It was my first day on the street.
The city’s newest crime-fighter. A silver badge wobbled over a permanent pleat on my tailored uniform, bulletproof vest beneath, adding needed inches to my frame. The stiff nylon had a habit of riding up.
Shift one had been slow. A bespectacled old lady blowing a stop sign. A vagrant passed out in a gas station bathroom, pants around his ankles, needle dangling from a bruised leg. I swung a left onto Lincoln Drive and spotted my next customer.
The old Chevy rolled like a barge. Only one taillight burned as it slowed for the intersection, Kansas plates flapping on two rusty screws. Four white males occupied the maroon seats. Shaved heads glowed ghostly pale in the glare. I juiced my twin-turbo Ford and closed the distance.
With a flick of the switch, I powered up my light bar. The Chevy kept cruising south, unaware of my presence or ignoring it. Five-second grace period expired, I double-tapped the siren.
All four occupants jolted upright. The driver’s eyes flashed in the rearview, bulging white and pinprick black. The Chevy bucked on its brakes and veered onto the gravel shoulder.
“Dispatch, this is six-three. Vehicle stop north of Lincoln and Wabash,” I reported into my radio, followed by the license plate number.
The driver’s eyes fixed on me in the rearview as the Chevy rocked to a stop. The one taillight stayed glowing. I parked a car length away, checked for oncoming traffic, and began my approach. As I lifted a hand to place a traceable palm print on the trunk, my radio crackled.
“Six-three, dispatch.”
I tugged my vest out of my throat and responded, “Dispatch, six-three. Go ahead.”
“You’ll want to check your computer, six-three.”
The lapse in radio protocol startled me. I could see the driver’s temple pulsing as he continued mad-dogging me.
“Sit tight for me. I’ll be right back with you,” I instructed the eyes.
I backpedaled to my cruiser and yanked open the door I’d left unlatched. My dash-mounted laptop chirped at me. I opened the notification and scanned the information the dispatcher had sent me.
OCCUPANTS WANTED IN KANSAS FOR MURDER OF A PEACE OFFICER. ARMED AND EXTREMELY DANGEROUS. SENDING ADDITIONAL UNITS YOUR WAY FOR FELONY STOP. STATE POLICE PLACING ROADBLOCK ONE MILE SOUTH.
A chill in the summer air. I caught movement in my peripheral — the stone statue passengers shifting in their seats. Backup was at least five minutes out. An eternity.
In a haze, I thumbed my PA mic. “It’s your lucky day. You’re free to go,” I announced through the loudspeaker, fighting to keep my voice even.
I could explain it away later. They took off on me. No video, my dash cam had shorted out. I had a whole career ahead to be brave.
The taillight blinked. Dry-rotted tires rolled over the shoulder and then the Chevy accelerated away.
I didn’t budge for a few minutes, emergency lights flashing noiselessly overhead. They won’t make it through the roadblock. Tactically, it was the right call. I pulled my can of dip and packed a wad in my lip. Then, my radio crackled.
“All officers, Code Three! State Police report shots fired at the intersection of Lincoln and Lake. Suspects have automatic weapons.”
One by one, my fellow city officers broke the air to report their locations and estimated time of arrival. I knew I was closest.
“Dispatch, six-three. I’m en route, two minutes,” I said.
I raced down five blocks. I flipped on my siren. Ahead, the flashing reds and blues of three state SUVs. I pumped the brakes, unbuckled my seatbelt. Pistol in hand, I dove out of my cruiser.
Spent brass littered the intersection. The Chevy was nowhere in sight.
I crept around the first SUV. My boot hit something soft.
Someone.
A blue-uniformed state trooper lay spread eagle on the hot asphalt. I counted three holes in his face before vomiting. Brain matter leaked out the back of his skull. I’d had roast beef for lunch. Then, I noticed the true horror.
Five more bodies decorated the pavement, uniforms stitched with bloody holes, each face obliterated.
More sirens echoed in the distance.
[Image Credit : Photo by Devin Kaselnak on Unsplash]
Nick Halstead works in marketing in the US Midwest. In addition to writing, he stays busy with his two German Shepherds and enjoys cooking, reading, exercising, and playing guitar. He is currently working on his second novel, a spy thriller.
