by Frank Zafiro
Morris reached down for the fifteenth or twentieth time and felt the cool metal of his.380.
“This is it,” he said, his voice high-pitched with excitement. “He’s stopping.”
0412 hours
Kopriva shut off his headlights out of habit as he swung into the Circle K at Market and Euclid. As he pulled up to the front of the store, just to the north of the doors, his mind did a double-take.
A short, slender white male with long black hair was holding a gun on the clerk inside.
“Holy Christ,” he whispered and reached for his mike. “Baker-123, robbery in progress at Market and Euclid.”
Janice sat upright in her chair, dropping the novel she’d been reading. She punched the alarm tone broadcast as she adjusted her headset, then cleared her throat before depressing the foot petal to make the city-wide broadcast.
James Mace heard the loud, shrill tone burst from the small radio behind the counter.
“What the fuck is that?” he growled at the clerk.
“P-police scanner,” the terrified woman stammered.
A stoic female voice came over the radio. “Dispatch to all units. Armed robbery in progress at Market and Euclid. Further information to follow.”
“You hit the fucking alarm?” Mace yelled, infuriated.
“No, I didn’t hit any-”
He raised the gun and fired twice, shooting the woman in the face. He didn’t even blink as wet scalp and skull splattered against the wall behind her. He grabbed the money and headed for the door.
Linda Anderson had waited tables at Mary’s Cafe for three years. Never before had she seen every cop in the place empty out for a call. Their sudden exodus forced her to slide into a booth to avoid being trampled as they rushed out and caused her to drop the huge tray laden with breakfast food, covering the floor in a mixture of eggs, bacon and French toast.
Kopriva stood behind the door of his patrol car, one leg on the pavement, and one leg against the doorjamb. He wedged his back squarely against the car frame. That protected the majority of his body behind the cruiser’s engine block. The radio mike sat on the driver’s seat, within quick reach.
He witnessed the robber shoot the female clerk in the head and had to resist the urge to run inside, knowing she was already dead. Instead, he drew a bead on the robber inside the store and waited patiently. He felt suddenly very grateful that the department had transitioned to the.40-caliber auto-loaders the year before. They were virtual cannons compared to the.38’s the police used to carry.
He was so intent on the distant wail of sirens in the cool morning air, that he did not hear the sound of two car doors being opened behind him.
Mace burst out through the glass doors of the Circle K and saw the cop and his car.
“Police! Don’t move!” boomed the powerful voice.
Mace didn’t bother with a reply, answering with two quick shots.
“Police! Don’t move!” Kopriva’s voice sounded thin and squeaky to him. No authority. No wonder the robber’s response was to shoot.
Kopriva returned fire without conscious thought, believing he was firing blindly. He barely recognized the mechanics that his body and mind went through routinely as they had been trained.
Focus on the front sight.
Light bars level and equal.
Center mass on the fuzzy target.
Squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it.
In one second, Kopriva snapped off three shots and watched as the bullets threw the robber backward into the outdoor ice cooler.
Mace slammed into a hard wall and lost his wind. He felt the gun slip from his hand and clatter to the concrete as he slid slowly down to his buttocks. He took two shallow breaths. He heard more shots, but felt nothing.
With an effort, he forced himself to his knees, then erect, leaning on the ice cooler for balance. His right hand on the cooler, then the wall, he forced himself to flee in a staggering, shuffling gait.
Move it, Ranger!
In his left hand, he clutched the paper bag, still full of money.
As if in answer to his own three shots, Kopriva heard more shots. But the robber had dropped his gun and was sliding down the ice cooler. Echoes?
Behind! These shots were coming from behind him.
In the same instant, he felt a hot pain enter his upper back and explode out his chest, causing a shattering pain in his left collarbone. Wetness bathed his face as he rocked forward, then pitched violently backwards as a smashing force struck behind his left knee. He hit the pavement with a sickening thud, cracking his head on the hard asphalt. He felt hot air and heard a whizzing sound as pavement was chipped away and showered his face.
