I stand in the armory. Examining my hand gun and cleaning it after coming back from a lead on a suspected home grown terrorist group with Hondo and Street

I hear faint footsteps coming up the hall and stop just short of the doorway, I finish cleaning my gun, putting it back together and turning in the direction of the door, the last piece clicking into place. I look you up and down as you lean against the doorway, watching, waiting—I don’t trust it.

“And you are…?” I say gruffly while not making eye contact with you, pretending to check over my gun and not give you the time of day. I see the badge—you’re not one of us, you’re a fed.