The rise of The sacred stallion

Chapter six: Loves like a loaded gun

Detective Briggs

Briggs strolled over to the call in area where a cab driver was busy sitting on the hood of his car answering the questions that was being done by the officers that reached him first.

"Detective, glad you could make it." The younger one said while waving him over.
"You two can leave, I'll handle the questions from here." He replied while the pair of officers relaxed from relief and walked to their cruiser that used to be his and Valentine's when they worked together.

"Tell me what happened." He said to the cab driver.
"Some maniac pulled a gun on me after I dropped him off, and he was carrying around a orangesh envelope." The driver replied while looking at the detective sternly.

"You have proof of that?" Briggs asked now annoyed.
"The hell I do, he dropped a round on the floor." The driver said while tossing the round to Briggs who caught it and recognized the type of ammo it was, the same one that was used by his boss, and the gun was in valentines belongings.

"Where did you drop him off?" Briggs said furiously.
"At some farm up the road, sweet apple acres I think." He replied.
"Sorry to do this." Briggs replied.
"Sorry for what?" The driver said curiously.

"This." Briggs said while pulling out his .44 and shooting the driver in the eye, sending chunks of blood and bone onto the windshield on the cab, busting through the windshield spilling the remains of his brain matter into the car while sending blood pumping through the many veins that were gone and began to build up in the car as He turned around and walked into the nearest alley He could find and pulled out his cell phone and called his real boss.

"What, why and the hell are you calling me this early or late, or whatever for Briggs!?!?!" The voice at the end of the line shouted.
"I have that info you were looking for boss." Briggs said sheepishly, while afraid that he might cause his boss to do something stupid.

"Well, I'm waiting Briggs." The voice said while calming down.
"That 1911 you had placed in his hands to frame him, I just found a round that was in that gun, and was informed of a location he was dropped off at." Briggs said while letting out a sigh of relief.
"You did well, tell me this location and I'll call in a few goons to get him." The voice replied while a lighter was heard clicking next to the receiver piece of the phone.

"Sweet apple acres.....where Macintosh is stationed." Briggs said while crouching behind a dumpster as he realized that the body was being scavenged by the homeless, and withdrew his .44 again.

"Head out there with them, and make sure they don't fuck up......oh and get rid of that loose end, make it look like Macintosh died from a suicide." The voice said before hanging up and leaving Briggs alone to realize that his hole had grown deeper yet, and walked out of the alley with his .44 tucked into his belt-loop and walked over to a car that had a couple of people next to it.

"Whose car?" Briggs asked while approaching the group of people.
"Mine." A college kid replied while stepping forward and exposing his vast muscles and short black mane.
"Give me your keys." Briggs replied.

"How about no you dumb-ass mother fucker." He replied while his friends walked behind Briggs.
"How about you do it, and I might let you live." Briggs said while pulling his .44 before any of them could understand what was going on.
"Take it easy pal, just a joke OK?" The kid replied while taking the keys out of his pocket slowly.
"On the ground all of you!" Briggs barked while waving his gun at them.

They all did as they were told and dropped to the ground and felt their hands being tied behind their backs and then their legs bound, and they watched as Briggs shot the owner of the car and left him there screaming in pain as he couldn't do anything and neither could his friends.

Briggs drove to the farm in silence as he reloaded his .44 and worked out how he would kill his best friend in cold blood and then kill someone he had been working for, for nearly a year.