by EH Reinhard
“Deputy!” I called.
He didn’t respond.
“Dammit,” I said.
I spoke over my shoulder at Hank, who was nearest to me. “Keep guns on that house. I need to see if he’s down.”
“What about the back of this place?” Jones asked. “This guy could be fleeing as we speak.”
Jones had a point.
I took in our surroundings. The scrappy trees that surrounded the clearing that the house was in wouldn’t provide much cover, but we needed to get eyes on the back of the house. My eyes came to rest on the carport and the thicker area of trees beyond it.
“Go there, Jones,” I said. “Get on the back side of the carport and take the trees until you get a view of the back of the house. Stay off to the side so you’re not in our line of fire and we’re not in yours.”
“Got it,” he said.
Jones stayed low and jogged past the back of the deputy’s cruiser toward the east end of the property and carport. I followed, making a right at the trunk lid of Collard’s car. Crouched at the rear corner, I could see Collard in his drab green uniform hunched in behind the open door of his cruiser. He faced me. His pistol hung in his right hand. His arm was crossing his body and holding his right side that I couldn’t see much of. Something was wrong. I went to him and knelt before him.
“Collard,” I said. “You’re hit?”
He pulled his left hand away from his side—it was covered in blood.
“In the side?” I asked. “How bad?”
I didn’t get a response.
“Hey!” I said in a stern voice. “How bad is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let me see.” I moved him a bit closer toward the car’s interior and craned my neck to get a view of his right side. I couldn’t see anything other than a bloody drab green shirt. “Can you move?” I asked. “Just to the back of the car.”
“I think so,” Collard said.
“Hold on.” I reached into his car and grabbed the mic for his radio. I pushed in the button on the radio’s side and brought it to my mouth. “Officer down,” I said. “Repeat, officer down. Shots fired. Trailer park directly across from Barrilleaux’s Pit Stop. Saint Leo.” I looked at Collard. “Come on. Stay low.”
I got him to the back of the car and sat him in the dirt. I knelt beside him, pulled his shirt from where it was tucked into his pants, and got my head low for a better look at his wound. The round had entered his right side above his pelvis and below his rib cage. The bullet had traveled straight through and had caught only a couple of inches of his side. Though I didn’t know if the bullet had hit anything internally, he could have damaged his liver or intestines.
“Stay put,” I said. Keep your hand on it.”
I glanced to my right, and Hank looked down at us. I stood and went to Hank’s side.
“I just saw Jones disappear into that tree line. He should have eyes on the back of the place by now,” Hank said.
“Good.” I jerked my chin toward the house. “Did you see any movement inside?”
“Nothing,” Hank said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
I looked to my right to see two Pasco County patrol cars driving down the dirt road toward us. They stopped behind our cars and piled out. The two deputies that pulled up in the car farthest from us rounded the back of their car and drew weapons over the roof. The pair of deputies that parked nearer to us went to Collard on the ground.
“How bad is he?” the one asked.
“He needs paramedics. What’s the ETA?”
“They’re at the gas station. We need to take Collard to them.”
The guys helped Collard to his feet and loaded him into the back of their cruiser. They turned in the dirt road and sped away.
“What are we dealing with here?” one of the deputies called from behind my back.
I spoke over my shoulder as I kept aim on the home. “We believe the person in the house to be responsible for a homicide this morning. We also believe this is the second time today that we’re taking fire from this asshole.”
“He’s still in the house?” a different voice, presumably the other deputy, asked.
“We have a detective covering the back. As far as we know, he’s still in there,” Hank said.
“Is our shooter the only person inside?” the deputy asked.
“We don’t know,” I said.
“Are we going in or waiting him out?” the first deputy asked. “You want us to call in SWAT?”
The sound of breaking glass came before I could respond. I saw the barrel of a rifle poke through the window to the left of the front door. The muzzle of the gun erupted into flashes as the semiautomatic gunfire came. Right to left, he peppered our cruisers with shots from inside of the house. The deputies on the street returned fire. Hank and I stayed low at the trunk of Jones’s car that we were taking cover behind. Bullets ripped through the glass, which cascaded across the trunk lid toward Hank and me and piled at our feet. I glanced back over my shoulder at the sheriff’s cruiser that had just arrived. Neither deputy was visible, I imagined they were taking cover on the backside of the car. Bullets ripped into the metal and blew out the glass of their Pasco cruiser. With a pause in the man’s gunfire, I raised my line of aim up over the roof of Jones’s cruiser and put the rest of the shots in my gun’s magazine through the window void. Hank did the same.
I dropped down at the trunk and released my gun’s empty magazine into my hand.
“Are you guys okay?” I called.
“Yeah,” I heard back.
I reached into the holster in my jacket for another magazine and reloaded. I racked the slide and retook aim on the house.
“That sure as shit wasn’t the pistol he fired the first time,” Hank said. Hank reloaded and took his aim on the house from the far side of the trunk. “Looked like an AR.”
“Something like that,” I said.
“We’re calling in SWAT,” one of the deputies said.
“Do it,” I called back.
