D-Day heard music in his head. Some Black Flag hardcore shit. It got him amped. It sent shivers down his spine. It reminded him of football. This shit [i]was[/i] football, but with real stakes. No worries about CTE here. Just a goddamn bullet in the brain. Nothing out of the ordinary for one of the toughest men in the RPD. His tours of the Western were shit of legend. He once pulled up on a drug corner on a raid. Slapped the entire crew in bracelets. The big man on the block wouldn't stop running his goddamn mouth, even in cuffs. The other cops wanted to tase the mouthy motherfucker. D-Day put the big man on his feet. He fucking towered over D-Day, over six inches on him. D-Day undid the bracelets and offered him a chance: Me and you, one on one. You beat me you get to walk. I beat you, it's an added charge of resisting arrest. The big man cracked a grin. Five minutes later, D-Day was bouncing his goddamn head off the pavement as he spat teeth.

The van rocked him back to the present. The van swayed. J.R. said something. D-Day got the gestalt. Bangers, guns, hostages a maybe. Nothing he couldn't handle. Nothing [i]they[/i] couldn't handle. He was in his body armor, black greasepaint under his eyes. The music pounded in his head. He was ready for fucking war.

"Point me where to go," D-Day said, his hand on the shotgun slung over his shoulder. "And I'll do the rest."