The drive back home was silent.

Mostly silent, at least.

Kate spared an anxious glance over to Madsen, who was muttering to himself as he drove. She couldn't make out the words, but he was definitely beside himself—buried in his own little world. She found herself clutching tightly to the passenger door's armrest whenever the car started toeing the yellow line or was slow to react to other cars cutting them off.

"Mr. Madsen," she mutters.

No response. He's still muttering to himself.

"Mr. Madsen!"

"Huh?!" he snaps to her, "What in the—what is it, missy? Christ-sakes, you startled me, y'know! Can't you see that I'm driving here?"

She rolled her eyes, and asked, "You're muttering something awfully fierce over there. What's got you so worried?"

"Worried?" Madsen brushed off with a huff, and he then puffed out his chest with pride, "I ain't worried about anything, nor anyone. No—I'm just thinking it over."

"Thinking what over? What happened back there?"

"Yes," then his neutral glare casted itself side-long to her seat, "And the unnecessary risks that were taken along the way."

Now it was Kate's turn to gloat, "Oh, come on—I told you I wanted to help, and help I did! I was able to get us inside Frank's RV, that's got to count for something, right?"

"Not without endangering yourself in the process," he chided, "How do you think your parents would feel, knowing about the danger you've been in up until recently? They'd have heart attacks if they found out—and I sure as hell don't want to give them anymore trouble while you're under my watch!"

"Look, I didn't help because it was dangerous," she defended herself, "I did it because it was right. Frank wouldn't have given you the time of day, and Pompidou would not have given you the same treatment that she gave me."

"Still, I…wait, you know that mutt's name?" he blurted out.

"Yeah, and she isn't a mutt!" Kate pouted, "She's a German shepherd, I could tell 'cause of the ears and her snout! She was going to be put down 'cause she was sick, but Frank rescued her from the pound, and got her the treatment she needed."

"And how do you know all this?"

"Frank told me."

"Last I remembered, Frank wasn't in a cooperative mood when we stepped inside his home," Madsen noted, "How did you get him to open up?"

"…Frank had a change of heart, when he started talking to me. I don't know why, but he…he seemed just as confused about me being there as you were."

"A change of heart?" Madsen wondered aloud, but this time without apprehension lacing his gruff tone, "Is that why he was more compliant when I came back with his ledger in-hand?"

"More or less," the blonde affirmed, "I had a chat with him, and he opened up to me about why he was doing what he does. He said that he started turning a blind eye to what he sold and to whom, if only to make sure that he and Pompidou could survive on their own. And while I did not like that reason, I understood that he thought it was the best choice he could make, given what he had…"

The flannel was itchy on her cold skin. She was rolling her sleeves, desperate to find some bit of comfort.

"…and I could tell, he was scared. Scared for me."

"You mean to tell me that Frank was concerned for someone other than himself?" came the disbelieving inquiry.

She nodded sincerely, "He got angry when I mentioned why I wanted to know about Rachel. I think he had a hard time accepting my reasons…and I don't necessarily blame him. He's very distrusting of people."

"Ain't that right," came a snarky quip.

"Well," Marsh resumed, "I'd like to think that he understood where I was coming from, at least in a way that made sense to him. He seemed scared to find out about Rachel himself, because the Prescotts have a closer eye on him than they do on us."

"If they had any sense left in them, they'd start running now," Madsen held a sudden confidence with his tone, "We're close to bringing the hammer down on them, I can feel it. You may be reckless, but you've got the makings of a true detective in you, I can tell."

"I mean, I…I didn't do much, now that I think about it," Marsh rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed by the compliment.

"Now listen here: I may have my moments," he conceded, "But I know I couldn't have done this without you, missy—Kate. So, thank you…"

She was snickering at the slip-up he made. David's moustache twitched into a frown, unhappy about the schadenfreude vibes he was receiving from his partner.

"Damn kids these days," Madsen groaned, shaking his head, "Can't even take a bit of praise without makin' a big deal out of it."

She cackled louder, "You really are like my uncle, I swear—he always has to have the last word whenever he's grumpy like that!"