Semiautomatic gunfire sounded again. Nothing hit anywhere near us. A burst of five shots and then another five in succession. The gunfire stopped momentarily. I heard two more shots, different in pitch, return fire that I assumed was coming from Jones. The semiauto fire started again, another ten to fifteen rounds. I heard another pair of gunshots, again different in pitch.
“He’s firing on Jones,” I said.
“Which means he’s aiming out of the back of the house,” Hank said. “We need to move on this place.”
A single shot rang out and ricocheted off the top of Collard’s cruiser. Then straight automatic gunfire tore into Collard’s car and the one we took cover behind. Hank and I stayed as low and as small as we could, huddled at the back of the trunk. The second the shots stopped, I rose and turned toward the house. I saw color in the window right of the front door. I fired three shots, watching the window glass fall into the house. I ducked back down as return fire came a split second later.
The deputies on the road began to fire on the home, only to draw the gunman’s fire away from Hank and me and onto them. I rose and brought my sights up. I could see the muzzle flashes from the shooter’s weapon inside of the house. I took aim and fired twice. I ducked back down. The gunfire immediately stopped.
“Did you hit him?” Hank asked.
“I put two perfect shots into the house to where I thought he was.”
We waited. I turned back toward the deputies’ cruiser. “How you guys doing?” I called.
I didn’t get a response.
I looked at their car, riddled with bullet holes. Both passenger side tires were flat, and half of their light bar was missing. I couldn’t see a piece of glass that remained intact.
“Deputies!” I called.
“Dobson is hit. Son of a bitch,” one of the men yelled back.
I couldn’t see either deputy, and I could only assume that Dobson was one of them.
“How bad?” I asked.
“He needs paramedics! Shit!” I heard. “I need to get him out of here. He’s losing a ton of blood.”
“Watch that house, Hank,” I said.
I left the cover of our vehicle, stayed low, and went to the deputies on the far side of the car. One of them lay flat on the dirt road. The other knelt at his side. I looked up the road toward the gas station, seeing a couple of patrol cars heading toward us. The flashing red-and-blues appeared through the dust that the cars kicked up into the air. I took a kneeling position at the deputy’s shoulder. “Where is he h…” My question trailed off when I saw all the blood coming from the shoulder of the deputy on the ground. I stared down at him, seeing the name Dobson embroidered on his breast patch.
Deputy Dobson stared up at me—a look of fear and pain covered his face.
“You’re going to be all right,” I said. “We have help coming.”
I took the kneeling deputy’s hand and pressed it down on the one named Dobson’s shoulder. “Keep pressure on that. Get him out of here as soon as your guys get here.” I jerked my head at the approaching cars.
I returned to Hank. “Any movement?” I asked.
“I haven’t seen anything.”
A pair of Pasco County cruisers pulled alongside the bullet-riddled car in the road. I turned to see the deputies piling out and working together to get Dobson into one of the cars.
The sound of automatic gunfire came behind me. Bullets slammed into the two latest-to-arrive sheriff’s cruisers. I watched as the deputies took cover. My head spun back toward the house. The gunfire was coming from the same window to the right of the front door—the same window that I thought I’d shot the guy through. The automatic gunfire stopped, only to resume a split second later with semiautomatic fire—a minimum of another thirty shots. The brief pause seemed too short for a reload. The man had multiple assault weapons in the house, or there were two shooters.
I glanced over my shoulder toward the cars on the road. The two Pasco County cruisers were shredded. They wouldn’t be moving or getting the injured Deputy Dobson to safety and possible lifesaving aid.
“Keep eyes on this house. I’m looping around. When I give you the signal, try to draw this guy’s fire,” I said. “I want you to put a single round through that far right window and get your ass back behind cover. Tell these deputies what we’re doing.”
“Where the hell are you going?”
“I’m putting an end to this,” I said. “Don’t shoot me. And watch for my signal. As soon as you hear my shots, advance on the house.”
“Okay,” Hank said, which sounded more like a question than a confirmation.
I left the cover of the car. Staying low, I jogged for the carport—at the corner, I entered the tree line and made my way parallel to the house. I kept the barrel of my gun up, ready, as I crouched in the trees. I stared out. The edge of the home was twenty yards from my position. I needed to clear the tree line, cover ten yards of grass, and get to the front corner of the house. From there, I could stick to the wall under the windows and make a break for the open front door.
I stepped away from the big oak that I was ducking behind and stepped over the knee-high brush to the edge of the trees. I could see Hank, maybe seventy-five yards away. I pointed at the house. Hank rose from behind the car and fired a single shot. As soon as I heard Hank fire, I made a break for the house and reached the home’s corner just as return fire began. I glanced toward the street, not seeing Hank or any of the deputies. I crouched beneath the far left air conditioning unit in the window directly over my head. The gunfire came from the same window that I instructed Hank to put a round through, the one where the shooter had previously shot from. My eyes were locked on the home’s front door, just twenty feet away. I kept below the windows and inched for the doorway—my weapon ready. The gunfire from the man inside of the house stopped.
I took two lunging steps and sidestepped through the front door. I glanced left to a living room—I saw blood and a slumped-over man in a chair. I swung my sights right to a single man standing in front of multiple weapons on a small dining room table. He held a gun magazine, in the process of reloading a rifle. The man was unaware of my entrance.
