The old Chevy screeched to a grinding halt a hundred yards away from what was till 2 hours ago the town's Police HQ. Out stepped the man who'd lost so much he could lose no more. Amidst the cacophony of howling women and blaring sirens, he looked every inch the beaten-down, world-weary 54 year old orphan that he was.
When the young female officer from the Fire Department saw from the corner of her eye just who was trudging along resignedly towards her, a tiny gasp escaped her otherwise stoic and somber demeanour. Clearly, she wasn't expecting CI Mark Collinsworth to have dodged 35 kilograms of explosive-filled metal. But Mark had a way of finding his way out of trouble, either through design or chance.
'Report, please.'
'No survivors, I'm sorry to say. Everything (and everyone, she wanted to say, but didn't) has been reduced to rubble and charcoal. Industry grade explosive packed into projectiles - the like of which are manufactured around Kremlin. The material itself wouldn't be difficult to find in the industrial area shanties down by the foothills. Prima facie it is unclear if local gangs are involved, but I understand the entire town knows who is actually behind this.'
'Thank you. Ensure that any mortal remains are handed over to the next-of-kin with the utmost sensitivity. I'd require a thorough appreciation of the incident on my desk in three days time.'
Without another word, Mark turned his back on what used to house decades of duty, friendship and loyalty. The eyes glowed with fierce and proud determination. A few moments spent among the ashen remains of his second home had transformed him into the ruthless, cold blooded vandal he always wanted to be. Mark had some calls to make.
It was time to call in the cavalry.
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