The morning is so dark, he thought to himself.
Morris and T-Dog emptied their magazines, firing at the cop in tandem. Gun enthusiasts called the method “spray-and-pray” and looked upon it with disdain as the only refuge of the poor marksman. Morris didn’t care about that shit, though. All he cared about was what he saw-that punk cop went down and went down hard.
T-Dog saw the same thing and felt a sense of exhilaration shoot through his body. He looked at the small, black auto. The slide was locked to the rear and smoke curled slowly out of the now-empty chamber.
They’d done it. Now all they had to do was get away with it.
He gave a victory whoop, turned and trotted back to the car. He was surprised to see Morris walk swiftly toward the fallen cop.
Of course, T-Dog realized. He wants to be sure.
Morris stood above the cop and looked down. He tried to be smug, but he was too jacked up.
“You aren’t such a bad-ass after all, are you, cracker?” He spat in the cop’s face and raised his pistol to finish him off.
A headshot, Morris decided, so the casket would have to be closed.
Kopriva heard words as if he were underwater. Something wet splatted against his face. He forced his eyes open.
Morris stood above him, aiming a pistol at his face. It had to be a.45, the barrel looked so huge.
Kopriva didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself to the right using his good leg, turning like a top. Morris fired and the bullet crashed into Kopriva’s left arm, just above the elbow.
He lifted his own pistol. It felt heavy. He knew it wavered as he fired. He fired as many times as he could. The gunfire sounded liked tiny pops. He counted five pops before his strength gave out and his gun hand fell to his lap.
Kopriva took shallow wavering breaths and gathered his strength.
He knew the fight wasn’t over yet.
“Fuck me!” T-Dog watched as the cop blasted away at Morris, huge booming explosions that threw Morris back several yards to the ground, where he lay crumpled and broken.
T-Dog saw the cop lay still and thought for a moment that they were both dead. Then he heard Morris moan in pain. The cop twitched and then struggled onto his right elbow.
“Fuck this!” T-Dog ran to the car, jumped in and floored it, heading south on Market.
Kopriva heard the squeal of tires and knew the other shooter was gone. All he’d seen of that suspect was his white skin. He set his gun on his lap and pulled himself into a sitting position, his back pressing hard against the running board of the open door. He reached for the mike on the driver’s seat, watching Morris moan and writhe in pain.
Morris had never been shot. A lot of gang bangers had, especially in Compton, and they all said it only hurt for a minute. Morris decided that they were all liars. All his wounds were in the hip and groin area. He knew bones had been shattered. It hurt so bad that he couldn’t sit still, but every movement only caused him to scream out in pain.
Morris wondered if he were dying.
He saw the.380 lying several feet in front of him. He began to crawl painfully toward it, away from the officer.
If I’m gonna die, that motherfucker is going with me.
“Goddamn this bucket of bolts!” Chisolm cursed, flooring the patrol car. With a hundred and seven thousand
miles on the engine, it had little power left. Chisolm asked for everything it had, which wasn’t much. He felt the wheels slip in the corners and the transmission clunk as he shifted manually to get the best speed he could.
“Come on,” he urged. He was still at least a minute away.
Kopriva keyed the mike. “Baker-123. Signal-99. Shots fired. I’m hit.”
He dropped the mike back onto the driver’s seat, his head swimming.
Janice felt her lip tremble as she repeated the signal-99. “All units respond, Euclid and Market. Shots fired, officer down. Channel is restricted for Baker-123 only. All other units use data channel.” She motioned to another dispatcher, who plugged into the data channel and began sending units, even though it wasn’t necessary. Any police car within radio range was running balls out to Kopriva’s location right now.
“I need medics at Euclid and Market, now!” she called out to her supervisor, Carrie Anne, who was already on the phone.
Hold on, Kopriva, she thought to herself, then keyed her mike.
