4th of July

Chapter 7

TIME SEEMED TO SLOW, every second distinct from the one before it, but the truth is, everything happened in under a minute.

I flinched, turning sideways as I felt the bullet’s hard punch to my left shoulder. Then another shot slammed into my thigh. Even as I struggled to understand, my legs buckled and I fell to the ground. I reached a hand out toward Jacobi and saw his face register shock.

I didn’t lose consciousness. I saw the boy shoot Jacobi—blam-blam-blam. Then he walked over and kicked my partner in the head. I heard the girl say, “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get out of here.”

I felt no pain, just rage. I was thinking as clearly as I had at any time in my life. They’d forgotten about me. I felt for my 9mm Glock, still at my waist, wrapped my hand around the grip, and sat up.

“Drop your gun,” I shouted, pointing my weapon at Sara.

“Fuck you, bitch,” she yelled back. Her face was etched with fear as she leveled her .22 and squeezed off three rounds. I heard shell cases ping against the sidewalk all around me.

It’s notoriously hard to hit your target with a pistol, but I did what I was trained to do. I aimed for central mass, the center of her chest, and double-tapped: boom-boom. Sara’s face crumpled as she collapsed. I tried to get to my feet but only managed to rise to one knee.

The bloody-faced boy was still holding a pistol in his hand. He pointed it at me. “Drop it!” I screamed.

“You shot my sister!”

I aimed, double-tapped again: boom-boom. The boy dropped his gun, his whole body going limp.

He cried out as he fell.