Sullivan watched DeMarcus Wilcox raise his monstrous boot into the air. The force of the kick caused the framework from the old house door to go splintering into the air. George Mason, another one of Sullivan’s partners, entered the house first with his Glock raised.
“USR, nobody move!” Mason shouted through his thick facial hair.
Sullivan sighed as he watched Wilcox storm in second. His eagerness to get in a kill before lunch rivaled Mason’s. Why did the captain insist on keeping these two thugs around? They were muscle bound freaks who indulged themselves in violence and steroids. For what little they knew in actual investigations, they made up for in results. Good enough results to keep the Consul off of the department’s back, at least.
Inside, Doug Miller, their suspect, sat on his couch. The book he once held plummeted to the floor. Sullivan caught a glimpse of it. The book had a black cover. The light of the room bounced off of the gold lettering. Sullivan harbored a ridiculous thought: maybe it was not a book outlawed by the USR.
Mason ran over and forced the aged man out of his seat. He pressed Miller’s body against the chipped wall, his body fully pressed against the suspect’s back. The force of the pressure caused the old man to struggle to breathe. Wilcox came in for “support”. He pressed the barrel of his Glock into Miller’s throat. Sullivan walked over to the couch. He reached down for the black book the old man had been studying. The gold letters that glistened read “Holy Bible”. Damn it, one nail in the coffin. Suddenly, Sullivan’s wish that he not have to use his weapon seemed to be a jinx. He placed the book onto the coffee table before he approached the three men.
“Are you Doug Miller, you son of a bitch?” Mason demanded.
“Yes, why are you people here?” Miller replied.
“Mason,” Sullivan said, he reached out for his partner’s shoulder. “Let go of the suspect.”
“Hell no.”
“Let him go. That’s an order, Agent. Wilcox, holster that weapon.”
Both agents looked back to Sullivan who did not budge. He looked right back at them with squinted eyes. Wilcox sighed, moved his gun away from Miller’s throat, and holstered it. Mason seemed to be a bit more defiant today, but when his superior motioned with his head to sit the suspect back down, he budged. Mason let go of the man’s shirt. A hard shove sent Miller flying back to the couch.
The suspect took a moment to collect himself. Once collected, he took a seat back on the torn, yellow seat cushion of the couch. He wiped the saliva from his lips and sniffed his nose. Sullivan approached him, got down on one knee to look into the man’s scared eyes. A rush of thoughts attacked his psyche all at once. The damn bible didn’t help this man at all. It still amazed Sullivan how stupid these citizens could be sometimes.
“Mr. Miller, my name is William Sullivan, an Agent with the USR. These…gentlemen behind me are Agents George Mason and DeMarcus Wilcox.”
“What is this all about?” Miller asked.
“We have reason to believe that you have been supplying citizens with anti-USR rhetoric.”
“What—what reasons do you have?”
“Listen to me,” Wilcox said, he moved in front of Miller’s face. “We don’t need to tell you anything.”
Sullivan sighed, “Wilcox, begin the search. Take Mason with you.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilcox’s eyes never left Miller’s until he turned around. He walked to back bedroom of the house with Mason.
Idiots, Sullivan thought. Miller recollected himself once more. The suspect lowered his head when the loud sound of objects being thrown in the bedroom rang through the air. Sullivan could feel something inside of Miller drop. The sympathizer knew he had been caught.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked. He placed his lowered head into his palms. He rubbed at his thinning hair with the tips of his fingers.
“It all depends on if we find anything.” Sullivan replied.
The noises in the background grew more intense. For their lack of actual investigative skills, Mason and Wilcox excelled at finding things that others wanted hidden. Too proficient, in fact, and Sullivan knew it. They would always deny it when he would bring it up, but the two thugs planted evidence with regularity. There was no way in this world they were that good. Not those morons.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Miller asked again, his entire body trembled now.
“I told you already,” Sullivan said. He stood from his knelt position. “Do you have something back there?”
Miller nodded his head. Sullivan let out a silent curse. He hated this part of his job, the part where he had to give citizens like this one bad news. If he only followed the rules, did what the USR told him to do, Miller would not be in this position. It was his fault. Sullivan could not take responsibility for that. He often wondered what it must feel like, to be sitting in peaceful bliss, only to have armed men…
“Found it!” Mason’s voice boomed from the back.
Mason walked out of the back bedroom with a pile of stacked papers in his hand. He held them up in the air for Miller to see. The suspect said nothing while his face grew red. Sullivan looked from his partner to the citizen. Tears ran down Miller’s cheeks now. After a deep breath, his old ass flew off of the couch…
A gun shot.
Miller’s body crashed the floor. Sullivan felt a wave of panic, his body seized, he reached down to unbuckle the holster on his left hip. The cries of pain relieved him. Whoever shot him didn’t kill him, yet. Maybe the old man would get his day in court. Sullivan wanted to slap himself the moment that thought entered his brain.
The loud cries from Miller filled the small house. Sullivan approached him and got down to one knee. He scanned the body. The gunshot wound was found to back of the left leg. Miller winced in pain and tried to get up. A firm hand placed on his back prevented that.
“Flesh wound,” Mason said. He holstered his weapon with his free hand. “Maybe you should consider keeping that weapon hot.”
“He posed no threat.” Sullivan replied.
“From where I’m stadin’, that suspect tried to escape, and would have if not for me.”
“Sullivan,” Wilcox called out from the bedroom. “You better take a look at this.”
“Watch him,” Sullivan ordered. He stood back up and walked for the bedroom.
“He ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Mason replied. He moved in on Miller’s writhing body. A smile crept on his face at the sight of the leaking gunshot wound.
There was a trunk in the back of the bedroom by the cracked window. Wilcox stared down at the contents. Sullivan approached with his heart racing. He reached in. His hand grasped a thick piece of cloth. As he moved his hand up, he pulled out the clean, crisp folded American flag. His shoulders dropped in disappointment. The final nail in Mr. Miller’s coffin. He handed the flag over to Wilcox and exited the room.