Tom shook his head, “These fucking guys.”

If anything, it at least showed him that there were slackers even in Federal law enforcement. Some other guy came out of nowhere and dragged the guy he was talking to off. Sam was chuckling and Tom looked at him with a smile, “I guess we could look around the parking garage. Finish our cigarettes and then head back to Albright.”

“Kind of a bitch.” Sam thought out-loud and Tom nodded in agreement as they ambled through the parking garage. They made small-talk for some time, the usual stuff. 'How's the kids/wife/dog/project' and then went to brainstorming where they were going to drink. They hadn't made it through the whole garage when the elevator next to their path dinged and then opened. A Hispanic man covered in tattoos
stumbled out of the elevator, trying to wrangle a woman along with him. They both stared at each other for a second before Sam went for his gun. The Hispanic man was quicker on the draw, already having his gun in hand and shot at Sam.

Tom fumbled for his service weapon but before it even cleared the holster, it felt like he'd been punched in the chest twice. More gunshots, but he was more concerned with the fact that he seemed to be slowly suffocating. Each breath seemed smaller, more hollow, never enough. No matter how much air he hauled in, his lungs needed more, until he just couldn't breathe. Or move. Things were starting to get blurry, he could hear Sam shouting, calling for backup. He tried to move, but his eyelids were heavy and... and...