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Casagrande ran back, flung his door open, and crouched behind it. Creating a shield like he’d been trained.
Brousse did the same.
“Oh shit, Karen. He really is packing.”
Brousse did her authority-scream:“Drop the gun drop it drop it drop it drop it!”while Casagrande called for backup.
She rose from her crouch and peeked through the driver’s window. Kept shouting.
The guy seemed unfazed by the noise. Looked at her, shrugged, then let his eyes drop to the handgun he’d retrieved. Uncurling his fingers, he held the weapon in an open palm, as if offering a gift.
“Good,” said Brousse. “Now drop it and follow my instructions do itnow.”
The guy nodded and lowered the gun.
Thank God. This would end easy.
Then the guy’s smile vanished and his hand closed and his arm flew up and now he was aiming straight at her.
She ducked low.Ping. Ping.Metal and plastic vibrated.
Casagrande was off the radio, standing to the right of his door, his service revolver aimed straight at the guy. Who kept firing at Karen.
One more bullet hit her door. Then another. And another before Casagrande shot the guy. Aiming for center body mass like he was trained but missing and hitting him low in the gut. The shooter looked surprised.
Red spread on dirty gray cotton.
But he held on to his weapon and Casagrande, thinking of Karen, elevated his arm in correction and was about to fire again when the guy let the gun roll from his finger and clunk on the sidewalk. He stared at Casagrande, openmouthed, stood there for a second. His knees went first, bending, buckling, collapsing, then the rest of him. He fell on his face, blood spreading around his bulk.
Sirens were wailing. Karen Brousse thought,When did that start?She saw the stricken look on Armando’s face and motioned him back. Approached the bad guy, her gun gripped in two-handed Weaver stance.
Lots of blood. No movement. The fool’s head had landed on its right side, exposing a gaping mouth and five inches of thin, gray-brown beard. Poor Armando, first time he’d fired his weapon, other than at the range where she outshot him every time. Now he’d killed someone. Her baby would have to go through the OIS crap.
What she wanted to do right now was nudge the body with her toe just to make sure he was no longer a threat. But people had massed on the sidewalk across the street and one was phone-filming. If she touched the fool, even delicately, the internet would accuse her of kicking a poor, defenseless victim of police brutality.
No sign of the gun. Probably trapped under him. Whydothat? Forwhat? Jelly beans and bongs?
He looked damn dead but just to be safe she’d warn whoever came over to move him. And now his smell reached her and yeah, he didreek, stale and sour, like someone who’d slept in his clothes for a month. Those tats, definitely prison art. Up and down his neck and what she could see of the backs of his hands.Loveon one set of knuckles,Hateon the other. No imagination.
She’d just turned her back to see how Armando was doing when four spiffy, black-and-white Explorers sped up and screeched to a halt. Adrenaline was starting to do its thing and she was draining. Let someone else take over.
The fool on the ground groaned.
She wheeled and re-aimed at him. Her heart felt like it had stopped. Then it started thumping like the power hammer in her dad’s machine shop.
The guy didn’t move. No more sound. Maybe what she’d heard was one of those weird after-death things, gas escaping, whatever.
Then she saw it. Rapid pulse in his inked-up neck. Each beat swelling the belly of a crude, black, snake tattoo. Like the hideous thing had just swallowed a mouse and was digesting. Creepy.
Her own heart raced faster. She stood there, hot, cold, hot, eyes blurring, starting to get nauseous.
But she kept her eyes on the snake as it pulsated. Fool was alive, unbelievable. Probably because Armando had shot low.
If he survived, fool would probably be shitting into a bag for the rest of his life.
Fine with her.
Though it would be paid for by the taxpayers and that sucked.