“Drop it!” I yelled.
I had the bearded, bald man that we’d previously seen outside center in my sights.
He looked up. His face showed shock.
“Drop the weapon!” I yelled.
The man stared directly at me. He didn’t blink. He clicked the magazine into the rifle and pulled the charge handle.
“Drop the gun!” I ordered.
He made a quick movement, lifting the barrel in my direction.
I fired twice, center mass. The rifle fell from his hands. The shooter took a step backward, and then another. He reached for a chair at the dining room table. His hand swiped off the backrest and sent the chair to the ground. He stumbled backward another step into the wall and dropped down. The shooter’s right shoulder and head leaned against the lower kitchen cupboards, his back to the wall. His left leg was underneath him, and his right leg was bent with his knee near his chin and his foot down. I advanced on the man, who stared down at the ground and didn’t move. The rifle he’d held sat four or five feet away, closer to the kitchen’s small breakfast bar that separated the kitchen area from the living room—I kicked the rifle backward as I advanced to within five feet. I kept my gun barrel aiming down at him. He still hadn’t moved since he’d collapsed to the corner. His eyes were closed. I saw no weapons in his immediate reach. I took my left hand from my right on the grip of my service weapon and reached for my cuffs on my hip. The second I did, the man launched himself forward from his right leg that he had planted. I fired once just as his arm hit my weapon and sent it from my hand. His shoulder sunk into my midsection a split second later. I stumbled three steps back. He wrapped his arms around my waist and tried carrying my momentum backward in an attempt to take me to the ground. I planted my right foot—I outweighed the guy by a good sixty pounds, and he wouldn’t be taking me down.
I drove a left elbow down into his back. My elbow connected with something hard, like steel. He was wearing body armor, which registered in my head immediately. I drove another elbow down, which buckled his knees. He didn’t release his grip. I wrapped both of my arms around the guy’s waist and lifted him from the ground. I spun and slammed him down to the tile in the living room. I heard him cough before trying to get to his feet. I glanced at the coffee table just a few feet behind the guy. A large black duffel bag was overflowing with firearms. The guy got to his feet and looked back at the table over his shoulder. He made wobbling steps for it.
I took a lunging stride at him and lifted my right foot, placing a straight kick directly into his back.
He flew forward, crashing into a couple of suitcases and the coffee table before hitting the tile on his stomach. I was on him in two steps. I pushed his head to the floor, placed my knee in his spine, and mounted his back.
I heard the sound of people rushing through the home’s doorway. I glanced over my shoulder to see Hank, Jones, and one of the deputies.
“Check out the rest of this place,” I said. “We got a body here.” I nodded at the chair and the dead man.
I saw Hank and Jones staring at the guy, who’d taken a very noticeable shot to the head. The man was hunched over to his right. Blood covered his shirt, pants, and the chair he sat on. A pair of bloody headphones lay at the man’s feet at the base of the chair.
My attention returned to the shooter beneath my knee. With my full two-hundred-and-thirty-some-pound weight on his back, I yanked my cuffs from my hip and linked up his left wrist.
The man let out a moan.
Hank passed me and said he was going to check down the home’s hallway at the back of the living room.
“I got another one,” Hank said before he entered the hall. “Son of a bitch.”
I grabbed the right hand of the guy beneath me, twisted it behind his back, and click
ed down the cuff.
“Just one?” I asked.
“Yeah. Multiple GSWs. Deceased,” Hank said.
Hank disappeared from my view down the hall. “We have a locked door,” he called back.
“Are you the only one in the house?” I asked the man.
He didn’t respond.
“Jones,” I called. “Go back up Rawlings.”
Jones passed me, coming from the kitchen, and went down the hallway to where Hank was.
A moment later I heard the sound of a foot crashing through a door. The word clear came.
Hank and Jones returned to the living room, holstering their weapons.
I read the guy his rights and took my knee from his back. I pulled him to his feet. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Screw you, Pig.”
“Weird name,” I said.
I turned him toward the door. “Jones, find a place for Mr. Screw You Pig. And get on the phone with Bostok to send some people out here.”
“Got it,” Jones said.
Jones escorted our shooter from the house.
I put my back to the living room wall, leaned forward, and rested my hands on my knees. I took in a couple of deep breaths and looked forward at the dead man in the chair. Hank approached, holding my service weapon.
“Thanks,” I said. I took my weapon, stood up straight, and put it back in its holster.
“Think our guy did this to the other two?” Hank asked.
“That wasn’t from us,” I said. I motioned to the guy in the chair.
“Quite the arsenal,” Hank said. He nodded at the weapons on the coffee table.
I turned to look. “Hopefully Rick can match some of the firearms here with our other homicides.”
“What was with the wrestling match?” Hank asked.
“The guy was playing possum after I put a pair in his chest. He sprang up from out of the corner in the kitchen and tried taking me down. I subdued him after that. I think that’s about the time that you guys came in.”
“A pair in his chest and he tried coming after you. Was he wearing a vest?”
