ONE

.

"On a scale of one to ten, how wrong could it go if we—"

"Twenty, Riggs. Shut up."

A beat. Two.

"Much as I love L.A. and its exciting society, Rog - and I do love L.A. and its exciting society - I am dripping here." Pause. "It's not a cold drip as such. More like a warm, oozy drip. The kind that makes you think you've cut yourself pretty bad by, oh I don't know, letting a wooden crate break your fall."

"Will you keep it down!" Murtaugh hissed. "We are in a warehouse. Filled with bad guys. And you're giving everyone our position and situation!"

"I have a gun. You have a gun. Just leave, and I'll make 'em follow me out front. You get back-up and I'll get the highest score."

"Don't be stupid. And why would they follow you anyway?"

"Because I'll be leavin' a red trail behind me, Rog, and you'll be running in the other direction, all quiet-like, cos you're a ninja."

"I'm not a ninja."

"Of course you are. How many times have you gotten to the refrigerator and back without Trish hearing you?"

Pause.

"You know what? I am a goddamn ninja." Silence. "Ok, Riggs. Here's the plan. You aim for the open doors up ahead there. Make sure they see you. I'll back up and circle around, catch them from the side when they come out after you. Cross-fire. Got it?"

"Uh-huh. Just remember to duck."

"You remember to duck. And don't get blood on my car when this is over."

"Deal."

Murtaugh put a steady foot behind him. He backed up, his gun ready in both hands, his eyes darting left and right across wooden packing crates. Half of them obscured his view of the open warehouse beyond. The other half looked heavy and bored.

Riggs lifted his left hand, found the horrendous gash in his palm dripping quite freely, and shook his head. Lifting his balled fist, he kept the elbow bent. A look back to check Murtaugh's position made him bob low and head to his right. He snaked around the wooden crate, his handgun kept in tight to his chest, as he made the mad dash to the next wooden box.

He was five feet away before shots ricocheted off the corner right by his face. Something sharp and unforgiving slapped at his cheek. Without thinking he dropped to his knees and pulled behind the crate.

"You know," he yelled at the top of this lungs, "this would go much easier if you just put your weapons down and gave yourselves up!"

"Screw you!"

"Well that was rude!" he called back. He got his feet under him in a crouch. "I was told people here in Lala Land were the happy, welcoming type!"

"You're gonna die, pig!"

"I can't argue there!" he shouted. "Everyone dies if you wait long enough!" He darted out from behind the crate toward the next one. The last ten feet were a baseball steal slide. He barely made it as he heard shots wham into the other side of the crate. He rocked into the wall of wood and then straightened himself out. He checked his gun before panting some breath back. "Ok, how about this!" He wet his lips. "You let me out from behind here, and then we just quick-draw our way outta this!"

"Yeah - ok!"

Riggs frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah. Stick your head out, pendejo! I promise I'll make it quick!"

"Not really what I meant!"

"You got family in Hell, pig? Get ready to meet them!"

Riggs closed his eyes. Images floated across the inside of his lids, half-forgotten dreams, snippets of inexplicable desires, things he knew he shouldn't want. The pain in his hand, the unfairness of the day, the weariness in his legs; something made him run his bloodied hand through his hair. And then he stood up.

Shots began. He hardly heard them. Instead he counted the muzzle flashes, tracked the owners. He lifted his gun and calmly, steadily, let off shots starting from his left. He made his way across to his right. One by one guns fell silent until only one was left.

A whizz-ping made him jump. He dropped to a crouch hastily, trying to work out where the last ten seconds of his life had gone.

"You still there, pendejo?"

He looked over the top of the crate. "Yeah I'm here. But I think you're on your own now!"

A shot hit the crate. Another shot, then another. Riggs frowned as he waited out a volley from something that sounded quite small. Then a tell-tale click made him smile.

He walked out from behind the safety shield. "You out?"

"Screw you, man!"

"You're out." He aimed at the walkway above. He checked distances. He found the darkest section of the gloomiest part. He squeezed the trigger.

"Ak! Bastardo!" A man wobbled out of the darkness and fell forward. He slammed into the top of the stack of crates right at Riggs' eye height.

He jumped back a step. "Hey Waldo! Found you," he grinned.

The man fell to the edge of the crate and off, landing on the next pallet down. And then the next. And then the next. Finally he met the floor and lay still. He gave a long, drawn-out groan.

Feet came running. Riggs backed round the side of the obstruction and raised his gun.

Murtaugh slid into his kill zone. Riggs hissed something and bent his arm quickly to aim at the far ceiling.

