Major Karnage by Gord Zajac Page B

ain’t about to leave an officer out here to
die of exposure.”
    “So instead you’ll get me killed on this fool’s mission. Well, you
can forget it. I won’t—”
    Karnage cracked the butt of his rifle across Sydney’s head,
knocking her out cold. “Suit yourself.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    Riggs lounged in the backseat of the limo. He leaned against the
ravaged remains of the mini-bar as he drank his third martini. His
silk shirt and matching pants were cool against his skin. He looked
down at his Tommy Dabney shoes. They sparkled so brightly they
practically winked at him. He leaned back into the plush leather of
the seat and sighed. He was drowning in luxury and he was going to
savour every second of it.
    Riggs watched Patrick drive. Patrick hadn’t acknowledged Riggs’s
existence since they had left the precinct. Riggs leaned forward and
tapped on the glass divider. The divider sank down behind the seats,
and Patrick’s goggles appeared in the rear view mirror. “Is there a
problem, sir?”
    “No. No problem,” Riggs said. “Just wanted to talk is all.”
    “I see.”
    Riggs pulled himself up and rested his head on the back of the front seat. “Let me ask you something, Patrick. Are you happy?”
Patrick considered this. “Happy, sir?”
    “Yeah. Happy.”
    “Do you mean with life in general?”
    “Huh.” Riggs thought about that. Was that what he had meant?
    He snapped his fingers. “Yeah. In general. Like life. Family. Career.
All that stuff.”
    Patrick stayed silent a long while, watching the road. Riggs
started to wonder if he had somehow offended him. Finally, Patrick
replied. “All things considered, I suppose you could say that.”
    Riggs slapped the back of the seat. “Exactly! That’s the way it
should be! Everybody’s always bitchin’ about how everything sucks.
This sucks. That sucks. Everything used to be better. Fuck that—
pardon my French, Patrick—but fuck that! Things are good. Things
are great! Look at the two of us! Happier than a couple of clams in
shit.”
    “Pigs.”
    “Sorry?”
    “I believe it’s ‘pigs in shit.’ Clams don’t require shit to be happy, sir. They just are.”
    “Oh. Oh yeah.” Riggs looked at his half-empty martini glass.
He wondered if it truly was only his third. “Well, you know what I
mean.”
    “I do. And may I say, it’s refreshing to meet such an optimist,” Patrick said.
    “Yeah. Me, too.” Riggs leaned back in his seat, then leaned
forward again. “It sounds pretty exciting though, doesn’t it?”
    “What does, sir?”
    “This job. This new gig.”
    “I suppose.”
    “Malcolm Riggs: fast, free-wheeling consultant.”
    “That’s one way of looking at it.”
    “Hot and cold running booze.”
    “They may prefer you not to drink on the job.”
    “And the babes, Patrick. The babes!”
    Patrick smiled. “You might find it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,
sir.”
    “Oh, let me dream, Patrick. Let me dream.”
    “Dream all you like, sir. I just wouldn’t count my chickens before
they hatch if I were you.”
    Riggs swished a mouthful of martini in his mouth, then
swallowed. “Good point, Patrick. Good point. Wouldn’t want to end
up with a basket full of rotten eggs, right?”
    Patrick nodded. “Or something other than chickens.” Patrick
pulled the car over to the side of the road, and shut off the engine.
    “Here we are, sir.”
    Riggs looked outside. Nothing but empty desert stretched out in
all directions. “Where?”
    “Your destination.”
    “But there’s nothing here.”
    “No,” Patrick said. “There isn’t.”
    Riggs stared at Patrick blankly. “You’re just going to leave me
here?”
    Patrick nodded. “That’s what I’ve been asked to do, yes.”
    “But . . .”
    “But what, sir?”
    “There’s nothing here!”
    “I believe we covered that already.”
    “You . . . you can’t just leave me out here!”
    “I can.”
    “I’ll die!”
    “You won’t.”
    “I