"Yeah, well, you're a lot like my stepdaughter, always…always…"

He went quiet. The car stopped at an intersection, waiting to make a left turn. Kate glanced over to the driver, and noted the blank stare he had.

"…always what?" she tried to jog his memory, bring him back to the present.

"…always provin' me wrong about first impressions," he finished aimlessly. There were memories playing in his head, Kate knew this—she could almost see them be reflected in the glimmer of his eyes. And yet, all he did was clear his throat, and ask, "Are you hungry? I'm craving donuts from that one coffee shop down the street here. We should get some, as a treat for our hard work."

"…sure."

Her choice was a chocolate round with sprinkles. It wasn't her favorite, like what Madsen had asked of her when he placed their order. Her real favorite was the fresh-baked croissants they kept on the far side of the store, next to all the other stylish pastries. However, much like whenever she visited this store with her family, the price tag scared her away. She knew it would ruin her appetite, conscious of the fact that they would spend so much money on so little of a croissant.

He got himself a coffee, black with no sugar. She is reminded of this being Max's preferred type of coffee as well. A solemn reminder this was, of her promise to her best friend Max, and to her best friend, Chloe.

Max's best friend…

"…hey, Mr. Madsen."

"Hm?" he hummed, chewing on a deli sandwich he bought for himself.

"What was Chloe like, if you don't mind me asking?"

He paused his chewing, lost in thought. His brows furrowed, and then he composed himself, an answer having come to mind.

"Chloe was…doing about as well as she could be by the time I entered her life. She took the loss of her father really hard…"

He hesitated. His grip on the coffee mug was tense. Silver eyes glanced back up perceptively, "Ah, I'm sorry, I didn't…you don't have to—"

"Quit it," he waved her concerns away, "Besides, you're my partner in this case. It's only fair."

She nodded silently.

"From the first day we met," Madsen began, "I knew that Chloe hated me for what I was, and what I would become. I tried my best to be a good father to her, but…I realized very quickly that no matter what I did to appease her, no matter what I tried, she would not give me a chance. So, I moved on from trying to be the father she wanted, and I became the father that I could be."

Another bite of the sandwich. A sip from the coffee mug.

"And she hated me for it, every step of the way."

The café was teeming with ambience, but their table was quiet. Kate refused to say anything, she spoke with her expressions instead; and Madsen could tell there was a question right on the tip of her tongue.

"Now, yes, it's true," he answered the unspoken question, "It wasn't just Chloe's stubbornness. It was…it was also my own. I had a hard time understanding her, about why she felt justified in hating me even though I had done nothing to her. I…I had my moments. There were times when I let my emotions get the better of me, and I said things I shouldn't have. I did things that my own father would've shunned me for."

He glared down at an unspecified part of the table between them. His one hand was clenched into a fist, his knuckles were white as he rolled them, over and over again. His tone was sharp, filled with bitter resentment.

"She always knew how to push my buttons, always knew how to bring the worst out of me. It hurt even more when Rachel disappeared, because then, it wasn't just me trying and failing to be the father she could never have. And yet, even despite how much it hurt, I'd go through it all again if it meant…if it meant I could keep her from Prescott's blood-soaked hands. If only I had patrolled that part of Blackwell Main on that day, maybe I could've…"

Fists unfurled. A steadying exhale. His features, on the brink of despair, return to a blank slate. The helmet is donned once again. He is cold, a wall of stone, unmovable and unyielding. He picks up his sandwich and mug and resumes eating.

Kate knows better than to say an apology. Compassion does not work with him. Yet, her heart ached at the stubbornness he showed. It wasn't right to bottle these feelings, she would know—but he didn't want words, nor the pity that came with them.

So, she took another bite out of her donut, and remained in this soundless limbo with her partner. Unable, unwilling to say what was really on their minds. They stayed this way even after leaving the café, the only words they spoke to each other thereafter were mutterings of goodnights as they returned home and settled into their respective resting places.

"…so, how much?"

