Page 79 of Fallen

“Tire blew. I … ran off the road. I’m okay.”

The Explorer sits at a steep angle, nose down, surrounded by trees. A branch the size of a fence post juts through the passenger window, two feet from my face. I’m covered with glass and dirt and mud. I’m shaking. Blood on the seat. I don’t know where it came from.

In the periphery of my vision I see movement ahead and to my right. Someone in the trees. A motorist coming to help …

“I’m a police officer!” I unfasten my seat belt, reach for the door handle. “I’m not hurt!”

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

The unmistakable sound of gunfire. Adrenaline kicks, followed by an electric zing of fear. I duck, shove open the door. It creaks, hits a tree. Simultaneously, I reach for my .38, yank it out. The door won’t open enough for me to squeeze through. I’m in an awkward position. Leaning right, I look around wildly. Too dark to see. Too many trees. No sign of the gunman. In the back of my mind I wonder why a motorist would brave the incline only to take a shot … The answer hovers. No time to ponder.

Another pop! Ping!

A bullet ricochets. So close I feel the concussion on the seatback. I raise the .38 and fire blindly. “I’m a police officer!” I scream. “Put down the weapon! Put it down!”

Two more shots ring out.

I fall against the seat, hunker down as low as I can, gripping the .38. I’m blind here. A sitting duck. I hit my radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired!” I shout out my location. “Ten-thirty-one-E! Ten-thirty-three!” Shooting in progress. Officer in trouble. Emergency.

Pop! Pop!

“Police officer!” I scream. “Drop your weapon! Drop it now! Get on the fucking ground!”

Pop! Pop! Pop!

A slug tings against steel. Another slams into the shattered slab of windshield, sending a spray of glass onto me. Vaguely, I’m aware of Tomasetti shouting through my Bluetooth. Too scared to understand the words. My police radio crackling to life as my call for help goes out.

I’m on my side. Jammed between the steering wheel and the seat. Not enough room to maneuver. I have no idea where the shooter is. I can’t get to my Maglite. I raise my head. A single headlight illuminates an ocean of young trees. Ahead, a plowed field. No movement or sound.

Where the hell is the shooter?

If he were to approach from the side, I wouldn’t see him until he was right on top of me.…

“Shit. Shit.” Breaths coming like a piston in my lungs.

I swivel, reach for the passenger door handle, shove it open with my shoulder. The tree branch keeps it from opening all the way. Enough of a gap for me to slide through. Holding my weapon at the ready, I slither out. Shoulder sinking into mud. Cold penetrating my shirt. Then I’m on my knees, exposed, heart raging, looking around. No sign of the shooter.

Relief rushes through me when I hear the distant song of a siren. I hold my position, trying not to notice that my gun is shaking, that the butt is slick against my wet palms. I can’t quite catch my breath. I’m on my knees, using the passenger-side door for cover, when I see the red and blue lights flicker off the treetops.

“Sheriff’s Office! Drop the weapon! Show me your hands!”

I call out and identify myself. “I don’t know where the shooter is!”

I hear the crack of a police radio. The sound of breaking brush as the deputy makes his way down to me.

“Do not move!” he screams.

I see the flicker of a flashlight. My legs are shaking so violently, it takes me two tries to get to my feet. When I finally make it, I’m nauseous, so I lean against the door, shove my .38 back into my holster, and concentrate on not throwing up.

The approaching deputy blinds me with his flashlight beam as he skids down the incline.

“Painters Mill PD.” I put up my hand to shield my eyes. “I haven’t seen the shooter for a minute or two,” I say.

“You know where he went? You get a look at him?”

“No,” I say. “Male. Armed. He fired multiple times at me.”

“Vehicle?”