"What the hell?" Murtaugh demanded. "You were supposed to lead them outside!"

"I guess I got carried away," Riggs shrugged. "This guy right here? Man - you should have seen him. He went down like a Slinky. A slow one with a coupla loops bent, but a Slinky."

Murtaugh walked around him to the fallen man. He placed his foot on the man's wrist, then bent down and used the muzzle of his handgun to slide the assailant's weapon away. "Well now. Tell us who you are and why you got a stolen truck out front."

"Screw you!" he hissed, clearly in agony.

"You want that to be your nickname? 'John Screw You Doe'?" Riggs said innocently. "Because you do kinda say it a lot. You should try some variations, like 'eat shit', or 'die in a fire', or—"

"Not helping, Riggs," Murtaugh snapped. He straightened up again. "Whatever your name is? You're under arrest for shooting at police officers as well as harbouring stolen property. I have to inform you that you have the right to remain silent, that anything you say may be used against you in a court of law, that you have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to us and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. Do you understand your rights as I have explained them to you?"

"Screw you," he hissed.

Murtaugh shrugged. "Ok but I'm writing that down."

"You think that's a singular 'you' or a plural 'you'?" Riggs asked with a cheeky grin. "Like y'all?"

"We don't have a y'all," Murtaugh said. "Only weird out-of-state people have a y'all."

"I have a y'all."

"Exactly."

"You saying I'm weird?"

"Yes Riggs, I am saying you're weird," he smiled. "Now help me get this guy handcuffed. He weighs like three of me."

"Big guy like you can't… manage… one… tiny… little… whale-sized…"

Murtaugh jumped as he heard the unmistakeable sound of something heavy hitting concrete without a care in the world. He whipped his head over his shoulder to look. His eyes bulged and he turned back to the suspect - he snapped one handcuff on him and ripped his other arm out from under him.

"Ow! Eat shit!"

"Shut up!" Murtaugh cried. Slapping the other cuff on him and making sure it was secure, he finally turned to look behind him.

Riggs had fallen face-first into the ground. His gun had bounced from his palm, his left splayed out next to him - now resting it its own pool of blood.

"Son of a—." Murtaugh got up and rolled him over onto his back. "Hey, Riggs. You didn't say it was that bad!" He slapped at his face.

Riggs blinked somewhat blearily. "Oh hey Rog," he said with a giddy smile. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Can you get up?"

Riggs' head went left, then right, then back up to look at him. "Nah, I'm good down here. I'll just wait while you do… stuff and… things and… whatevers. Come back for me in a little bit."

Murtaugh growled something under his breath before gripping the lapel of Riggs' checked shirt and simply ripping it down. He tore a strip off and then lifted Riggs' left hand.

"Oh now you've done it," Riggs said a little drowsily. "Trish bought me this shirt."

"Bullshit," he snapped. "You're just saying that to mess with me."

"Ask her."

"I will not. You will shut the hell up while I stop the bleeding - like you should have done already - and then I'll go back to the car and radio for an ambulance."

"Ngaw, thanks Rog. Never knew you cared."

"The ambulance is for the suspect," he snapped. "He's bleeding from a bullet wound to his arm."

"Flesh wound," Riggs tutted.

"You better hope so!" He yanked the cloth tight around Riggs' palm, causing a squelch noise he knew he'd remember much more clearly the next time he tried to sleep. He got up and walked to the front of the warehouse, and beyond it, his car.

.

.

"And the next time you decide to just walk into a warehouse with nothing but your badges and guns, you'd better come out again with more than just one witness!" Captain Avery hurled. "There were seven people in there we could have arrested and questioned! Seven! And we ended up with one!"

Murtaugh opened his mouth.

"Don't!" Avery warned. "Where is Riggs anyway? I assume he did most of the shooting?"

"He was pinned down, Captain," Murtaugh said. His hands came up in a calming gesture as he sat forward in the chair. "He was trapped behind packing cases because he volunteered to draw fire while I circled the building to catch the perps as they attempted to leave."

"And why would they attempt to leave?" Avery asked, rubbing his forehead in weariness.

"Well Riggs was going to run for the front door and I'd be out waiting for them to follow him. Cross-fire, you know."

"Cross-fire?" Avery asked. "You do realise that cross-fire needs people to be shooting at angles, preferably from two different sides?"

"Riggs had a gun and I'm pretty sure he'd—"

"Where is he?" he asked, wholly resigned.

"Hospital," Murtaugh said. "He - uh - cut his hand. Falling on a crate. From a - from a great height."

"Dare I ask?"

"He thought it would be a quiet way into the warehouse, so we could surprise the perps and arrest them."

