“Okay, Mac,” Tom said, his breathing slow and easy. I don't know how he does it, but he is one of the coolest customers I've ever seen before, during or after a firefight. “You ready for this?” he asked with a smile.
I was leaning against the wall of a warehouse in possibly the most deserted place in Newport News, the corrugated metal cold even through my vest and jacket. It was the only thing I had against the weather since my suit coat was back in the car, and my tie was at that moment being used for tying up a suspect. It didn't help there was a nice drizzle, the mist of droplets plastering my lighter hair to my head, darkening it and making everything sticky and the cold chilling me to the bone. I was glad for the checkered grips of the shotgun, and even more glad for the gloves I wore. The grip I had on the weapon kept my hands from shaking, which they wanted to do like a palsy. Tommy was dressed as he always was: a t-shirt, jeans, a bulletproof vest, and he was wearing that stupid long coat again. It was stupid because I knew he was warm and dry underneath that. “You had me use my second-favorite necktie to restrain some psycho, and you ask me if I'm ready for this?” I hissed. “I don't even know what we're supposed to be doing!”
Tommy silently chuckled. “The psycho has a few friends who've been doing abductions from across the state, mostly tourists from India.” He checked the load on his shotgun, which was about as close to illegal as it could be and still not get him arrested. “They made a mistake in grabbing the son of someone important, and the father of that particular someone has no desire for their son to have his heart torn out.” Tom sighed. “They watched too many frigging movies. Idiots.”
“Say what?” I did a double-take. “You were serious?”
“'Real' Thuggee cultists just strangled people. These chuckleheads watched too many stupid movies and get high on hallucinogens and opium. Just follow my lead. We're going to have to go fast and hit hard. No prisoners, or they'll kill him.” Tom took a long deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“Wait, what about the guy we caught earlier?”
“He probably already chewed his own tongue off and swallowed it.” At my disgusted look, he shrugged. “Dude, they aren't called a 'death-cult' because they like flowers and rainbows and ponies.” Then, with no warning, he spun, faced the door, and blew it open with one shotgun blast. He dived through, and because he was my friend and I promised my help, I followed him.