns to the left, he squints through the blaze of smoke and nightly darkness, not needing to look as he opens up the passenger’s side and all but forces patrick in. the engine’s been running (wasn’t planning on hanging around for long) and as soon as he’s in, they’re out of there.