"And he cut his hand. Like… cut his hand," Avery said flatly. "And that warranted a trip to the hospital instead of here? Normally he walks it off."

"He couldn't walk this one off - he passed out from blood loss."

"He passed—." Avery put his hands to his face, planted his elbows in his desk, and let out a long, tortured sigh. "And you didn't think it was a good idea to stop him bleeding before it got to that stage?"

"We got separated," Murtaugh protested. "I didn't know how bad it was until he face-planted right behind me. You know he was never going to tell me he'd sprung a Titanic-sized leak."

Avery let his hands drop. "Ok, fine. I've heard enough. Get it into a report and then… find him. Feed him, hose him down and include soap, drop him on a mattress overnight and then you make sure the two of you report in here to me first thing tomorrow. Understood?"

"Yep - got it," he nodded and stood up. He turned to the door but then backed up one. "Oh."

"What now?" Avery groaned.

The door opened and a smart jacket with black jeans looked in. "Captain? Captain Avery?"

Avery looked up. "Guilty as charged. And you are?"

A woman, short and stocky, came into the office carrying a folded piece of paper. "I'm with the DEA. We need to talk about the warehouse today."

Avery sat back, waving a hand at a chair. "Of course we do," he said, biting back the resentment. "Please, take a seat. What do we call you?"

She flicked up the hem of her jacket to show off her badge. "Agent Emily Wabash, DEA." She came forward and proffered the paper.

He took it slowly, unfolding it as she put her hands behind her back and went silent and still. Avery's eyes scanned the document before he looked at Murtaugh. "Roger, can you give us the room please?"

"Now?" Murtaugh asked. "Is this about this morning?"

"The room," Avery said pleasantly, a forced smile covering his face. "Please."

Murtaugh looked at Wabash for a long moment. She didn't move, her eyes fixed on the wall over Avery's head. "Sure, Cap. Don't want to upset the DEA, now do we?" He walked out and closed the door carefully behind him.

Avery again motioned to the chair. "Would you sit? This might take some time."

"No, it won't," she said tonelessly. "Like the letter says, I'm not here to take this case from you. But I have information that could help you due to the fact that we have an unrelated case going on; some of the names are the same. We could collaborate." She cleared her throat and turned her head to look at him finally. "Your two officers arrested someone earlier. I need to speak to that man."

"News travels fast," Avery said. "Got a wire on our dispatch, Agent Wabash?"

"On the stolen truck, Captain," she said. "Look… we do not want the truck or the people in it. All we want is a few names from the suspect you arrested. I'll give you what we know, and in exchange, I'd like you to tell me what the suspect tells you."

Avery sat back. "That's it?"

"That's it," she nodded.

"You're not pulling ranks, taking him from us, interrogating him without us being in on it?"

"No," she said, somewhat surprised. "We don't have time. We're busy with… other things." She paused, her head tilted as if trying to hear something very very quiet. She waited. Then she frowned. "Do we have an agreement?"

Avery took a deep breath. "You want to know what we find out from this guy… and you'll tell us what you know about him. That's really it?"

"Are you having difficulty with the premise or the execution?" she asked, puzzled.

"The offer. The DEA don't normally come in with such… manners."

"I have been told I'm not normal."

He cleared his throat rather than risk a reply. Instead he got up. "Yes, we have an agreement. Feel free to work with the two officers who made the arrest this morning."

"That would be officers Murtaugh and Riggs?"

"Yes. Roger Murtaugh was just here. Riggs is apparently in the hospital."

"Is it serious?"

"No."

"Good. Then he can get back to work." She turned to the door. "That's Murtaugh?" she asked, pointing through the barrier.

"Yes."

"Then thank you for making this simple, Captain Avery." She went to the door and out.

Avery sat back down. He thought for a long moment. Then he shook his head and looked back at the order in his hand. "It must be Tuesday."

.

.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Detective Martin Riggs."

The nurse looked up from her counter and consequent booking-in computer. "He's in the out-patient clinic," she said with a smile. "Down the corridor and second on the left. Go on in."

"Thank you." Agent Wabash took off down the hallway, then turned a smart left. "Ah. Detective Riggs?" she called.

Riggs looked over and saw a woman stalking toward him. Her long dark hair had been bullied into a pony tail, which swung with intent as she neared him. "Have we met?"

"No. I'm Agent Emily Wabash, with the DEA."

"That's nice. Have fun with that," he said, his face one of pleasantness caused by protest rather than manners.