"Well," the mechanic drawled, "Between the new sparkplugs, oil change, and the new belt for your engine, you're lookin' at about two thousand dollars."

Anderson couldn't help but gawk at the man, "Two thousand?! For Christ-sakes, you cannot be serious!"

The mechanic stared at him.

"Can't—can't you be reasonable here?" Anderson tried again, "Look, pal, I've got kids to feed back at home—!"

"Hey, asswipe!" a shout came. One of the mechanic's buddies comes sauntering around a vehicle he's attending, sweat glimmers off his brow and his gloves are layered in oil and grease, "We got families to feed, too! You cops love to bitch to us about having families to look after whenever you're the ones in a pinch, but that's a bullshit excuse and you know it! You don't see us bitching about having to feed our kids, all the while paying for your salaries through taxes—fuckin' comin' in here beggin' for some mercy, as if you pansies don't get paid to do anything other than sit in your police cruisers all day harrassin' people!"

The other mechanics were scowling at him, their fists clenching their wrenches and rags. They knew. Anderson's not surprised, but he still grumbles under his breath, cursing his luck. There's not much room for retaliation against these mechanics when he's off duty and outnumbered, so he swallows his pride and digs out his credit card. His wife was going to be downtrodden about postponing that vacation they were planning to take during the summertime next year, but there was little he could do without making a mess of things now.

The mechanics let him go once he paid, and back to the familiar comfort of his home did Berry return. He was looking forward to this moment, for the wife was going to be making spaghetti and meatballs with homemade fries. He was cravin' that ever since lunchtime passed; and a smile passed him by as he pulled into the driveway…

…next to Lieutenant Corn's police cruiser, parked right in front of his house along the curb.

Anderson stepped out of his vehicle, and stood there, staring at the police cruiser. A mourning-dove echoed its solemn tune in the distance. The light of the early evening sun cast its golden warmth over the town.

The house was quiet. The kids should be back from school, perhaps playing on the swing set they keep in the backyard. He would normally hear the joyful peals of laughter once he got back from work, but there was nothing. Perhaps they were inside, watching television?

He unlocks the front door and steps inside. There's some muffled chatter coming from the dining room down the hall and to the right. He sets his officer's cap on the dresser beside the door and walks cautiously toward the commotion.

He passes the threshold and comes upon a most interesting sight: there was the Lieutenant sat across from his wife, their conversation fading as they acknowledged his arrival. Behind them, having gone unnoticed until now, the door to the kids' bedroom was cracked open, and two pairs of eyes watched in silent observation—at least, until he showed up. The door closed once he noticed it.

"Andy, good to see you buddy," Corn grinned from his seat, "C'mon, sit down, will you? We were just talkin' about our time together on the force."

His wife looked…tense. She smiled all the same, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Actually, I'd like to speak with you personally," Anderson beckoned the lieutenant towards the door leading to the backyard, "Darlin', we'll be right outside. If you need my help with dinner, just call for me."

"Of course," she got up and walked back to the kitchen. Corn merely shrugged at Berry's insistence to speak in private, standing up and following him along.

They stepped outside. The backyard was a well-kept plot of grass, the swing set standing proudly off in the far-right corner of the yard, next to a trimmed eucalyptus. On the fence to the left, there was a twenty-by-twenty foot concrete pad which was topped with an outside countertop made of tile and grout. Built into this countertop was a grill, the propane tank placed right beside it near the farther end. Halfway between where they stood and this grill, there was a wrought-iron table with a glass top, covered in a sturdy cloth and orbited by a handful of plastic chairs.

"What is it this time?"

"Whoa, hey now," Corn raised both his hands in a placating gesture, "I was just in the area and wanted to stop by, nothing more."

"You could've told me you were coming, at least," Berry pressed, "I would have gotten us some beers on the way back."

"Well, shoot, I'll let you know next time I swing by, then," his partner chuckled. Yet, once this merriment died out, it was replaced with that teeming silence. The men spoke with their stares, one waiting for an explanation, the other thinking over what to say.

"…orders came my way from the chief," Corn finally said, "about the case you got assigned to. He told me you needed some help, so I figured we talk it through once you got back."

