The Fall by Devon Ford

Author:Devon Ford [Ford, Devon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Vulpine Press
Published: 2018-02-22T23:00:00+00:00

Friday 9:38 p.m. - 17th Precinct, NYC

Jake closed his eyes, knowing he was about to die. The gunshot he heard didn’t sound right, nor did he feel any pain or impact from the bullet. A second and third shot rang out, interspersed with the rapid coughing sound of the weapon aimed at him. Only with the absence of his painful death did it occur to Jake that the unsuppressed shots could not have come from the silenced assault rifle which had promised his death only a second before. His brain eventually registered that the shots sounded just like those from his own gun, and he only opened an eye when the sound of a body slumping to the street made him jolt.

The shooter, slightly bigger than the first but dressed in dark clothing carrying a similar backpack, lay dead in front of him. Clearly dead, unlike the one he had shot, because he hadn’t shot his suspect in the face and left a gruesome hole where the nose had been. Just as he reached out an instinctive hand to check for a pulse, an autonomous reaction he made in shock as missing a part of your brain to a bullet nearly always resulted in death, another sound grabbed his attention.

“Motherf-uuuugh …” came a hissing grunt from in the street.

Rising back into action, Jake scanned the street and laid eyes on his worst nightmare. He threw himself down next to a man dressed as he was, of roughly the same age, and in obvious agony.

“Where are you hit?” Jake asked as he tried to roll the cop onto his back to see the wound.

“Groin,” the man growled through gritted teeth and eyes screwed tightly shut, “and in the vest.”

Jake pulled up his uniform shirt to see that the shooter’s burst had raked across at gut level and the rounds had caught the bottom of his vest, but one lucky round had dropped and impacted low on his hip.

“Keep pressure on it,” Jake told him, as the man opened one eye to look at him.

“One-Three?” he gasped, seeing the metal badges on Jake’s uniform collar. “The hell are you doing up here?” he asked, meaning that he wouldn’t often see a member of the 13th precinct in his native One-Seven.

“Chased the shooters,” he told him, adding, “one killed, one unconscious.”

“Good,” gasped the wounded cop.

“Look, we need to get you inside and get a bus,” Jake told him, not knowing how he would do that when there was no cell coverage, no phone lines, and no radio to use to call for an ambulance. “Secure them,” the cop said, fluttering a weak hand toward the shooters. Jake glanced in that direction, and only saw one.

“Fuck!” he cursed aloud, releasing the pressure on the bullet wound and drawing his gun again. He stalked three paces forwards, seeing the one he had bashed in the face crawling on the sidewalk. No warnings, no verbal commands to comply, Jake stepped over and kicked the shooter full

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