Dillon sat sideways on the sofa, an ashtray by his right hand where he flicked the ash from the ever present cigarette. He was calm. The same could not be said for Anto, who stood by the window pulling back the curtains every 30 seconds.

"They're late again!" said Anto.

"They're always late," said Dillon, "it's their thing. They want us to know that they're in charge."

"Yeah, well fuck them. There has to be somewhere else to get this gear boss?"

The question was directed at the third person in the room. Paul 'Shovels' Quigley. So named for his larger than would be considered normal hands. 

"There's no one else. These are the only game in town, so shut up and chill the fuck out. They'll be here. They want our money just as much as we want their gear."

Dillon couldn't argue with that point. He just pulled on his cigarette and wondered should he light a new one off the end of this one or stub it out and wait for a few minutes before lighting up. He didn't get to contemplate for much longer, his reverie interrupted by the sound of a car parking outside and the engine being turned off. 

He didn't need Anto to tell him that their contacts had arrived.

After opening the door to the new arrivals Anto shuffled in followed by two young men with a medium sized wheelie case. After a few nods of greeting the young men set the case down and opened it to reveal a cache of cocaine, cannabis resin and an assortment of pills. 

Paul grunted at Anto, who retrieved a duffel bag from behind one of the armchairs and handed it over to the new arrivals.

"Check the weight and lets get out of here," said Paul, "we've to unload all this stuff tonight so get a move on yeah!"

Bending to his task, Anto started placing the neatly wrapped packages on a scales he'd set up on the coffee table. Before he was finished weighing the men who arrived with the case had made a cursory inspection of the cash and closed the duffel bag. No one would be stupid enough to try and rip them off. 

"Seems right boss," said Anto, "I'll give one of the young lads a few of the pills to check them out later."

"No worries, Anto," replied Paul, "just get it back and cut and out to the lads tonight if possible. Don't want to be wasting time on it."

Deal done. Anto started packing up the scales and drugs again. Paul shook hands with the two strangers and Dillon started to lift himself from the sofa. 

Dillon didn't have a designated role in the group. One day he'd just sort of showed up and since then he'd just made himself useful. No one really knew anything about him but  he alluded to time spend in the military across the water in the UK so people just assumed he'd left the army and needed something to do for pocket money. In 5 months he'd become an ever present at Paul's side.

So when the door and windows crashed in on the front room of that house, he behaved like you'd expect. As the armed Gardai streamed into the room, he raised his hands on top of his head and got down on his knees. That didn't stop the overzealous cop being a bit rough but soon enough he was back on the couch, this time his hands zip tied neatly behind his back. 

"Don't say a fucking word Anto. Keep quiet and someone will be in to you later. D'ya hear me?" Paul said sharply.

"And that goes for you and all, right?" this time he was speaking to Dillon.

"I know the drill Paul."

A Detective Inspector walked in before Dillon could say anything else. He looked around the room, at the bag of money and the drugs and he aimed his gaze and the five men now say around the room

"You really fucked this one up Shovels. No walking away from this one!"

"Blow me ye prick. You'll do nothin' to me. Prick." shouted Paul.

The Detective Inspector ignored him and looked at the other men. 

"Get an ID on those two. Find out who they work for. Let's wake some bodies up and rattle a few cages and see what falls out." he said to a couple of younger coppers.

"This one is Anto Daly. You'll find plenty on him on Pulse. Check to see if there are any outstanding warrents and let's see what else we can hold him for. If he's out on bail then let's get him in front of the bench as quickly as possible." 

"You I don't know. Who the fuck are you and what are you doing hanging around with a bunch of tossers like this hmmm?"

Dillon didn't even look up. In fact he'd stopped listening a few minutes previously. He was trying to think of how he could get his hands on a cigarette. 

"Get him out. Keep them all seperate. Different stations. Bring this prick to Pearse St. I want to have a chat with him."

The Detective Inspector turned on his heel and walked out of the room, the tails of his long coat flapping. Dillon got the distinct impression this was the effect he'd been hoping for, like he was some sort of caped superhero. The only real effect it has was to make Dillon roll his eyes.

He was hoisted up by yet another younger cop and escorted from the room. He could feel Paul's eyes on his back but he never even looked around. 

Stepping out into the cold evening, he wished he'd had a chance to zip up his coat. The air rushed in and enveloped him around his chest making him cough. He felt the nudge that was intended to get him to keep moving, and while he'd normally have resisted, the cold made him mentally shrug and continue his walk. 

He allowed the cop to direct him using pressure on his elbow and after about 30 feet he came to a halt at the back door of an oversized BMW SUV. The door opened and Dillon, not one