A tall man in a trench coat stood between the potatoes and carrots of the Winn-Dixie swearing into his Bluetooth.
“You can’t do this to me. I’ve been on this case too long to just be thrown away like some moldy,” he looked around for a good noun, “cucumber.”
The other shoppers kept their distance.
“What do you mean he’s already on his way?” the man continued.
Another man in the same trench coat but wearing a goatee stood beside the livid man. “It’s time,” he said.
“Twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years and this is how it ends?”
“‘Fraid so.”
A muffled shot ripped through the first man’s stomach.
“Clean up in produce,” the intercom buzzed five minutes later.
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