"Why wasn't I informed of this back at the station?"

Corn shrugged, "I thought he filled you in before you left, that's what it seemed like when he spoke to me."

Anderson pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

"Well, there's not much I can do to bring you up to speed. We'd have to go over the files tomorrow—"

"Already did that."

Berry narrowed his eyes, "What?"

"I stopped by your cubicle to tell you about the good news before my patrol shift, but you weren't there. Figured I'd save you the trouble an' have a look for myself."

This happened during lunchtime. After the call he received from Madsen, Anderson went out to get some chow from the ACFC place down on Main Street. He was a sucker for their quarter-pounders with cheese, and he had treated himself to two of those, took his sweet time while doing it. He was gone for just a half hour, but that was all it took—

"You read the files?" he muttered.

"Enough to get the picture of things," Corn smirked, so full of himself, "And I reckon you've come to the same conclusions as I have."

Berry clenched his jaw at that. Corn didn't know what he did to the records after he got back—when he had carried out Madsen's instructions. He had adjusted Marsh's testimony to match what Madsen had described, enough to make it convincing. Consistent was the word that David drilled into his head when he explained it. Because otherwise, the wrong kinds of people would draw the same conclusions he had…

…shit.

"…maybe," he sighed, "but I'm not sure where to start. I've got some leads in mind, but nothing definite."

"Then we're in luck. I happen to have something that we probably should start with before we do anything else," Corn pulled from his breast pocket a pack of cigarettes, "Mind if I?"

"Go ahead," Anderson let him, curious about where Corn was going with this. For all he knew, the lieutenant was reeling him in like a fish on a line, but he figured it was going to be troublesome dealing with his new partner already. Better to follow Corn's lead and try to make the most out of it while he could.

"Couple of militia boys that I know of pinged some suspicious activity earlier today about our asset supplying the spares," the lieutenant explained. His lighter's flame caught the end of his cigarette, glowing in the dim light, "This asset has intel that's worth a very heavy price, and the Prescotts had made it clear that they want this info to not get leaked to the wrong people. We're going to be proactive about it and do a checkup visit on this asset later tonight, make sure to get yourself suited up at the station before we roll."

"Wait, wait wait—when is this happening?"

"I'm thinking a couple hours from now," Corn shrugged, "I gotta call in a favor first, so we'll see how it goes. I'll text you sometime later with the details."

"You gotta be kidding me, I just got back home—"

"Andy," a hand clasped one of his shoulders, "it's alright. Tell the missus it'll be a short blip, 'cause that's all it's gonna be. In and out. Nothing to it."

Corn was grinning. It was meant to assuage the doubts, meant to be uplifting. But Anderson couldn't help but feel the dread roll down his spine whereupon seeing that row of grinning pearly whites. He could feel it, deep down in his heart; something terrible will happen in the dark of this night, and he was helpless to stop it.

"…yeah, nothing to it."

Corn pat him on the back, "Atta' boy. Who knows, maybe the chief'll slip us a bonus for our hard work. Remember, Andy…it's all for the sake of this town, and its security. Nothing more, nothing less."

Anderson nodded, thinking of how dinner was already ruined. Even when Corn excused himself and left, his shadow cradled Berry as he ate, when he showered, and most definitely when he spoke in hushed tones to his wife about an assignment he needed to take part in. When he tucked in his children for the night, he did so knowing he would not be the same when he came back.

The house never felt so empty when he stepped out into the night, and began his lonesome drive into the dark.

Frank finished brushing his teeth, shuffling from the small sink back to his bed. Pompidou was curled up on one side, staring up at him expectantly. Routine dictated that she get a couple minutes of belly rubs before bedtime, and he was late this time around.

"Hey, don't give me that look," he chuckled, rolling into his spot and pulling the heavy cover over him. He then patted the space next to him, "S'matter, don't you want some pats or not?"

