I finished the last doughnut and took a sip of the stale coffee. I had lost count of the hours Joe Brown and I had spent trapped in the small confine of the unmarked police car. The car was backed into a narrow dirt road with lights out. It was a warm night and we had wound down all the windows. Both of us were smeared with insect repellent on our arms and faces but some mosquitoes had bitten through the thin fabric of our shirts. The itch was unbearable.
Joe Brown had been in the force a long time and he enjoyed telling stories about criminals he had encountered. I listened half-heartedly to his tales of horror and bloodshed. Suddenly he stopped and became very tense and alert. Then I heard it too, the sound of a truck racing down the country road. I saw a dark shape approaching and a few seconds later Joe plunged the car onto the road. I tightened my seat belt and peered at the road dimly lit by the moonlight. We followed the truck at a distance so as not to arouse the driver's suspicion.
The truck headed towards a small house at the end of the road. The driver turned off the engine and got down quickly. Somebody in the house turned on the lights in the front porch. He looked around cautiously before knocking on the front door. The door opened and a familiar face peered out. Even from such a distance, I could see the ragged scar on his cheek. The same scar I often gazed at on one of the wanted posters of robbers pasted in the station.
"This must be their hideout," Joe whispered to me. I nodded, glad that we had finally found them. A security guard had been ruthlessly shot dead when they robbed a bank a week ago. Using my walkie-talkie, I informed the rest. I know soon the place would be swarmed with patrol cars and policemen. I took out my gun and waited.