One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 18, page 10

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Umo Amuéné sat calmly in the driver’s seat of his parked auto, watching the tow truck turn into the precinct parking lot, Zhudıro’s brown sedan in tow. The reporters swarmed towards it, cameras rolling. As soon as it passed through the gate, though, they drifted back to the main entrance.

With so many civilians in the way, Umo and Lango couldn’t go in guns blazing. Even if they’re news reporters, they’re still unpredictable and innocent.

Lango cracked his thumb knuckles. “What are we waiting for? Let’s just bust in there, trust in Èmmwımwènhı, hallowed by his name, and let God save any innocents who happen to be in the way.” Umo knew his partner’s concept of “innocent” included only Èmmwımwènhese, and only devout Èmmwımwènhese at that.

Umo remained gazing at the precinct headquarters, showing no sign of even having heard Lango. Killing anyone and everyone in your way hardly followed the early teachings of Èmmwımwènhı. It was funny how thugs like Gogzhuè only paid heed to the Singing Prophet’s later lyrics, once he needed force to maintain power.

Briefly closing his eyes, Umo made his decision. They’d have to use their Union-agent badges. It was the only way. Pretend they had a investigation on Zhudıro, appropriate all the evidence--including the shipment of weapons. Clean and simple.

He pulled his semiautomatic pistol from his black jumpsuit and checked the magazine with deft motions. Umo refused to be like Gogzhuè--like Lango. He would follow the true message of Èmmwımwènhı. Unless his life was in danger.

Lango checked his own gun. Gleefully, he asked, “Well?”

If the guns weren’t there, they’d have to rejoin the hunt for the little Zhéporé-spawn, but at least they’d have plenty of extra bodies to help their search.

Perhaps he could figure out some way to tie Emperor Bhanar to his investigation. Require His Majesty’s custody. It was the least he could do for his emperor.

Still without facing his partner, Umo ordered, “We’ll take this calm and smooth. Get your Union badge out.” He slipped his handgun back into its holster. “It’s time to play agent.”

Lango whined wordlessly as Umo opened his door and stepped out onto the street. The inside of the auto had begun to heat up in the sun, but the fresh air hit him with a comforting breeze.

Dressed like orthodox Èmmwımwènhese in rhinestone-studded black jumpsuits, Umo knew the lawmen wouldn’t believe their badges. With enough imparted authority, however, one man could move mountains.

He closed the auto door and strode across the street. Lango’s shoes slapped the pavement as he hurried to catch up. Umo walked straight for the precinct front doors. The reporters and news crews melted out of his path. He ignored the cameras and shouted questions. Thankfully, Lango also said nothing. For a change.

In fact, Lango scurried ahead a few meters and opened the door for Umo. The suave gangster-cum-agent didn’t break stride as he entered the darkness. Through his sunglasses, he vaguely discerned a long desk across the lobby, a lawman in front of it. Behind Umo, Lango definitely snickered as he slammed the door on the gaggle of reporters.

In the sudden silence, the lawman asked, “May I help you?”

Umo flashed his leather-backed brass badge and announced, “We’re taking over the Zhudıro investigation. Give us everything you got.”

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