Pompi uncurled and tiredly shuffled over to the human, curling back up again. A heavy sigh came; all the hard work she did of guarding the RV, snacking on kibble, and being cute was weighing upon her. A hand massaged her shoulders and back, her fur being brushed by Frank's callous digits. A bit of tail-wagging, some puppy-eye treatment to ensure Frank wouldn't just ignore her.

"Spoiled brat," he muttered, still smiling, "Even now, you can't help yourself, can you?"

Yet, he lost this smile a couple seconds later, "…d'you miss your friend, Pompi?"

A tilt of the head, and a knowing look glimmered in those puppy eyes of hers.

"…yeah, I miss 'em too," Bowers sighed. As fucked up as it was, his interaction with Madsen and Kate had been the closest he ever came to speaking how he truly felt about his circumstances. He grumbled about it, wishing there would be a chance to have this happen normally, like what everyone else supposedly does. He'll just have to bide his time and hope they don't get themselves killed whilst taking down the Prescotts.

Taking down the Prescotts.

He chuckled. How ridiculous. And yet, here he was. He thought many times of what he'd do to get the chance to spill about his dealings with that little rat that was the heir of the Prescott fortune, and now that it was upon him, he felt like it was too good to be true. Was this really it? He wasn't one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but there had to be some…indication, that this was the real deal.

He sighs again. He's overthinking it. He knows better than to doubt. If it comes to be, then it shall—and if it ain't, then he'll continue on as always. He reaches over to the nightstand beside the bed, and picks out a book he's been reading through. If he remembers correctly, he was a couple chapters away from reaching the climax of the story—

Pompidou suddenly sits up, ears perked up and alert. A low, steady growl cuts through the silence. Bowers looks up from his book and frowns.

Sometimes, raccoons and other wildlife liked to eavesdrop on his RV whilst he slept, and Pompidou had a bad habit of barking them away, much to Frank's detriment. Though he appreciated the sentiment of keeping strangers away, being woken up during the night was a bitter experience, one that he suffered from too many times to count.

"Pompi, quit it, will you? I'm tryna read, here."

Pompidou stops growling, but does not look back to him. A few moments pass, and the German shepherd climbs off the bed, toenails click-clacking into the main room.

"…Pompi?" Frank asks. He sets the book back on the nightstand, grabs his cellphone, then dons the first articles of clothing he could find within reach: a t-shirt and sweatpants. He steps into the main room to find his dog having a staring contest with the exit.

"What's wrong?"

Another low growl. The ears are lowered defensively, the tail is raised.

This…wasn't a racoon. A wolf? A coyote, maybe? Frank had not come across one of those yet; and thus, wasn't sure how he should deal with it. Maybe his handheld broom was gonna see some action for the first time in a while.

Then, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket, and read the message sent to him. That frown of his turned into a scowl.

Ah, so that's what it is.

He slips on some sandals, if only to have something to protect his feet from the cold. His switchblade is concealed in the palm of his right hand, and he huffs away the emotions curling in his gut. He didn't feel good about this, not one bit. He never did, if he's being honest with himself.

"Pompi, stay here," and the dog sat down and looked patiently to him. He unlocked the door, and stepped outside.

Two policemen stand before him. One of them he recognizes, the same sizzle-dick sleazebag he met with last month to negotiate the prices for some spares. He could tell 'cause the smug bastard had a pair of aviator shades clipped onto his breast pocket. The other policeman was one Frank had seen before, but never spoken to.

"The fuck do you want?"

"Bowers," the lieutenant smiled, "Good to see ya. How's the dog, she doing alright?"

Frank did not answer. Instead, he repeats, "The fuck do you want? It's late."

"Alright, alright," Corn waved a dismissive hand, "No need to be so defensive about it. We're just stopping by, here to do a checkup on behalf of your benefactors."

Frank felt his brows pinch, he snarled, "Well, I'm just fuckin' peachy. If you two clowns don't mind, I'd like to get some beauty sleep tonight."

He turned back to open the door, and return to his sanctuary—

"Frank."

Corn had nearly lost his smile. His hawkish glare kept Bowers from stepping back into his RV.

"I wanna hear it from you first," the lieutenant carefully probed, "You had some…visitors, today. A man, and a young woman. You talked to them, didn't you?"

