Lieutenant Day was on one side of the bolt-locked door, a sarcastic smirk already on his face, his two chrome 9mm handguns pointed down at the rickety porch. God was on the opposite side of the door, his broad back against the house’s red brick siding, his twin gold-toned Desert Eagles cocked and ready to fire. Syn took one final look behind him and saw Detective Ronowski at his six ready his shotgun. Syn gave him a quick nod. Everything was a go.
Syn steeled his spine, reared back, braced his weight on his back leg and raised his right boot in one swift motion and shattered the thin wood surrounding the doorknob. “Atlanta PD! Atlanta PD!” Syn yelled as he moved inside the small townhome, eyes forward but mindful of any movement in his periphery. God and Day were inside now and Syn watched them kick tables and chairs out of their path, making their way through the narrow hall that led to what looked like a couple of bedrooms and a small bath. After Syn shouted a couple of ‘clears’ for the living room and the kitchen, Ronowski quickly began rummaging through couch cushions, feeling underneath tables and knocking at areas on the wall, listening for hollow sounds. Drug dealers were known for concealing drugs, money, and guns behind drywall.
“Atlanta PD let me see your hands, now!” Day’s command floated out to Syn as he made his way back to the front of the house. He saw Day leading out a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He was shirtless and his hair was matted to one side of his head like he’d been sleeping. His hands were secured behind his back with a zip-tie. Day threw him on the ratty plaid sofa and God’s look dared him to try to get up.
“I guess you’re not going to read me my rights. Fucking filthy cops. I heard you been asking around about me, God. I heard some other shit too.”
“Maybe I should fix it so you don’t hear anything else,” God growled.
Syn watched God yank his twelve inch serrated blade from its sheath tucked underneath his left arm. He masterfully flipped the blade over his hand once like something you’d see in a Jet Li film and used his other hand to get a painful grip on the top of his suspect’s ear.
The suspect became still and very quiet as the tip of the blade skated lightly across the side of his face and stopped at his earlobe.
“Chill the fuck out, God,” the man hissed.
“What else did you hear, Goose?” God asked in a low voice.
“Nothing man! Nothing, alright!”
Syn saw God look him in the eye and he made sure his poker face was in place. Syn had read the entire file on this drug dealing trash over the last two days. Their suspect, Greg ‘Goose’ Jenkins, had taken over his uncle’s illegal business after Day and God had gotten him locked up for twenty years. The men on their team had secured enough surveillance on Goose to conduct a legal search and get a solid conviction if they found drugs, cash or guns in the home.
After God tucked his knife away, Goose spat on the floor and leveled each of them with a hateful look. “Where’s the warrant, God? Your boy is back there tearing up my goddamn house, let me see the fucking warrant.”
Syn kept his eyes on the suspect, but the man’s comments were raising Syn’s hackles. Shouldn’t they be calling this in by now? What were Ronowski and Day doing back there?
Syn was on the task force on a trial basis. He needed to prove he could follow orders, anticipate the need to act, and work efficiently as part of the team; but also show he was ruthless and dangerous ... just like all the other team members. He’d heard stories that these guys were badasses. So was Syn. He wanted to climb the departmental ranks, and being on God and Day’s task force was a sure way to get his name recognized and get out from under his father’s legacy to make his own.
God pulled one of the dining room chairs into the room, turned it around and straddled it. He stared at Syn, those green eyes drilling into him, but he didn’t dare look away. God was intuitive as fuck. He knew Syn was thinking something was off about this bust.
“I heard you was crooked man,” Goose snapped at God.
“You still hearing shit,” Syn answered before God could. God briefly gazed at Syn.
“Where’s your fucking warrant, God? I didn’t hear you motherfuckers knock before you kicked in my door and just invited yourselves in.”
“You don’t invite the wind,” Day said with a mischievous grin, coming back into the room with Ronowski trailing. “The wind just blows in.”