Morris wondered if he were dying.
He saw the.380 lying several feet in front of him. He began to crawl painfully toward it, away from the officer.
If I’m gonna die, that motherfucker is going with me.
“Goddamn this bucket of bolts!” Chisolm cursed, flooring the patrol car. With a hundred and seven thousand miles on the engine, it had little power left. Chisolm asked for everything it had, which wasn’t much. He felt the wheels slip in the corners and the transmission clunk as he shifted manually to get the best speed he could.
“Come on,” he urged. He was still at least a minute away.
Kopriva keyed the mike. “Baker-123. Signal-99. Shots fired. I’m hit.”
He dropped the mike back onto the driver’s seat, his head swimming.
Janice felt her lip tremble as she repeated the signal-99. “All units respond, Euclid and Market. Shots fired, officer down. Channel is restricted for Baker-123 only. All other units use data channel.” She motioned to another dispatcher, who plugged into the data channel and began sending units, even though it wasn’t necessary. Any police car within radio range was running balls out to Kopriva’s location right now.
“I need medics at Euclid and Market, now!” she called out to her supervisor, Carrie Anne, who was already on the phone.
Hold on, Kopriva, she thought to herself, then keyed her mike.
Morris reached the gun, clutching it hard in his right hand. The slide wasn’t locked to the rear. That meant he had at least one shot left.
One for you, motherfucker.
He took a couple of short breaths. He realized that could feel both his legs all the way to his toes. Good. At least he wasn’t crippled.
Morris rolled over and took aim.
Kopriva fired one-handed, the gun barking in his strong hand. He saw a spray of blood in Morris’ right forearm and knew he’d hit his target. The gun in Morris’ hand flew backward as Morris rolled completely over once and ended up facing him again.
Kopriva lowered his gun. The stabbing pain had subsided to a dull throb. He mused that everyone had been right, after all. This is what he got for being such a code-four cowboy.
“Baker-123, your status?”
He placed the gun in his lap and reached for the mike again. “Two suspects down. One fled. White male. Brown Chevy.” He took several shallow breaths while Janice re-broadcast the information.
“Who is it?” he croaked at Morris.
“Fuck you,” groaned Morris.
Kopriva swallowed and noted the coppery taste of blood. “Hear those sirens? Nobody here but me and you till they get here.” He placed the mike on the driver’s seat again.
“Fuck. You.” Morris repeated. It came out as a low moan.
Kopriva lifted his pistol from his lap, steadied his aim and fired. He watched with satisfaction and the bullet exploded through Morris’s calf. A shrill screech escaped the gang banger’s lips.
“You want to be alive when the ambulance comes?” Kopriva asked wetly, his breath coming in ragged breaths. “Who’s the other guy?”
Morris moaned weakly.
Kopriva raised his pistol again, feeling very weak.
“T-Dog,” Morris told him.
“Baker-123. White male. Moniker T-Dog.”
“Copy,” Janice said, typing furiously.
“Medics en route,” Carrie Anne called.
“Copy,” Janice said, noting the time in the computer.
She slid over one terminal and ran the nickname T-Dog with a white male. The computer accepted the entry. It seemed to take an eternity searching through the database, flashing the message “Checking” over and over again.
She got a hit. She did a display entry and read quickly, then keyed the mike with the foot pedal.
“Baker-123, I have a white male, Gerald Anthony Trellis. Is that your subject?”
“Trellis?” he tried to shout at Morris, but his voice was getting weaker. Morris surprised him by answering.
“Yeah.”
Kopriva keyed the mike. “Affirm.”
“Copy. -123, medics are en route. Hold on.”
Kopriva clicked his mike and let it fall to the seat.
Morris used his left hand to ease the two-shot derringer from his back pocket. He’d only told the cop about T-Dog to buy time. What did he care about that dumb motherfucker, anyway? White bread piece of shit left him to die. What a pussy.
The derringer felt heavy in his hand. He lay across his arm and realized he would have to roll back to free it. He tried to but failed. The pain in his legs was gone, but so was the feeling. Did that mean he was going to be a cripple after all?
He tried to flop his right arm down in front of him. Maybe he could push himself backward.
The sirens were getting closer, Kopriva could tell. He watched Morris for a moment as the gang member seemed to shudder and twitch. He thought about covering him with his gun until backup arrived, but realized he didn’t have enough strength left to lift the pistol.
His head lolled back, resting against the driver’s seat. He looked up in the sky at the moon. It hung in the early morning darkness, a tinge of yellow cast over it.
We live and work under that moon every night, Kopriva thought, his thoughts becoming disjointed now. And now I will die here, under a raging moon.
Kopriva drew a wet, shuddering breath and let it out slowly.
Chisolm took the corner hard. “Hold on!” he whispered, knowing that Kopriva couldn’t hear him. The rear end of the car swung out from under him. He punched the accelerator. The tires struggled for a grip on the pavement, then lurched forward.
Morris lay motionless. He’d tried three times to get his left arm out from underneath him, all without success. Impotently, his left fist clutched the derringer, while his right arm hung useless, his fingers resting on the pavement. He felt the wet warmth of his own blood there.
With great effort, he looked up and saw the cop wasn’t moving.
Good. Maybe the motherfucker was already dead.
The sirens were very close now, and Morris found that he was glad to hear them.
Chisolm slammed on the brakes and put the car into park. He made it out of the car before it even stopped rocking. Pistol out, he approached the scene. He saw the downed suspect lying motionless, eyes closed. As he drew near the police car, he spotted Kopriva seated on the pavement, leaning back into the open driver’s doorway. The officer’s gun lay in his lap. Chisolm noticed empty casings on the pavement near him.
Chisolm trained his gun on the downed suspect and moved forward quickly. Once close enough, he rolled the suspect forward onto his stomach and put his knee across his neck.
Then he saw the derringer in the suspect’s left hand.
The hand twitched.
Chisolm’s free hand shot down, grasping the suspect’s wrist. A low moan escaped the injured man’s lips. Chisolm holstered his pistol and removed the derringer from the suspect’s grip. There was no resistance. Either the man was too weak to put up a fight or he simply surrendered. Chisolm quickly cuffed the wounded man behind the back and made his way to Kopriva.
He set the derringer on the ground next to Kopriva. He pulled the uniform shirt back and examined the officer’s wounds. One through the upper back. Looked like it entered where the vest panel was thin and exited at the collarbone. The bone stuck out of the wound, a compound fracture.
“Try not to move,” Chisolm told Kopriva softly.
Kopriva’s only reply was a cross between a grunt and a moan.