His hands tremble ever the slightest. He's sweating, despite it being just above fifty degrees outside. The metal of the switchblade is digging in his flesh, begging for the moment of action—

"What about them?"

"We'd just like to know what they spoke to you about."

Shit.

"They were looking to buy from me," he fibbed, "I sent them away. Felt weird about them."

The cop snickered knowingly.

"Yeah, I'm sure you did. Didn't you invite them in for a drink before you did that?"

Fuck.

"…are you fuckers stalking me?" he pressed.

The one cop raised an eyebrow, confused. But Corn just huffed in amusement, "Nah, we don't got the time to babysit you. Now, as for the militia, however…"

He sensed them before he saw them. A couple shadows, hiding in the dark where the lights in his RV couldn't reach. They were dressed in woodland camo, their boots were black as tar, the same color as their rifles. Which were pointed at him.

Oh, fuck. Fuck—!

"Hey now," a snap of the fingers caught Frank's attention, "Eyes over here, Bowers. Don't make this messy, we just wanna know what you told them."

"I didn't tell them shit, so fuck off—!"

"Don't lie to me, son," that knowing smirk goaded him, "You and I both know what happens if you don't fess up, right now. Go on, do it."

His breathing sharpened. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Both of the cops had their right hands on their holsters, he knows the militiamen already got their sights lined up on him. He was screwed, unless…

Very slowly, he raises his hands out. He drops the switchblade, then kicks it out of reach.

"…have it your way, Bowers," the lieutenant sighed. He motioned for his partner to close in, and they had him on the ground with his hands placed upon his head.

"Berry, cuff 'im."

The silent cop restrained him. Frank feels a sense of déjà vu, but for all the wrong reasons. And worse yet, he knew this was going to cut into his already busy schedule—

"One last chance, Frank," a pair of polished boots stepped close to his face, "What did you tell them?"

He knew that the right move was to come clean. It would save him the trouble, and he'd get out of this without angering the Prescotts. But he thinks back to Kate and her genuine smile, the courage burning in those silver eyes of hers. He…he couldn't betray that. He couldn't do that to someone like her, brave as she was. She inspired him, and he'd take that sentiment with him to the grave. He placed his bets, and said nothing.

"…suit yourself."

The lieutenant motioned for the RV, and the militiamen wasted no time in barging their way inside. Growling and barking met them, but was silenced soon after. One of the men came back outside, a gloved hand holding tightly to Pompidou's snout, the other hand wrapped around the canine's abdomen like a snake. They pinned his dog to the ground in front of him.

"I'm gonna have to assume the worst, Bowers," Corn implored him, that smirk of his back in full force, "Maybe this time, this dance we do might go differently. Better watch yourself, lest you trip."

"To be honest," Frank growled confidently, "I'm not sure why you're so adamant this time around. We both know how this ends: you peddle me into the station, chief gets a call from the Prescotts, and then I walk out and get me a nice cup of coffee from the spare twenty in your wallet, 'cause you'll wanna make sure I leave a good word for you next time the family comes down to audit you lazy motherfuckers."

The lieutenant grinned viciously, "Is that so?"

"Yeah, I think so," Bowers double-down, "It's 'bout that time of the year, too. You can go ahead and make a charade out of this, but at the end of the day, we know who's really in charge here. Prescotts tell me to keep my mouth shut about their business, and that's what I do. They surely won't appreciate some hotheaded cop tryna bend the rules they set up for his sake, now will they?"

"Bull-fucking-shit, you're telling me the people you talked to are with the Prescotts?" Corn pressed, "Don't play games with me, Bowers. If they really were with the family, then why didn't you just fucking say so?"

Frank snickered, "Who knows, maybe I enjoy stopping by the station every once in a while. It's not every day I get to teach you pigs a lesson on who you can fuck with."

"You know what, Bowers…I get that. I really do. But surely, you have the smarts to see it from my perspective as well. Having to tango with some deadbeat drug dealer at least once a month, trying to be kind and courteous every time you meet only to take all those projected insecurities…it can really put a dampener on one's nerves. You never know, it might make someone do something…excessive."

