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who actually gave a crap.
     
     
    * * *
     
     
    Derek resisted putting his hand on his holster. Was it the dim, splotchy light, or the odor of stale urine that had his teeth on edge? From the cracked façade to the littered hallways, this building felt way too much like the one in D.C. He swore he would never set foot into another cockroach motel again. But, here he stood at the door of yet another derelict building.
    With Fred on his six, a bit closer than Derek may have liked, he put his hand on the doorknob. It opened easily. Which did not make his apprehension any less intense. They stepped into the entryway and were greeted by a six-foot-four bouncer. His steroid-induced arms were as thick as telephone poles.
    Derek flashed his badge. “FBI,” he said.
    The Neanderthal’s eyebrows knitted together. It seemed that this new information was taking a few minutes to cross the synapses of his addled brain.
    “I am sure you are a law-abiding citizen,” Derek stated, “and don’t want the kind of trouble an FBI investigation into your life would bring.”
    It seemed to finally dawn on the guy that they were law enforcement.
    The bouncer opened his mouth, ready to shout a warning, but Derek lifted a finger and wagged it from side to side, then put it up against his lips. Okay, the pantomime this guy got. Derek then moved his hand, shooing him away. With a dissatisfied grunt, the bouncer walked past them, out the door.
    Good security was so hard to find when you were a video pirate.
    Cautiously, Derek led Fred down the corridor. They followed the sound of the click from the projector and tense music. Clearly, a film was playing deeper within the building. Their intel seemed to be correct. Something wasn’t right about this bust, though.
    First off, if these pirates really did want to have a screening, why hold it here? Why not cross into Tijuana, where a couple of Jacksons could have bought them all the privacy they wanted? And what serious criminal organization of any caliber hired a meathead like Steroid Boy to do their protection? The guy had turned tail and ran faster than some third graders he knew.
    “Gross!” Fred hissed as he tried to scrape a used condom off the bottom of his shoe.
    “Shh!” Derek replied. The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened.
    Something was wrong. Very wrong.
    “Unsnap your holster,” Derek whispered to Fred as he took his own advice.
    “But regulations state that we should keep them—”
    A bloodcurdling scream shattered the night.
    Derek’s gun was out in one swift movement as Fred fumbled with his snap. Trotting ahead, Derek couldn’t wait, as another scream punctuated the first. He made his way to a room at the end of the corridor. Light filtered into the hallway flashing and swirling on the walls.
    Fred finally caught up as Derek plastered himself against the doorjamb. As Fred took up position on the other side, Derek worried. Was Fred up for this?
    Hell, was he up for this? Could he really point his gun and shoot? That was a question neither he nor the Bureau psychiatrist could answer.
    Derek had to shove aside a thousand vivid memories of blood splattered against a little girl’s pink top as he tried to remain focused.
    There was only one way to find out if either of them were up for this. And that was to take action. Derek poked his head around the corner to survey the room. A quick count added up to around two dozen people seated on the cement floor, apparently entranced by what was transpiring on the screen—if you could call it a screen. A dirty sheet hung from the ceiling, while a black and white film played against the backdrop. Not exactly a high-class bidding environment for the hottest film of the year.
    Another scream rent the air, as a battered and bleeding woman ran across the screen. Derek felt nauseated as the film bounced and shimmied. But at least the screams were emanating from the film, and not a real-life massacre.
    Score one for the night.
    However,