Jakobi Strider was almost arrested in a Greaspit diner in downtown Kenosha. His breakfast of bacon, eggs, beans and toast sat on a dining plate made two sizes too small for the food, so as to give the illusion of there being more than there was. In reality, thirty two credits for two rashers of fatty bacon, one scrambled egg, beans, and two triangles of toast was a rip off, but Jakobi paid for the convenience. It was his last meal on Mars, after all. He was halfway through it when the squad cars rolled onto the gravel parking lot with no defined spaces, creating a crescent-shaped wedge blocking the entrance to the lot. Strider watched as their doors popped open, and out came men armed with pistols and shotguns, motioning towards the window seat where Strider sat, polishing off his meal. He sighed, wiping his mouth down with a napkin before standing up, grabbing his holster and jacket from where they hung on the back of the chair. He strapped the leather harness to his chest, made sure the safety on his SOCOM was on, and threw the black jacket over one shoulder in a devil-may-care fashion. He did all of this before the three police officers sent to arrest him were halfway across the space between the diner door and the parked cars. The rest of the officers, guns drawn and aimed at the diner, were covering them as they moved up. Jakobi stepped over one of the bodies in the diner and went to the front door, backing up away from it ten paces so the officers who entered wouldn’t get twitchy at him being so close. The door popped open, and a little bell above the door tinkled, and the three officers entered the secondary screen door immediately after. Two of them took up positions on Strider’s left and right, aiming their guns at him. The third kept himself at the door, weapon still holstered, and one hand looped through a set of handcuffs. The man looked around at the carnage and chaos for a few moments, drinking it all in. Most of the tables that weren’t nailed down had been overturned. Glittering shattered glass and bent cutlery was strewn about the place, and interspersed between them were unconscious bodies. Some of them had broken limbs, others were already forming bruises. Around twelve in total sat around Strider, who wore a pleasant smile on his face. “Impressive response time, boys.” He said. The lead officer fixed him with a steely glare. “Let me see your hands,” he said. Strider dropped the jacket onto the floor, revealing his holstered weapon. All of the officers backed up a step, gun arms straightening. Jakobi put his hands up, resting them behind his head. The lead officer gulped and flicked his head up. “Turn around.” “You want me to dance next?” Strider asked. “He said turn around!” one of the other officers yelled. Strider fixed him with a glare, but turned around all the same, back facing the officers. He felt hands on his wrists, pulling his hands down, then the cold metal of handcuffs clamping around them. “Dispatch,” the officer said. “We got the perp. Standby.” He felt hands along his pants legs, frisking him. Deft fingers picked the waller from his pocket, and another officer moved in to take his holster and the gun. The third kept his distance, gun always trained on Strider in case he decided to make a move. Jakobi knew better. Everything was going as planned. Once they were done picking him clean, he was deposited on one of the only bar stools still standing upright. “Military ID,” the leftmost man said, rifling through his wallet. “Expired three years ago,” he hummed, flicking through the rest of the wallet’s compartments. “No money to speak of, two tickets on a civ transport off-world,” he held them up, flashing them to Strider, “of which you are now late, and a bank card.” “Sounds like a drifter,” one of the others snarked, scoffing the word out. “Homeless vagrant.” Strider turned his head to face the man who spoke. “Homeless vagrants usually have bank cards?” The man looked up at him and sneered. “Shut it.” “You’re looking at forty years,” another one of the Officers said, “minimum, for second-degree assault.” Jakobi arched his brows and took a look around the Greasepit diner. “Probably going to turn into multiple counts, considering how many guys I laid out.” The officer leaned over at the waist so he was eye-level with Strider. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said. “I suggest you utilise that right now.” He motioned for the other two to pick him up, so they did. Hooking their hands around his arms and all-but dragging him towards the door. “Two things are going to happen before you take me to your station,” Strider said. “Yeah?” the first Officer looked over his shoulder at Strider, opening up the first of two entrance doors to the diner while he spoke. “Is one of them us getting impatient and giving you your own savage beating?” “Each and every single one of these boys are going to be wearing their own sets of cuffs,” Strider said, making all three of the other men paise. Strider let the sentence hang there for a few moments, chewing his tongue before he continued. “And I’m going to be walking free.” The Officers all laughed, sharing looks with one another. The first man shut the diner door once again. “Really now? And what are these twelve fine servicemen and women guilty of, sir?” “Illegal goods shipment,” Strider began. “Smuggling across county lines. Bribery, and conspiracy to commit all three.” The Officers weren’t laughing anymore, instead, they each looked confused. The first Officer had his hands on his hips, his eyes flicking between Strider’s face, and the unconscious soldiers on the floor. “How do you figure that?” Strider balled his fists, his face going neutral, arms tensing against the grip of the Officers by his sides. “Because after so many years I decided I couldn’t just sit back and watch anymore,” he said. “That’s all I’ve been doing, and enough is enough.” Nervous looks were exchanged, and the two Officers holding onto Strider shifted their weights from foot to foot. The first Officer cleared his throat, now more intrigued than incredulous. “So how does putting a beatdown on twelve ODSTs solve that?” he asked, motioning one of his fingers over the pile behind them. “All of them served under Sergeant Coney,” Strider arched an eyebrow and tilted his head. “The same Sergeant Coney who was arrested this morning for the same charges I just described.” Craning his neck, Strider looked behind him at the strewn-about ODSTs. “All these men and women are guilty of collaboration, and in thirty seconds, Warthogs are going to roll into this lot and take over.” “Well,” the Officer took off his hat and smoothed down his hair, replacing it once he was done. He huffed, blowing air through his lips, before opening the diner door once again. “That’s all a mighty fine prophecy, sir. But, I reckon you’ve wasted enough of our time.” He turned around and kept walking, but the other two Officers hesitated for a few seconds, before they began pushing Strider out of the diner door and into the harsh midday Martian sun. Before they could get halfway across the lot, the sound of engines filled the relative-silence. The gunmetal grey Warthogs rolled up over the verge to avoid the squad cars blocking the entrance, crunching gravel underneath their wheels. The Officers all looked on as MPs began hopping out of the ‘Hogs before they even stopped moving, rushing over towards the diner and bypassing Strider and his three escorts. The three men escorting Strider looked on in confused awe as more of them walked up to the line of squad cars, flashing badges and papers. Two more approached Strider, shooing away the Officers and popping the cuffs off his wrists. Strider looked over at the three men with a grin. “Apparently they proved me wrong. Fifteen seconds.” “Who the hell are you?” one of them asked. Strider held his wrists up, rubbing them where the metal of the cuffs had dug into them. He flashed the Officers a smile, and flicked his head back towards the Diner. “The one those guys didn’t count on coming back.” |
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Thin Grey Line
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