Matt read the text again. "10-8.” The cop bar, he thought. Matt was twitchy and arrived early. He never felt welcome the 10-8. Matt knew he didn’t fit in. He wasn’t a cop, and the 10-8 didn’t hang a welcome sign on the door.
The bar wasn't crowded. Matt collected his thoughts. He flinched when the front door clattered open. Since the CleanSweep riots, Matt jumped at loud noises.
The large man storming through the doorway. Many angry cops failed to damage the door. Detective Wallace, no-middle-initial, Carling, head of Police Services counter-terrorism bureau, came close this time.
His rage filled the 10-8 bar. Two cop groupies sitting at the bar looked like they wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.
"Seriously," Matt said, “trying to calm his friend. "Watch your blood pressure." Matt looked at the big man wedging into the booth. "Where's your fedora—"
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