Drone Threat

48

“Assholes! Move!” Mathis shouted, his voice muted by the blaring squad car siren.

Sergeant Vasquez wove skillfully past the slowing cars. She was surprised they’d made it as far as they had on Wilshire, always busy this time of the morning. But the news broadcasts had really thrown a wrench into it. People were losing their damned minds. Helluva training day for Mathis, she thought. Just a week out of the academy. Couldn’t be worse than her first week, though, she thought. It was the end of the world, or so it seemed to her that day, thanks to Rodney King.

She wondered for the thousandth time if it was time to retire.

“Should I unlock the shotgun?” Mathis asked. Sweat beaded on his black skin.

“It’s a two-eleven in progress, not a riot,” Vasquez said. “No point in escalating the situation.”

“Yes, Sergeant! I mean, no,” Mathis said.

“Take a deep breath. You’ll do fine,” she said.

She hoped he would. You never knew with probes.

Two minutes later Vasquez slammed the brakes and screeched to a halt at the edge of the intersection. A half-dozen cars and pickup trucks surrounded a red-and-white Coca-Cola delivery truck in the middle of the street. Its rolling doors were flung open and nearly empty. Civilians were stealing the last cases off the racks and tossing them into their vehicles.

“Let’s go!” Vasquez shouted. She leaped out of the driver’s side, drew her pistol, and charged toward the pickup nearest her. A young Hispanic male was throwing a case of orange Fanta into the back of his Chevy.

“Stop! Put it down! Now!” she shouted in Spanish.

“FUCK YOU, PIG!” the man shouted back in English, laughing, flipping two birds before leaping into the truck bed.

Adrenaline begged her to pull the trigger but her training kicked in. No telling who was driving the truck. A kid could be riding in the passenger seat. If she missed, the rounds could kill innocent bystanders. Besides, it was just a case of soda. Not worth it. The news this morning had caused this panic. Scared people did stupid things.

The other civilians were already scattering, slamming doors and squealing away in blue clouds of burning rubber.

Vasquez charged around to the other side of the Coca-Cola truck, Mathis hot on her heels. She stopped dead in her tracks. The uniformed delivery driver lay facedown in a pool of blood on the asphalt, his head broken open like a pomegranate.

Mathis puked.

“No time for that shit!” Vasquez shouted.

Mathis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yes, Sergeant.”

Gunshots rang out from the corner. A 7-Eleven convenience store.

Vasquez turned and ducked into a low crouch, running toward the 7-Eleven. People bolted out of the front door, hauling armfuls of juice boxes, bottled water, energy drinks, and anything else remotely potable.

A Korean clerk emerged a second later, his face streaming with blood, waving a large-caliber revolver, shouting profanities in his native tongue.

“Drop your weapon! Now!” Vasquez shouted, her pistol pointed in his direction.

The Korean turned toward Vasquez, his bleeding face a mask of mindless rage.

Gunfire exploded in her right ear as Mathis ripped off a half dozen .40-caliber rounds. She winced in pain but through her squinting eyes saw three rounds flowering blood in the Korean’s white shirt as the plate glass window behind him shattered. He tumbled backward, screaming, arms wide like the Christ. He was dead before he hit the pavement.

“Got you, motherfucker!” Mathis shouted, a half-crazed smile smearing his face.

“You stupid shit! What did you do?” Vasquez shouted. She laid a hand on Mathis’s Glock. The barrel was hot. “Holster your weapon, officer.”

Mathis frowned at her, confused. “What?”

“Holster your damn weapon! Now!”

Mathis blinked away his confusion. “Yes, Sergeant.” He holstered the Glock.

A blue helicopter thundered overhead. Vasquez glanced up. White call letters plastered the side. A video camera pointed directly at them.

FoxSky 40 News.

Vasquez swore.

Should’ve retired yesterday.