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.