Seb:
“They’ve hit again”
Officer Forstel put down his coffee and sighed. “Again?”
“Yeah, they stole a car and went on a rampage” replied Mitchell, rubbing sweat from his forehead “fifteen dead, three hospitalized. That’s the sixth time this week, word on the street is that – shit, the Deputy’s coming, look lively.”
The pair scrambled in an effort to seem busy as the Deputy Inspector passed them, walking to the front of the office. “Lads, this is a bad time for us. Those idiots out there are making the 100th Precinct look like chumps. While we’re following up last week’s crimes, they’re already committing 10 more. The press are making it sound like we’re standing around with our dicks in our hands while the world ends and the Mayor’s shoving so much red tape up my arse I can taste it.
We have to stop this crime spree or total anarchy is going to break out – the shit has already hit the fan and we’ve got to be the city’s umbrella. Effective immediately, all leave is cancelled and you’re all working double shifts.
Forstel, Mitchell, Ramirez – follow up this anonymous tip, go to the address and see if it’s absolute crap or something we can work with.”
They left, barely talking, all thinking of the officers that had been killed trying to stop these criminals: Jones, Patterson, Larowski, Blaylock.
Keys in the ignition. Foot on the pedal. Siren on. Don’t be scared. Don’t think about the family. Don’t think about the children. Think about the job. Think about survival.
They knew the drill, they knew they had to keep their mind focused. They were soldiers off to fight a war and protect their home from the enemy.
Mitchell broke the silence: “ You ever wonder about our hats?”
“What?” said Forstel, frustrated at the distraction.
“I mean, look at this thing. Cloth, leather, cardboard… it wouldn’t even help against a punch, let alone a bullet.”
Forstel glanced at the rear-view mirror, finally paying attention to the junior officer who nervously shifted in the backseat. “Look, it’s just like a symbol, y’know? People see that and they think ‘Police’ and they get scared, they get worried, gives us an edge. It’s all a matter of respect.”
Mitchell paused, concern flashing across his face. “It’s just, that’s the thing… these guys, the ones we’re after, they don’t respect us. They’re not afraid, they just shoot us down like rats in a barrel and all I’ve got is this stupid cloth hat.”
“And this” said Ramirez, cocking a 9mm Service pistol as the car slowed and parked on the curb. “Don’t worry kid, we’ve got your back, and you’ve got ours. Now follow my lead.”
They got out, holsters unbuttoned and Kevlar jackets on. “Tip says they were seen buying ammunition at this store yesterday. They’re probably long gone, but keep your eyes open and your ears perked” muttered Forstel, repeating what they already knew to try and comfort himself.
He didn’t see the bullet coming, he didn’t hear the gunshot. He just crumpled, like a puppet whose master had let go of the strings. Blood and skull fragments splattered over their car, his face unrecognizable, a mess of red and white. The second shot lifted Ramirez into the air, his bullet-proof vest useless against the sheer ferocity of the speeding lead. He was dead before he hit the ground. A third shot rang out, hitting Mitchell in the side, sending him spinning and crashing to the floor.
He gasped in pain, blood filling his lungs. As his life drained away, he heard them approach.
“Nice aim Franklin! You’re getting better every day,” said a voice.
“Thanks Michael, I’m really loving this new gun,” said another.
“Will you two homos shut the fuck up take their ammo so we can get the hell out of here?” said a third.
“Fine Trev” replied the first voice, “let’s go – or as my kid would say, let’s bounce”.
—
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