She took in his weary slump on the gurney, the fact that a torn checked shirt was lying on the green sheets next to him, and the almost-dry blood smears on his olive t-shirt. The male nurse next to him was finishing off the stitching of his left palm. "You shot six suspects this morning at the warehouse. Did you run out of ammo or did you plan to arrest the last one?" she asked.

"Texans don't run out of ammo," he said with a wide, overly polite smile.

Her head tilted and she considered him for a long moment. He cleared his throat and looked deliberately at his hand.

The nurse applied a crisp, white bandage around Riggs' left palm. He secured it and straightened up. "There you go. You can leave - keep that dry. Come back in a few days and we'll check it and redress it for you."

"That's ok Doc - I got experience," Riggs said, pushing himself to slide off the gurney to his feet. He picked up what was left of his shirt and ran his right hand through his hair. He began to walk off.

Wabash turned to the nurse, who was collecting up his tools. "How bad is it?" she asked quietly.

"It's a vicious cut, but that's all it is," he said. "It's got stitches in it but he did lose a bit of blood. Normally that wouldn't be a problem but when it happened he seemed to be operating on more alcohol in his blood than acceptable, so that didn't help. He's signed off for three days."

She nodded her thanks and went after Riggs. He was already halfway down the stairs before she managed to catch up with him. "Detective Riggs," she called.

"That's me."

"I've already spoken to Captain Avery - I'm to collaborate with you and Detective Murtaugh on this case."

"Yeah, well, we'll see how long that lasts," he said cheerfully.

Together they walked out of the building. "I'll give you a lift; I'm parked around back," she said.

"I was kinda brought in, but I can still walk."

He carried on walking, and while she paused, she did not let him leave her behind as he made it round the corner of the building to the overflow car park, presumably to cut through to the road.

"Please stop," she said.

His steps slowed and then he hesitated, considering her quiet tone. He turned slowly. "What?"

"You killed six suspects today."

"And? They were tryin' to kill me and my partner."

"But you arrested one. I need to know what he tells you."

"What, no arguments about jurisdiction, who gets what credit? No pissing contents?" he asked.

"If it comes down to a pissing contest I believe you would win. You are more ably equipped and have had more practice," she said simply.

His mouth opened. It worked for a second. Then it closed. He put his hands on his hips but it caused him to drop his shirt. He glanced at it but pretended it was unimportant. "What's this about?"

She walked over to him. "The DEA has a parallel case running and I know information about your suspect in custody. If you tell me what he says under your interrogation, I will share my information with you."

His head sloped to one side and he studied her. "Why you being so helpful?"

"Helpful?" she asked, confused. "I am offering a trade, Detective. I don't expect you to give me anything for free, and I do not expect you to ask me to give you anything for free." She paused. "It's a simple concept. What's the problem?"

He frowned, glaring at her. Then he pulled his hair out of his face and continued to glare.

"A shkatze' face," she said slowly. "Oh; I have upset you. …Then I'm sorry."

His mouth flapped again. Then he took a step back. "Ok, fine," he said. "You can help us. We'll do a deal, like you said." He bent down to retrieve his shirt but then stumbled, a hand to his head.

She grabbed his shoulder as her other hand whisked up his fallen shirt. She pushed him upright. "Are you ok?"

"I'm always ok," he managed, but he appeared a little bleary.

"I will give you a lift to your home address."

"I can walk."

"You will accept my help; it is easier that way."

He paused in confusion. "Oh."

Then he let himself be walked toward the black sedan parked thirty feet away.

.

.

Murtaugh carefully lifted the white wrapper from the fridge and carried it toward the stove as if it were made of gold.

Trish's voice came careening round the corner. "I see you and that bacon!"

He froze. "You see me… making Riana breakfast!" he called back.

Her head appeared round the doorjamb to the kitchen. "Rog, she left half an hour ago."

He sagged. "Why do you assume this is for me?"

"Because there's no-one else here," she grinned, walking round the doorway, and the counter, to stop behind him. She reached past his side to rescue the waxed wrapper full of raw meat.

A new voice surprised them both: "Hey! Am I interruptin' something? I can come back."

"Ah, see!" Murtaugh grinned. He paused to look over at his partner, who was hanging onto the patio door handle. Murtaugh smiled at his wife. "You thought this bacon was for me. I was just getting it out ready cos I knew Riggs was about to crash the place and he's always hungry." He looked back at him. "Right?"

"Ah… yeah. Sure," Riggs shrugged amiably.

Trish giggled. "Roger, make Martin some breakfast. And then get to work."

"Yes ma'am," he grinned.

"Only Martin, you hear me?" she said sternly.

"Yes ma'am," he nodded.

