SCALAWAG (camren one shot - sort of)

V - A Sharp Turn towards Introspection

I watched intently as Lieberman gave hushed directions, gesturing with two fingers. Something either Mario or I should have been doing. Since he'd deemed me unfit to lead an operation after the warehouse, I let him.

Joke's on him. I hit my target. It just wasn't the one he had in mind.

I made sure to school my features so as not to rile the rest of our eight-person team. Mario did the same.

I pressed myself against the stained wall, gripping onto my handgun tightly. What I assumed to be white paint had turned beige over time and pollution. I had no doubt they smoked around these halls. The ashes on the discolored floor confirmed as much.

No matter how deep I tried to breathe, my lungs needed more. There was a lot riding on this mission and I wasn't sure how many failures my ego could take.

"NYPD!" Lieberman kicked the door, nearly splitting it in two.

We poured in and spread out in a barrage of warnings. I immediately took notice of how empty the apartment was and what little of it looked ransacked. A wicker chair lay strewn on the worn carpeted floor. Not far off was a single boot. A suspicious brown streak stood out in the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen.

I had no doubt it was blood.

One by one I could hear my unit yell out "clear" after a thorough search of each area as I zoned in on the steam wafting from the pot on the stove. On instinct, my finger moved to the trigger as my eyes scanned possible hiding places. The pantry was partially shut with a gap big enough to see through to the space.

I moved out of view as Jacobs entered the room.

"Clear!" I exclaimed for effect, jerking my head towards the pantry.

Hope bloomed in his eyes at the chance that it might be Stew. A lot was riding on that raid for him more than just finally capturing the Pinstripe. We exchanged looks as I took my position a few steps from the pantry and he grabbed the knob. I raised my gun, poised to shoot if necessary.

He nodded and yanked the door open, revealing a trembling man with his hands raised in the air. Bloodshot eyes stared at us, darting between the two guns pointed at him. His disheveled hair stuck out in all directions like he'd just rolled out of bed. Or forced out of it. I despised how his pants rode down the bottom of his ass. Even while on the ground that was difficult to miss.

It wasn't Stew.

"Please. Don't shoot," he squeaked as several footsteps started charging towards us.

"Where's Stew?" Jacobs asked before I could, his gun pointed at him.

"They took him," he eventually said through the tremor in his voice.

"Who?" Jacobs took a step closer. I worried he might do something stupid. He was a highly trained cop but he was human, too.

"Uh—rich-looking guys. And-and...r-red wig."

Betrayal soured my stomach and mixed with the adrenaline in my veins. The cocktail proved dizzying. I hated how my mind instantly pieced together how they could have beat us to him. I hated how the one important factor might still be lying comfortably in my bedroom.

Or was she? I couldn't know for sure.

I hated the uncertainty.

Jacobs moved to cuff him, Smith and Dana immediately by his side.

"What are you doing? I ain't done nothing wrong," he protested but his body was compliant. He'd be stupid if he tried to get away.

"I doubt you were trying to bake a cake with the powder on the table." Jacobs pushed him against the wall next to him, parting his legs to immobilize him further. He then went on to say the standard Miranda warning.