Widow's Run

by TG Wolff

  Ambush!

  The realization hit him hard. A surge of adrenaline seemed to explode through him. He dropped behind the driver’s door and took a deep breath to steady himself. Training kicked in as his mind immediately switched into tactical mode.

  Two points of fire, he thought quickly. The car and the house. They had him triangulated. Garrett’s mind raced and came to one immediate decision. Eliminate one threat now.

  More shots cut through the night as rounds thudded into the patrol car. Glass exploded and rained down around him.

  Remaining crouched, Garrett quickly scooted out from behind the door and fired two shots at the driver. At least one round found the target as the driver collapsed to the street.

  Ty moved to the back of the car and arose slightly above the trunk section. He fired three quick shots into the house before dropping below the cover of the car. Without hesitation, he moved toward to the hood section of the car. As he shuffled along in a crouch, he changed magazines, keeping his weapon fully loaded just as he’d been trained. At the front tire, he raised back into view, prepared to fire. Garrett realized no more shots were being fired from the house. An eerie silence had descended upon the neighborhood.

  He became keenly aware of the whirring of his emergency lights above him when he heard a screen door slam in the distance. Then it slammed a second time.

  Garrett stood and sprinted toward the house, seeing a six-foot-fence that bordered both sides of the house as he ran. He knew not to scale it and come face-to-face with a potential shooter. Instead, he leaped on the porch in a single step. He steadied himself and kicked the door. It opened with a splintery explosion at the handle.

  From behind the house, an engine revved loudly. Garrett raised his weapon and hurried through each room, prepared to find a shooter waiting for him in the dark. With each step, he was convinced there’d be a flash of light and the bite of lead. Sweat poured down his forehead and into his eyes. He wiped it away with his left hand and kept his gun trained on the threat areas as he moved through the small house. His radio crackled but he ignored it. No one waited in any room, and there was no furniture to hide behind. The house was completely vacant.

  When he got to the rear of the house, the back door stood open. He burst through the screen door which slammed shut behind him. At the edge of the yard, the fence gate was open and he could hear a car racing down the alley.

  Garrett sprinted across the grass and into the alley. He could see the red of tail lights at the far end of block. He raised his Glock and his finger tensed, but he didn’t fire. He didn’t know what else was at the end of the block and knew better than to send a round into an environment like that.

  Ty Garrett lowered his weapon and felt his heart pounding against his chest. He was suddenly aware that he was drenched in sweat. His ballistic vest felt like it weighed a ton. The lights from his patrol car danced in the sky above the house but didn’t reach the alley.

  He stood in the quiet of the alley’s darkness, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

  Chapter 2

  Officer Ray Zielinski pulled into the convenience store at Sprague and Freya. Another six hours of his shift remained and without coffee, it was going to be brutal. Hell, with coffee it would still be brutal.

  He had to stop working so much extra duty, he told himself, but knew it was a fruitless admonition. He needed the money, plain and simple. Two divorces, three kids, and always living on the edge of what his income could support had brought him to this point. Six months ago, he decided he had to get a handle on it, so he sold the house that he had somehow miraculously kept in the last divorce and moved into a small apartment. He lived frugally, and that made a difference, but it wasn’t like he could force either ex-wife or the kids to do the same. So, he worked the extra duty gigs, providing police presence at banks, stores, and special events. The pay was good, but the hours were…well, they were brutal.

  Zielinski put the car in park and started to roll up the windows when heard the sound of pops in the distance. His first thought was fireworks. They were illegal in Spokane but still inescapable around the Fourth of July. By August, though, most people were over them, even the kids.

  More pops.

  “Not fireworks,” Zielinski muttered. He recognized the sounds now for what they were. Gunshots.

  Irritated, he put the car into drive and rolled the windows back down. Coffee would have to wait. He made his best guess as to the origin of the shots and drove in that direction. He didn’t bother with his lights or siren. It wasn’t like gunshots in East Central were an everyday event, but it wasn’t necessarily uncommon, either. Especially during the summer months.

  He drove, listening and knowing what was coming next. It only took another thirty seconds.

  “Charlie units, I have a report of shots fired in the East Central area,” the dispatcher broadcasted. “Two separate complainants.”

  “East Central, huh?” Zielinski shook his head. “Way to narrow it down.”

  A second later, a thought struck him. He reached for the mic, but before he could, the dispatcher came back on.

  “Charlie-three-sixteen, a status check?”

  Radio silence followed.

  “Charlie-three-sixteen, what’s your status?”

  No reply.

  “Shit!” Zielinski punched the accelerator. His patrol car lurched forward, the engine answering with a throaty roar. Out of habit, he reached down and hit his lights and siren and activated his dash camera, all in one quick motion. Random shots didn’t merit an emergency response. An officer in danger did.

  He raced southbound. Traffic pulled to the side of the road as he approached. He hooked a hard right and made a beeline for Underhill Park. As he approached, he slowed slightly, trying to envision which way Garrett’s traffic stop might be oriented. He didn’t want to pull onto the street into the line of fire if this was where the shots came from.

  Before he could decide, he ran out of street and turned onto the road that ran along the park. He immediately saw a police cruiser with its overhead lights engaged, its headlights illuminating a Chrysler.

