Ordinarily Samuel would not have stopped. He was busy, after all, sweat-slick and reeking of gunpowder, fresh from the SWAT team's own outdoor range. His black tee shirt - Orange County, it read, S.W.A.T. emblazoned in white across his broad back - clung tightly to his skin, fitted closely to tanned flesh. The workday loomed equally before and him, the bright sun overhead serving only to remind him just how quickly night would fall and find him in uniform once more. His shower called, and the warm, unmade thicket of his bed, and a frigid beer straight from his freezer down his throat - in precisely what order even he could not say. But regardless of his typical inclinations, it was difficult to ignore the tractor-trailer blocking a sizable portion of Pax Letale's lot, or the brilliantly flashy BMW, hazard lights on, that blocked still more of its limited free space. His sizable Dodge Ram was already parked, meaning the newcomer's sprawling presence proved no real obstacle to him personally, but it was the principle of the thing. And so he stopped, contrary to all his typical inclinations, green eyes and quirked brow leveled at the shattered glass beneath the other man's hands. His shadow cast a dark pall on the photographs, a veil of opaque blackness concealing memories of happier times.
"Well," he drawled, shifting his hard-edged gun case in his hand, his rough palm curling tighter around its thick handle. "And here I thought moving companies were supposed to keep shit like that from happening."