Wrote this today. There is a preceding section that is all pursuit. I am taking on officer involved shootings with this, or I plan to.
Hope you enjoy:
“Fuck it. Go. I’ll be-” Baptiste started. Caron didn’t hear the rest, already out the car and running for the ramp.
The officer from the Eastern Station unit was putting on distance, sprinting. She was alright with that. Some were built for speed, some were built to run all day.
She grinned, breath coming in easy drafts, ’And this is for real, girl.’
“Going to force a dismount,” Trudeau broadcast as the officers negotiated packed vehicles at the corner.
A car door opened right in front of the other officer, some lookie-loo thinking to see what the hold up was. The officer hit the man in the back, crushing him into his own door, the rebound sending both to the pavement, hard.
Caron turned between cars, put one foot down on a bumper and vaulted the narrow space. Her hip bumped the barricade as she turned back on course, helping to restore her balance.
She couldn’t see the rider ahead, could see the light bar on the sergeant’s unit about twenty-five meters ahead. She put on more speed.
The distinct whip-crack of a stick discharging reached her ears. A second later and the sound was followed by the shriek of metal on pavement.
“Got him off the bike, but he’s still running,” Sergeant Trudeau’s voice, sounding a bit odd.
Caron was sprinting at her best speed. Uphill, armored and carrying all her gear, it was nothing like the speeds she posted for her daily runs.
The bike was down, smoking. Trudeau was limping to her unit. Beyond, the man was running along the barricade bordering the elevated freeway, glancing over his shoulder at the continuing traffic and his pursuer. Caron continued to run, quickly closing the distance on the sergeant.
Trudeau, uniform torn and bleeding at the knee, waved her on, “Fucker caught me with the bike. Keep him in sight, I’ll bring the car up.”
Hacking at Pierpont’s lead one step at a time, Caron managed to close the distance considerably in the next few seconds. At about twenty-five meters, the suspect ran into the roadway proper.
A motorist slammed on his brakes, sliding to a stop. Other cars did the same, with varying degrees of success. There were several crunches and at least one explosive hiss as liquid hit something very hot.
Caron continued to close on the suspect, who was approaching the motorist that had just prevented his vehicle from making a hood ornament of him. The suspect’s hand went into his jacket.
Hardly slowing, Caron broke leather, weapon coming free in her hand.
‘Don’t run with a gun,’ the words of her instructors ran through her mind. She held the pistol down and to the side, trying to comply with that sensible order and still get close enough to safely engage the target.
Pierpont reached in the open driver’s side window, pulling at the man behind the wheel. His other hand held a metal object.
Not sure it was a gun, Caron stopped as fast as she could and raised her service weapon, “Drop it or I’ll shoot!”
Pierpont turned his head, face a mask of rage and fear. He’d skinned his head in the wreck of his bike.
The motorist used the distraction to pull from the man’s grip and scramble for the far door.
“Drop it,” she said, lining up her sights between brown eyes.
He looked down at the gun in his left hand, back at her.
“Drop it!” she yelled.
She saw it coming; watched his eyes go hard with resolve.
“Don’t!” she screamed, even as he raised the gun in her direction.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun hand kept rising.
She fired again.
Pierpont’s weapon discharged. Something stung her cheek.
She fired again.