The afternoon air was a humid sort of hot that, even lacking sweat glands, made Nick’s skin feel slick and his mouth full. It was an afternoon made for lazing and beer that Ray and Nick had spent trekking the long and dangerous path home. In the idle moments of conversation with Ray, Nick imagined fat beads of condensation on cold glass and jazz put low on the radio. It was a decent, reasonable sort of fantasy that helped take his mind off of his hot feet and his hand firm around the plastic tape at the bottom of his pocket. The heat must have been much worse for Ray, but the kid didn’t complain.
As they approached DC, Ray waved at a security officer, Lauren, who hesitated at first then waved back, punched the intercom, and gave the signal to open the gate. Lauren turned back with a smirk and a single thumb up. The other thumb was where you would expect it to be, with the rest of their hand and slung over the body of a well-worn pipe rifle.
‘Afternoon, officer,’ Nick said and tipped his head.
Lauren only smiled and gave a sharp nod in their direction.
A tumble of thick air kicked upward, pungent with the smell of dry soil and sunlight. Nick pressed a hand to his hat and smiled edgewise at Ray whose dark, ginger hair was startled backwards by a cool burst of wind from inside.
The heavy door, with its great yellow hinge, rattled and rose as they entered and the light behind them bled inward to frame their stark shadows across the concrete floor.
When Nick caught his eye, Ray smiled too. It was a glad and weary thing that mirrored Nick’s own. He hoped for Ray’s sake there was some feeling behind it. He hoped for himself too.
Their case had been a complete success which was hard to come by these days. A mystery was solved, people were saved. They got paid. It all chalked up to a tidy, little victory in need of celebrating. For Nick that celebration would start with a change of clothes.
‘You got anything to wear in that house of yours at Home Plate, or do you need to borrow some things?’