John was barely conscious through the short procedure. A once full bottle of Kentucky whiskey made a rather potent anesthesia as Doonigan probed two latex-covered fingers into Else's wound. Gavin, a broad-shouldered golden lab from the spray-soaked coastline of southern Ireland, felt the splinter of ceramic plating pressed against Else's small intestine.
"I have it," Doonigan said proudly, pinching the hardened clay between his index and middle finger. He pulled the sharp object out, being careful to avoid further injury to his patient. He held the shard up to the naked lightbulb. "Aye." "Five" tossed the ceramic over his shoulder, then proceeded to stitch Else's side back together.
"What the hell happened out there?" asked Neal O'Hanlan, number "Three." The inexperienced fox scratched a streak of silver hair that ran from his forehead to the back of his head.
"The fox got a lucky shot off on Else, hitting the ceramic plating on the side. The layers split, and splintered into his side." Sean explained, demonstrating on himself, using his hand as the bullet. "We'll be using steel plates from now on. Heavier, but safer."
"No, I'm asking did you get her?"
"That's a neg. We nailed her partner, though. Well, I nailed her partner. The bitch is still at large."
"I've never seen the captain take a grudge like this," O'Hanlan observed, changing the topic slightly.
"You're not a cop," Sean said. "When someone calls for others to 'aim high,' they're doing the same thing as asking others to kill your target. No longer is the goal to save lives, it's to take yours."
Sly was lying on the large green couch that occupied most of the cramped living room in the three-bedroom apartment. A blue t-shirt covered an excessive amount of bandages and disinfectant stains, most of which was Bentley's doing. Of all the dangers Cooper had been through, of all the times death stared him in the face and he laughed, it was a broken wine bottle that decked him out. Murray was fast asleep in the armchair, mouth agape and partially filled with half-chewed potato chips. The pounding of keys in the next room told Sly that Bentley was busy on the computer, doing God-knows-what.
Cooper couldn't stand another stupid sci-fi movie. If he watched another, he feared that he'd go insane. He pushed off the armrest, and got upright okay, with minimal pain from the stab wound. Using his arms to lift himself off the cushion, Sly managed to stand and stretch slightly. He crept into the kitchen, only to find a refrigerator stocked with cheese- made quite naturally from old milk still in its gallon container. Closing the refrigerator, Sly got a cruel idea. He cocked an eyebrow, and headed off for Bentley's room. He sneaked past the slumbering hippo, into the cleanest area of the apartment. The darkened room was lit only by a computer screen, which flashed different colors as different programs and files were accessed and moved about on the screen.
"Raaahhh!" Sly shouted, grabbing Bentley's shell and shaking vigorously. The tortoise's arms, legs and head shot into his shell, and the unsupported body rolled off the chair and onto the floor. In the next room, Murray stirred slightly, then began snoring deeply. Sly bent down, despite the soreness, and looked into the gap in the shell where Bentley's head had disappeared into.
"Did I get ya?" Cooper asked.
"Sly, you… you…" Bentley said, his voice echoing slightly within the shell.
"You what?"
"That was not necessary." Sly picked the shell up off the floor, and with a little effort, put the tortoise back on the chair.
"So, what're you looking at? Shell-less turtles?"
"No, Sly! That's perverted! I was listening in on a conversation between Ms. Fox and another police officer. Hey, Sly, did you hear that Ms. Fox's partner was killed last night?"
"You're kidding me!" Sly said while lifting himself to sit on the computer desk.
"Don't do that," Bentley scolded, pointing to Sly upon the desk. "Do I ever kid?" he asked, back on topic.
"I'd heard about that on the news before, I didn't know it was that Fleck guy."
"Yes, it was. And, authorities believe that the slaying is related to yesterday's bank robbery!" Bentley said matter-of-factly. Sly got an idea, and cocked his brow.
"Say, how much did those guys get away with, anyway?" Cooper asked, folding his arms.
"Fourteen mil-" Bentley stopped himself. He could already see a scheme formulating in the ringtail's head. "Oh, no. No way, Sly. These guys aren't like other criminals! These guys are ferocious, unbridled killers! They'll get you for sure!"
"Fourteen million bucks. Wow, we could really upgrade our flat with that kind of cash." Sly looked around the room prospectively.
"I don't share your vision, Sly. I think our residence is quite satisfactory. We have four walls, a roof, and peace and qui-" A door slammed somewhere, someone began shouting, and an infant began crying. The vibrations from the door slamming knocked a degree off Bentley's wall, shattering the glass case against the floor.
"Think about it, Ben. We'll be rich."
While dollar signs filled a certain raccoon's eyes, a blue-haired wolf wearing a thick overcoat and a Cossack hat swayed slightly as the train sped through eastern France. The wolf had with him a thin briefcase, which was handcuffed to the armrest of his seat. Tucked away in the small of his back was a .57 pistol, just like the ones immortalized by their use by Soviet officers in many a western spy movie.
"Perhaps I'm just outdated," the wolf asked himself in his native Russian, upon thinking about his sidearm. He had obtained it during his short spell in the KGB, just weeks before the official collapse of the Soviet Union. He was one of those officers in the spy movies. The thought brought a cracked smile to the policeman's face, which faded soon after. He checked his watch. It would be another two hours. The wolf folded his arms and shifted forward in his seat, determined to get at least an hour of sleep before arriving in Pairs.
His next conscious observation was that of the gentle hand of a female ticket collector upon his shoulder.