Morris reached the gun, clutching it hard in his right hand. The slide wasn’t locked to the rear. That meant he had at least one shot left.
One for you, motherfucker.
He took a couple of short breaths. He realized that could feel both his legs all the way to his toes. Good. At least he wasn’t crippled.
Morris rolled over and took aim.
Kopriva fired one-handed, the gun barking in his strong hand. He saw a spray of blood in Morris’ right forearm and knew he’d hit his target. The gun in Morris’ hand flew backward as Morris rolled completely over once and ended up facing him again.
Kopriva lowered his gun. The stabbing pain had subsided to a dull throb. He mused that everyone had been right, after all. This is what he got for being such a code-four cowboy.
“Baker-123, your status?”
He placed the gun in his lap and reached for the mike again. “Two suspects down. One fled. White male. Brown Chevy.” He took several shallow breaths while Janice re-broadcast the information.
“Who is it?” he croaked at Morris.
“Fuck you,” groaned Morris.
Kopriva swallowed and noted the coppery taste of blood. “Hear those sirens? Nobody here but me and you till they get here.” He placed the mike on the driver’s seat again.
“Fuck. You.” Morris repeated. It came out as a low moan.
Kopriva lifted his pistol from his lap, steadied his aim and fired. He watched with satisfaction and the bullet exploded through Morris’s calf. A shrill screech escaped the gang banger’s lips.
“You want to be alive when the ambulance comes?” Kopriva asked wetly, his breath coming in ragged breaths. “Who’s the other guy?”
Morris moaned weakly.
Kopriva raised his pistol again, feeling very weak.
“T-Dog,” Morris told him.
“Baker-123. White male. Moniker T-Dog.”
“Copy,” Janice said, typing furiously.
“Medics en route,” Carrie Anne called.
“Copy,” Janice said, noting the time in the computer.
She slid over one terminal and ran the nickname T-Dog with a white male. The computer accepted the entry. It seemed to take an eternity searching through the database, flashing the message “Checking” over and over again.
She got a hit. She did a display entry and read quickly, then keyed the mike with the foot pedal.
“Baker-123, I have a white male, Gerald Anthony Trellis. Is that your subject?”
“Trellis?” he tried to shout at Morris, but his voice was getting weaker. Morris surprised him by answering.
“Yeah.”
Kopriva keyed the mike. “Affirm.”
“Copy. -123, medics are en route. Hold on.”
Kopriva clicked his mike and let it fall to the seat.
Morris used his left hand to ease the two-shot derringer from his back pocket. He’d only told the cop about T-Dog to buy time. What did he care about that dumb motherfucker, anyway? White bread piece of shit left him to die. What a pussy.
The derringer felt heavy in his hand. He lay across his arm and realized he would have to roll back to free it. He tried to but failed. The pain in his legs was gone, but so was the feeling. Did that mean he was going to be a cripple after all?
He tried to flop his right arm down in front of him. Maybe he could push himself backward.
The sirens were getting closer, Kopriva could tell. He watched Morris for a moment as the gang member seemed to shudder and twitch. He thought about covering him with his gun until backup arrived, but realized he didn’t have enough strength left to lift the pistol.
His head lolled back, resting against the driver’s seat. He looked up in the sky at the moon. It hung in the early morning darkness, a tinge of yellow cast over it.
We live and work under that moon every night, Kopriva thought, his thoughts becoming disjointed now. And now I will die here, under a raging moon.
Kopriva drew a wet, shuddering breath and let it out slowly.
Chisolm took the corner hard. “Hold on!” he whispered, knowing that Kopriva couldn’t hear him. The rear end of the car swung out from under him. He punched the accelerator. The tires struggled for a grip on the pavement, then lurched forward.
Morris lay motionless. He’d tried three times to get his left arm out from underneath him, all without success. Impotently, his left fist clutched the derringer, while his right arm hung useless, his fingers resting on the pavement. He felt the wet warmth of his own blood there.