A gloved hand undoes the safety lock on the holster at the hip. Frank's eye catches the movement, as well as the silent implication. He scowls.

"Don't do that. Ain't no way you can pull that off without getting some heat from La Familia up in Pan Estates. They'll wanna know where their favorite supplier went, and somebody's gonna answer for it. They'll have you squealing before you make it to the weekend."

"Not unless I just get one of your boys to play substitute," the lieutenant countered, "How about your homeboy from Portland, that one skinny low-life you met up with down by the harbor a few weeks ago," some shuffling, some humming and hawing, then a snap of the fingers, "Ronnie! That's his name—how's about I let him know he's got some free real estate down in Arcadia now that you're down and out?"

"Ronnie ain't gonna talk with you," Frank spat, "He's too smart to give you the time. Plus, the Prescotts trust me. They know I keep my word, and you can't substitute that by waving your fuckin' gun around, telling my people to keep quiet 'bout what you'd do to me. That's bad for business y'know."

"It doesn't matter to me who I gotta find," came the smug retort, "All I need is the time to find the right man. Time which I happen to have a decent amount of, time which you've got none to spare."

The pistol is taken out of Corn's holster. Frank tenses up, his glare sharpening as the barrel is pressed to Pompidou's temple. The dog whimpered, then bared its teeth and snarled at the contact.

"Wait, now hold on—you leave Pompidou out of this," Frank rasped, "You got a problem with me, then settle it with me. Leave her out of this—!"

"What's that? Couldn't hear you."

"I said—!"

BANG

"Oh, fuck! W-What the fuck!" Frank screamed, writhing on the ground, "Pompi! You—you shot her! What the fuck—?!"

"Should've listened to me when you had the chance," the sleazy bastard sneered. The pistol is angled down, this time at his face. Frank goes silent. Terror consumes him. All this time, the denial burned inside him, he never thought the sleazy bastard would do it. He thought his talk about the reputation he had with the Prescotts would keep him out of this, because it had worked before—

But not this time.

"W-wait, I'll talk—!"

BANG

A thud. Sand shifted as the body entered a death-spasm, then became still. Blood spilled, and oozed.

"…a'ight, boys," the lieutenant calls to the militiamen, "the RV's yours. Do what you want with it, just don't make a scene. Tell the cleanup crew to leave it here until we can figure out a place to put it."

"You got it, boss!" one of the militiamen snickered, and they jumped inside the vehicle and began their pillage. Berry looked on in absolute shock, still processing the fact that they had just executed this man and his pet, just like that—

"Madsen's up to something," Corn muttered, a cigarette tucked between his lips, "As to what he and his little accomplice are up to, we'll figure that out soon enough. I say we stay on his tail, force him to make a move and then exploit it. It's probably going to get ugly when it happens."

"And what about this?!" Berry shot his arm down to the corpse bleeding all over the asphalt, "What—what's gonna happen to him, now that…?"

Corn took a drag from his cigarette, "Not our problem anymore. Militia'll get a cleanup crew up here in a couple hours, there won't be anything by the time the sun rises."

Then, a bitter chuckle, "And also, that was 'cause I've been wanting to do that ever since I met 'im. Silver-tongued bastard."

Berry just shook his head, swearing under his breath. He was lost, he didn't know what to do—

"W-what about the Prescotts? He's their contact, their…their supplier. What happens when they find out he's—?"

"Hey," Corn beckoned him, "I got this. Go back home, get some rest. I'll talk with the chief about what happened here, he'll take the heat for us once he's up to speed. You can thank me later, once this is all settled."

Berry nodded silently, then wandered back to his police cruiser, not cognizant of how he did so. The drive back home was a blur. The only thing he remembers thereafter is his wife cuddling him as he laid down in bed, wishing to ask him what was troubling him, but not saying anything. He wished she would, to have the chance to speak the truth to her—he wishes it remained this way, so that he wouldn't see the terror in her eyes, the same which burns in his own.