Britton turned his attention back to the Miata. The driver’s-side window was shattered and several bullets had penetrated the windshield. The windshield had not shattered, but Britton couldn’t help but think how the holes in it looked amazingly like someone had stuck all over it those cheap bullet-hole decals that could be bought at most auto-supply shops.
He walked around the front of the car and saw that it had taken hits in the right fender, the right front tire, and the hood.
He smelled gasoline.
Oh, shit! They got the gas tank!
Then he heard a voice bark: “Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!”
Britton saw that two cops in a patrol car had arrived.
They were both out of their car and had their service Glock semiautomatics aimed at him from behind the passenger door and across the hood.
Both looked as if they had graduated from the academy last week.
The order reminded Britton that he was still holding the Smith & Wesson. At his side, to be sure, pointing at the ground. But holding it.
Not smart, Jack. Not smart!
“Three-six-nine! Three-six-nine!” Britton shouted, using the old Philadelphia police radio code for police officer.
The two very young cops, their Glocks still leveled on him, suddenly looked much older and in charge.
The one behind the driver door repeated the order: “Drop the gun! Drop the gun! Put your hands on the top of your head! Put your hands on the top of your head!”
Britton’s problem was that he did not think he could safely do as ordered—“Drop the gun!”
The Smith & Wesson Model 29 is a double-action model, meaning he could squeeze the trigger to fire a round with the hammer forward or cocked back. The latter required less pressure from the trigger finger.
It was Britton’s belief that one well-aimed shot was more effective than a barrage of shots aimed in the general direction of a miscreant. He also knew that a shot fired in the single-action mode—with the hammer drawn back—was far more likely to strike its intended target than one fired by pulling hard on the trigger with the hammer in the forward—or uncocked—position. The extra effort required to fire from the uncocked position tended to disturb one’s aim.
He had, therefore, formed the habit, whenever drawing his weapon with any chance whatever that he might have to pull the trigger, of cocking the hammer. And he had done so just now when he walked out of his front door.
If I drop this sonofabitch, the impact’s liable to release the hammer, which will fire off a round, whereupon these two kids are going to empty their Glocks at me.
“Three-six-nine!” Britton said again. “I’m Jack Britton. I’m a detective. This is my house. My wife and I are the ones who were—”
“I’m not going to tell you again, you sonofabitch! Drop the gun! Drop the gun!”
“May I lay it on the ground, please? The hammer—”
“Drop the fucking gun!”
“Take it easy, fellows,” a new voice said with authority.
Britton saw two more Philly policemen, a captain and a sergeant. He had not seen another car drive up, but now noticed there were four police cars on Churchill Lane. The wail of sirens in the distance announced the imminent arrival of others.
“Hello, Jack,” the captain said.
Britton now recognized him. He had been his sergeant, years ago, when Officer Britton was walking a beat in the Thirty-fifth District.
“If I drop this gun, the hammer’s back, and—”
“Holster your weapons,” the captain ordered firmly. “I know him. He’s one of us.”
When the police officers had complied with the order—and not a second before—the captain walked to Britton and squeezed his shoulder in an affectionate gesture that clearly said, Good to see you, pal.
“Jesus, Jack, they shot the car up, didn’t they?”
“It’s not even two months old,” Britton said.
“What the hell happened here, Jack?”
“Sandra and I were at the Rosewood Caterer’s, on Frankford Avenue, at the Northeast Detectives Christmas party. I thought I was being followed—2002, 2003 Chrysler Town and Country, pale green in color. I didn’t get the tag.”
“Tommy,” the captain ordered, “put out a flash on the car. . . .”
“Black males, maybe in Muslim clothing,” Britton furnished, “armed with automatic AKs, last seen heading west on Wessex Lane.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. He grabbed the lapel mike attached to his shirt epaulet, squeezed the PUSH TO TALK button, and began to relay the flash information to Police Radio.
“Kalashnikovs?” the captain asked, shaking his head. “Fully auto ones?”
Britton nodded. “And they got the gas tank.” He pointed.
The captain muttered an obscenity and then turned to the young policemen.
“Put in a call to the fire department—gasoline spill,” he ordered, and then looked at Britton.
“Well, although I thought for a minute they weren’t following me, they were,” Britton said. “They came around the bend”—he pointed—“just as Sandra and I got inside the fence. I tackled her behind the wall and then all hell broke loose. . . .”
“She all right?”
“She’s in the basement. Shook up, sure, but all right.”
“Why don’t you put that horse pistol away, and we’ll go talk to her?”
“Jesus,” Britton said, embarrassed that he hadn’t already lowered the hammer and put the Smith & Wesson in its holster.
The captain issued orders to first check to see if anyone might have been injured in the area, and then to protect the scene, and finally gestured to Britton to precede him into his house.
Sandra had left the cellar and now was in the living room, sprawled on the couch. There was a squat glass dark with whiskey on the coffee table, and she had one just like it in her hand.
“You remember Captain Donnelly, honey?”
“Yeah, sure. Long time. Merry Christmas.”
“You all right, Sandra?” Donnelly said, the genuine concern of an old friend clear in his tone.
“As well—after being tackled by my husband, then having those AALs shoot up our house and our new car—as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“AAL is politically incorrect, Sandra,” Captain Donnelly said, smiling.
“I can say it,” she said, pointing to her skin. “I can say African-American Lunatics. I could even say worse, but I’m a lady and I won’t.”
“Take it easy, honey,” Britton said.
“I thought Jack was finished with them,” Sandra said. “Naïve little ol’ me.”
Britton leaned over and picked up the whiskey glass.
“Can I offer you one of these?” he said to Donnelly.
“Of course not. I’m a captain, a district commander, and I’m on duty. But on the other hand, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?”
“I’ll get it,” Sandra said, rising gracefully from the couch. “I moved the bottle to the kitchen knowing I would probably have more than one.”
Donnelly looked at Britton.
“Tough little lady,” he said admiringly.
“Yeah. Those bastards! I understand them wanting to whack me, but . . .”
“Jack, let’s get a few things out of the way.”
“Like what?”
“I heard you left the department, but that’s about all I know. You’re still in law enforcement?”
“I guess you could say that,” Britton said, and took a small leather wallet from his suit jacket and handed it to Donnelly, who opened it, examined it, and handed it back.