She turned to look at the man still half in and half out of the entrance. "Well come in, then. Get some coffee. Wait for Rog to make you some bacon."

"Uh - ok," he said breezily. He sailed in but Trish suddenly blocked his way.

"Martin - what did you do to your hand?" she asked, her eyes on the bandage.

"Oh - this? I - uh - cut it. On a box."

"A box?" she asked. "Hmm."

"You should see the box," Murtaugh said over his shoulder.

Trish looked Riggs up and down, found him the same level of dishevelled as normal, and shrugged it off. She went to the door.

Riggs plonked himself at the counter. He picked up an empty white mug from the tree-shaped cup hanger in front of him. "What, do I got to get breakfast myself? Where's the service in this diner?"

Roger pointed at him. "You wait. You," he said, looking at Trish, "can get to work now."

"I'm going," she smiled. "Bye Martin!"

"Bye Trish!" he called, waving a hand completely unnecessarily over his head.

Murtaugh turned to the stove again and opened up the wax wrapper. "So did the hosing-down facilities on the beach fail you again or do you seriously only have one shirt?"

"You mean other than the one Trish bought me? The one you literally tore strips off?"

Murtaugh rolled his eyes as he fetched a frying pan out of a low cupboard. He turned on the electric hob and set the pan down. "The one you are never going to tell Trish about, unless you want a fresh murder on your hands?"

Riggs smiled. "That's the one."

Murtaugh dropped strips of bacon into the frying pan, picking up a spatula and moving them around.

"Hey - don't poke it," Riggs protested.

"My bacon, Riggs - I do what I want with it."

"Fine. But don't distress it."

"Distress it?" He glanced at him over his shoulder. "You been reading books again?"

"Yeah. Now I've read two more than you."

"Did your brain catch fire?"

"That's still only three books in total, Rog."

"Aaaaah!" Murtaugh gushed, pointing at him. "Good one."

"Thank you." He paused. "Hey… You spoken to that DEA agent yet?"

"Wabash? She said hello yesterday, then left to find you at the hospital." He turned the bacon. "I take it she found you?"

"Yeah. She forced me into a lift to the beach."

Murtaugh grinned. "Well what do you know, a woman you couldn't turn down. What did she say, 'take me back to your place, Officer - I don't mind if it looks like a bomb site'?"

"No - she gave me a lift. My truck was still at my trailer."

Murtaugh chuckled. "She forced you into letting her give you a ride home? Mmm-hmm," he nodded. "And I suppose she just left you there?"

"She came in and picked up a load of empties - said she was takin' them to be recycled."

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I just—. She's weird, ok? I can't work her out."

"Is she nice to you and you can't work out why? Maybe she likes your moustache," Murtaugh teased.

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I know, it's madness, right? No-one likes your moustache."

"Not that - what you're getting at."

"You don't think it's possible she likes you?"

"You don't think it's possible she just wants to work? And, lest we forget, she's trying to get info out of our suspect by playing nice."

"That's it - you've cracked it," Murtaugh nodded. A shrill bleeping started up somewhere dark and secretive, making him pause. "Is that you?"

"Well technically it's my cellphone, but—"

"1987 called - it wants its ringtone back," Murtaugh said, a smug smile at his own humour on his face.

Riggs ignored him to pull the phone out of the deepest recesses of his jeans. "Yeah'ello." He paused. "How'd you get this number? Well what do you—. Oh. What, like now? Cos Murtaugh is making me bacon." He listened. "But bacon." He opened his mouth again but stopped short. Then he pulled the phone back and looked at it in surprise. "Wow."

"Who was that?" Murtaugh asked.

"Wabash."

"Wabash? As in, the-DEA-agent-who-maybe-likes-you Wabash?"

"As in the-DEA-agent-who's-waiting-for-us-to-question-our-suspect Wabash, yes," Riggs said.

Murtaugh's teasing smile faded. "Well then. I guess this bacon is going to waste, and we're going to interrogate the guy you shot in the arm."

Riggs got up smartly, his hand swerving over Murtaugh's shoulder. "I could just, like, take the mostly cooked stuff—"

"Don't be disgusting." He slapped his hand away.

"Just a bit—"

"Get out!"

But Riggs' fingers snagged something hot and greasy as he was pushed back. "Ha!" he cried in victory. "Ow! Hot - hot - hot!" He stuffed it in his mouth.

"What are you, three? C'mon, let's go!"

"Grumpy bastard."

"Go!"

.

.

And here we go again - plenty more chapters to come. Actually started this over a year ago; this whole COVID-19 pandemic has me house-bound and finishing off old WIPs.

Thanks for reading!