The rain doesn’t fall in Ireland; it materialises. One moment you are dry, a creature of the tarmac; the next, the Atlantic has decided to reclaim the bitumen, and you are a moving part of the mist. For the members of the Rannóg Patróil Trírothach —the Trike Patrol Unit of the Garda Síochána—this is not a nuisance. It is the primary texture of the job.
"Cold spots," Aoife says. "On the water. A RIB, maybe. Engine block is ambient. Hull is freezing. They killed the motor twenty minutes ago." Trike Patrol - Irish
The lead man—a hard-faced individual with a Donegal accent—stares at the vehicle. He stares at the two headlights like unblinking eyes. He stares at the low stance, the aggressive lines, the Garda crest gleaming wet on the side panel. He makes a calculation. The rain doesn’t fall in Ireland; it materialises
"Anything on thermal?" Byrne asks, his voice crackling through the chin mic. It is the primary texture of the job