With great effort, he looked up and saw the cop wasn’t moving.
Good. Maybe the motherfucker was already dead.
The sirens were very close now, and Morris found that he was glad to hear them.
Chisolm slammed on the brakes and put the car into park. He made it out of the car before it even stopped rocking. Pistol out, he approached the scene. He saw the downed suspect lying motionless, eyes closed. As he drew near the police car, he spotted Kopriva seated on the pavement, leaning back into the open driver’s doorway. The officer’s gun lay in his lap. Chisolm noticed empty casings on the pavement near him.
Chisolm trained his gun on the downed suspect and moved forward quickly. Once close enough, he rolled the suspect forward onto his stomach and put his knee across his neck.
Then he saw the derringer in the suspect’s left hand.
The hand twitched.
Chisolm’s free hand shot down, grasping the suspect’s wrist. A low moan escaped the injured man’s lips. Chisolm holstered his pistol and removed the derringer from the suspect’s grip. There was no resistance. Either the man was too weak to put up a fight or he simply surrendered. Chisolm quickly cuffed the wounded man behind the back and made his way to Kopriva.
He set the derringer on the ground next to Kopriva. He pulled the uniform shirt back and examined the officer’s wounds. One through the upper back. Looked like it entered where the vest panel was thin and exited at the collarbone. The bone stuck out of the wound, a compound fracture.
“Try not to move,” Chisolm told Kopriva softly.
Kopriva’s only reply was a cross between a grunt and a moan.
Chisolm continued to check for wounds. Another one in the left arm, just above the elbow. Blood coursed from that wound. There was a third injury in his left knee, a huge hole in the kneecap. Painful, but not life-threatening.
Chisolm rose and ran back to the handcuffed suspect. Rolling him over, he searched until he found what he wanted. Hanging from his right front pocket was a blue bandanna. Blue, the color for all Crips. Chisolm took it without a hint of irony.
Kopriva’s eyelids fluttered and he groaned when Chisolm wrapped the bandanna tightly around the wound in his upper arm. The pain had probably roused him.
“Tom?” he whispered weakly.
“Yeah, Stef, it’s me. Hold tight. You’re gonna be fine.” He forced a smile. “You’re just lucky that bangers are such terrible shots.”
“Scarface,” he whispered, coughing blood. He pointed toward the store.
Chisolm looked up and saw matted slide marks smeared on the ice-cooler by the door to the convenience store. A small revolver lay on the pavement. A moment later, he saw the trail of blood that lead to the corner of the store, where the light ended. He looked back to Kopriva.
“Scarface.” Kopriva mouthed the word more than said it. With his right hand he held up four fingers. Code four. “Go.”
Chisolm considered for a moment. Kopriva was badly hurt, but he knew of nothing more he could do for him. The suspect lay handcuffed and barely conscious himself. But what if Kopriva died? He couldn’t let the man die alone.
Chisolm hesitated. In all his experience, he’d learned that most men could sense when they were going to die. Without exception, they did not wish to die alone. It was a true test that he had used on more than one occasion. Especially if the man had stones. Kopriva was a tough kid. If he wasn’t asking Chisolm to stay, he probably wasn’t going to die.
Chisolm grabbed Kopriva’s four fingers and squeezed. “Medics are on the way, cowboy. You’ll be fine?”
Kopriva nodded.
Chisolm nodded back and set off in the direction of the blood trail.
Kopriva felt his confidence fade as soon as Chisolm left his sight. He’d often morbidly wondered what, or who, he would be thinking about as he lay dying. He found his mind strangely empty.
He blinked slowly and stared up at the moon that raged in the night sky above.
Matt Westboard used Illinois, a wide road that ran diagonally from Perry to Market. He hit one-hundred and ten miles per hour before he had to slow for the upcoming curve onto Market.
Then he saw a white four-door Chrysler at Haven and Grace, one very short block to the north. He locked up his tires. A small, single driver. Probably female.