Lift Off

How many times do I have to tell him that stabbing at the buttons again isn’t going to do any good?  Neither is pacing the small confines of our ‘cell’, or kicking the steel doors.

We are stuck here for the duration.  Cursing isn’t going to help. And I thought that, as a linguist, I knew more swearwords than he did.

Apparently I was wrong.

I sigh heavily, only to earn myself an evil look.  Hell, even my patience is wearing thin.

When he starts eyeing the hatch in the roof of the lift I know his has run out.

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Of all of the things my partner has gotten me into over our partnership, I cannot believe that he dragged me into this. I mean, I'd follow the man into the jaws of death itself, but surely he can't be serious about this?

He is. I can tell by the look in his eyes.

I am going to kill him. There is no other option. Chris Keel is dead.

"C'mon, Sam," Backup slurs drunkenly, handing me the mike. "Stand and Deliver, right?"

I meet Chris' eyes again, watching him laugh in the karaoke bar's dim light.

He is so dead!

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The harsh whine of bullets slices through the air and I duck instinctively, pulling back behind our sparse cover, cursing softly under my breath.  Thud, thud, thud; the projectiles strike the earth, throwing up plumes of red dust in their wake to hang in the still, sultry air.

My heart is pounding, but my hands steady as I move to efficiently strip the empty magazine from my Beretta, slamming a full one home.  As I move to peer around the corner, I catch my partner’s green eyes and answer his grin with one of my own.

Damn.  Life is good.