Page 67 of Somewhere in the Sunset

I park the cruiser up a few doors down, out of sight. Sometimes if a wanted felon spots the car first, they’re gone before we’ve even knocked on the front door. I grab the papers and triple-check the details one more time, arming myself with the facts. I tell dispatch we’ve arrived at the address, and then Bill follows me out of the car.

“You’re pretty solid when it comes to executing arrest warrants,” he says, “so stop fidgeting with your belt. You know what you’re doing, Reed, so act like it.”

I instantly stop fiddling with my flashlight and lift my head higher, chest out. “Oh, a compliment? Geez, Bill. I need to have a breakdown on shift with you more often. You’re a changed man.”

“Ahh. Let’s just say you’re my favorite rookie.” He smiles fondly.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Bill shakes his head. “I’m not. The rookies I teach are usually overconfident and they try to skip ten steps ahead because they think they know better. You’re the opposite. You doubt yourself. Question yourself. That makes you the best kind of officer to teach. And you’re Mark’s son, so that kind of makes you feel like mine, too.”

“You sure do ride my ass like a father would,” I mutter, and we share a laugh. I didn’t realize Bill held me in such high regard, but maybe with his continued mentoring, Icoulddo this, after all. I’m perfectly competent, but my fear gets in the way. Maybe if I overcome that fear, I’d grow to enjoy the thrill of never knowing what my next shift at work will entail.

We approach the old Victorian home, painted yellow with a garage beneath and stairs leading to the front door. Bill waits at the foot of the stairs, his hands on his hips and his sunglasses shielding his eyes. He gives me the go-ahead nod.

I climb the stairs and knock on the door. It’s just after seven, so our guy may still be asleep, or he may not even be home at all. I listen for any signs of life inside, but I hear no movement. I rap my knuckles against the door harder this time.

“Police department,” I call loudly. “We’re here to serve an arrest warrant for .?.?.” I trail off as there’s a noise from inside the house. I step closer to the door, trying to hear better. The warrant stated no other persons lived at this address. “Mr. Jones, I can hear you. Please come to the door.”

Bill sighs. Serving arrest warrants is seldom easy. If the door isn’t answered immediately, then it’s obvious our wanted person is choosing evasion, and evasion leads to resisting, and resisting leads to a struggle. I glance back at Bill and scowl. It also means I’m going to have to stomp my foot through the door.

“I know you’re in there,” I say, keeping my tone steady. “I need you to open up the door or we’re going to have to bust it down. It’s your choice, but I’d rather not damage your property, so c’mon. Let’s not make things difficult for each other.”

I wait patiently, hand on my duty belt. Sometimes the friendly act works, but most of the time, my attempts at establishing trust are futile. No one answers the door, still. I lean over the railing of the stairs and peer through a window, but I can’t spot anyone lurking inside. Our guy is either hunkering down somewhere within the house as though we won’t force entry and find him regardless, or he’s fleeing.

“I’m going to check if there’s a back door,” I tell Bill as I climb back down the steps. “Keep your eyes on the front of the house for me.”

I walk by the garage and turn the corner to head down the side of the house, but I jolt in surprise when there’s already someone staring back at me. It’s our guy from the mugshot, and clearly I’ve woken him, because he’s wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. He’s barefoot. He’s attempting a getaway.

“Hey. Let’s not do this,” I say, holding one hand up in a non-threatening manner while the other instinctively moves to my holster. My blood starts pumping. I’ve caught him off-guard, and he stands frozen, eyes wide. But then his hand twitches toward the waistband of his sweats, and now I drop the nice-cop bullshit. “Hey!Hey!Don’t you fucking dare!”

I grab hold of my firearm, but he’s quicker. He whips out a pistol and points it straight at me. I scramble backward, diving behind a parked car as a gunshot pierces through such a peaceful morning. “Oh, fuck!”

I yank my gun from its holster and keep my back pressed against the car, shielding myself as I radio dispatch. Another shot rings out. I peek around the vehicle and try to get eyes on our suspect, but all I see is Bill crouched down low behind the stairs to the house. A third shot rings through my ears and I realize only at this point that our suspect isn’t running. He’s fighting, and Bill is the one caught in the crossfire. He gets off two shots of his own, and then he ducks fully behind the stairs as a returned shot whistles past him.

He doesn’t have enough coverage behind those stairs. If our suspect advances on him, he’s cornered.

Fuck. My hands are shaking. I’m precise with my shots when there’s no pressure, but when every fleeting second counts, I don’t have time to steady my hands and reset my focus. Still trembling, I rise from the ground and stretch my arms out across the hood of the car, gun pointed.

“Reed, staydown!” Bill yells at me, but it’s too late.

Our suspect spots me. He swings his gun from Bill’s direction to mine, but I get a shot off first. And it fucking misses! Dad will never believe me when he hears I had a clean shot at an armed suspect and I fuckingmissed!I line up for a cleaner second shot, but gunfire sounds before I pull the trigger.

A blinding pain spreads through me. It’s like I’ve just been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer. It knocks the wind out of me and throws me backward to the ground. I suck in a breath and glance down, almost laughing out loud in relief when I see the torn patch in my shirt and my bulletproof vest poking through underneath. Jesus. Why did Bill never warn me that getting hit in your vest feels as though you aren’t even wearing one? Damn.

I groan as I roll over, grabbing my gun from the ground, but there’s more crossfire blazing around me. Bill is shooting back. Our suspect is persevering. This is getting messy. We need to bring him down before any civilians get hurt. Despite the ache in my chest, I struggle back to my feet. I’m going to have a gnarly bruise, that’s for sure. Maybe even a cracked rib.

“Stay down, Bill!” I call out to him. I have more coverage behind this car than he does behind those stairs. “I’ve got this!”

Bill dips low behind the stairs. I edge my way along the car, stretch out from behind the tailgate, and aim.

I’m still not quick enough.

I hit the ground hard again.

Ouch.That hurt a little more. And not my chest this time. My thigh.

I reach down to touch where it hurts, but I can’t feel anything. When I look at my hand, it’s red with blood.

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