Busted

Dressed in black and covered in body armor, the men gathered quietly around the door of the long abandoned house. It was the last in a mostly abandoned row of unkempt lawns, broken windows and sagging gutters. This last house looked no better and no worse than those around it, except for the fact its door was sturdy and tightly closed. Despite the chill in the early evening air, the men were sweating, tense with adrenaline and anticipation. Connor stood at the head of the line, fingers clenched tightly around handles of the battering ram. Smitty clapped his shoulder, signaling the officers were ready. Taking a deep breath, Connor violently slammed the ram just below the door handle and jumped to the side as the door exploded inward.

“Freeze, police!” The men poured into the house, guns at ready, spreading out to search each room of the house. Connor dropped the ram and followed the last man in, drawing his gun. Peering down the sights of his 9mm, he took in the buckets strewn about room and his nose stung with the harsh chemical smell of a meth lab. Footsteps pounded through the house, and Connor heard a scream from upstairs. Looking through the doorway to the next room over, he saw Smitty wrestling with a scrawny middle aged man in a filthy clothes. Running over to the struggling men, Connor lowered his shoulder and slammed into the skinny dirtbag. The dirtbag hit the floor hard, head bouncing, and Connor quickly holstered his gun and kneeled on the guy’s neck. Smitty slapped on a pair of handcuffs.

“Thanks man.” Smitty said.

“No problem” Connor answered with a grin. They pulled the groggy man up off the floor, leading him outside the house. Police cruisers had pulled to the front of the house after the SWAT team had entered. Two months of intense search had finally tracked down the mobile meth lab, and red and blue lights bathed the block. Two more officers led a similarly skinny and filthy woman outside the house, still screaming. Connor and Smitty laid their personal dirtbag over the hood of squad car, patting him down carefully. Connor pulled out a greasy wallet and a switchblade out of his jeans.

“Naughty, naughty” Smitty chuckled. He held dirtbag down, whose was stirring slowing as his head cleared.

“Let’s see who you are.” Connor pulled three crumpled dollars bills and a Acme Smart Shopper card out of the wallet. The name on the Smart Shopper card was Michael Feaster. Connor’s eyes narrowed and he reached out to twist the dirty man’s face towards him. He looked past the grime, the rotting, stained teeth, the havoc that meth abuse had stamped on the man’s face. “Holy shit.” The dirtbag’s eyes focused on his.

“What?” Smitty asked.

“Mike Feaster. Him and me were starting linebackers back in high school. We graduated eight years ago. He just sort of faded away after that, nobody knew where. Goddamn.” Connor leaned in closer, dimly aware of the dirtbag’s rancid breath.

“You never could tackle for shit” said Mike, his tongue running along his ruined teeth. He turned his face away. “Fucking pig.”