  Zielinski killed the siren as he screeched to an abrupt stop to the right of the other patrol car. His left hand found the spotlight and flicked it on, further bathing the Chrysler in a curtain of brightness. With his other hand, he keyed his mic.

  “Charlie-three-twelve, on scene with Sixteen.”

  “Copy, Twelve. Advise on further units.”

  Zielinski popped open his door. His eyes swept the scene, immediately spotting the shattered windows and bullet holes in Garrett’s patrol car.

  “Twelve, keep them coming. This is where the shots came from.”

  He dropped the mic and exited his car, drawing his Glock and using his door as cover. “Ty?” he called out.

  No answer.

  Zielinski clenched his jaw. He glanced up at the suspect vehicle, scanning for suspects, both inside and around the car. He saw none, but the driver’s door stood open.

  Maybe the guy rabbited, he thought. Threw shots and ran.

  Zielinski felt a sinking sense of dismay. If the suspect fired on Garrett, was he…?

  Keeping low, Zielinski quickly moved to the trunk of Garrett’s patrol car. He peeked around the driver’s side, his dread heightening. An officer down was every cop’s worst nightmare. The driver’s seat and the nearby ground was empty, except for shattered safety glass scattered on the pavement.

  He moved up to the driver’s door, his eyes still scanning. Then he saw the still form crumpled on the ground by the suspect vehicle. Motionless. Even at this distance, Zielinski could see the bright red smear of blood against the pale white skin.

  He reached for his portable radio and brought it to his lips. “Charlie-three-twel—” he began, but the screech of feedback from being too close to Garrett’s patrol car radio interrupted and overwhelmed him.

  “Charlie-three-twelve, say again.”


  Zielinski flicked off his portable and picked up Garrett’s patrol car mic from its hook. “Three-twelve,” he said. “Suspect down. Start medics.”

  “Copy. And Charlie-three-sixteen?”

  “No sign of him yet.”

  “Copy.”

  Zielinski heard the uptick in tension in the dispatcher’s voice. He tuned her out as she began sending additional units. It was unnecessary. Any police officer within driving distance would be coming now, lights and siren. One of their own was in danger.

  “Ty!” Zielinski called out again. He listened, but the only sounds he heard were the whirring and clacking of the patrol car’s rotator lights, a dog barking half a block away, and sirens in the distance.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he raised his pistol toward the suspect vehicle and advanced. The smart thing to do was to keep the car covered while he waited for back up. With a couple more officers, they could safely clear the vehicle. However, he couldn’t wait. He had to find Garrett.

  The man lay face down near the rear tire on the driver’s side of the car, a bloody red hole in his upper back. Keeping his gun trained on the car, Zielinski knelt and touched his throat to check for a pulse. His own heart was pounding so hard, it took him a moment to discern that the man was dead. Protocol said to cuff him anyway, but Zielinski rejected the idea. Instead, he stood and swept his aim throughout the car, looking for any other suspects.

  Empty.

  He decided that Garrett must be in foot pursuit with a second suspect, somewhere in the vicinity. He reached for his portable radio to direct units into a perimeter position, but his hand froze.

  Officer Ty Garrett walked out of a house directly across the street and headed toward him. He appeared uninjured, his gait confident.

  “Ty!” Zielinski shouted.

  Garrett raised his hand in reply.

  “Are you okay?”

  Garrett flashed four fingers at him.

  Zielinski felt a temporary wave of relief. He reached again for his radio, turning it back on before saying, “Three-twelve, have units slow their response. Sixteen is with me, and he’s fine.”

  The dispatcher copied. A second later, a couple of the distant sirens suddenly muted, while others remained.

  As Garrett approached, Zielinski could see light reflecting off the sheen of sweat that coated Garrett’s dark skin.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again.

  Garrett nodded as he tugged down on his ballistic vest. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  “Any suspects outstanding?”

  Garrett shook his head, then stopped and shrugged. “A car, but it’s long gone.”

  Zielinski raised his radio, preparing to broadcast. “You got a description?”

  “Red tail lights,” Garrett said, his tone dejected.

  Zielinski lowered the radio. “What happened?”

  Garrett took a deep breath and let it out in a long exhale. He pointed at the car. “This guy jumped out in front of me over on Thor, driving like an idiot. I initiated a stop on him, but he kept rolling until he got here. Then he jumps out, starts yelling at me. He reaches for a gun and starts shooting.” Garrett pointed at the house. “So did someone from in there, all at the same time.”

  “An ambush?”

  Garrett shrugged. “It felt like one.” He spat on the pavement. “Jesus, I’m thirsty.”

  “I’ve got some water in my trunk.”

  Garrett patted Zielinski’s shoulder and then looked at the driver’s body. “He’s dead, yeah?”

  Zielinski nodded. He didn’t mention that the wound was in the back. That was a problem for another day. In the distance, the sirens became more insistent as they got closer.

  “I shot him,” Garrett said. “After he fired on me. Then I went to clear the house.”

  Zielinski shook his head slowly in amazement.

  “What?” Garrett asked.

  “Only you SWAT guys think attack in this situation,” Zielinski said. He felt a curious mix of admiration and disapproval at the same time. “You guys are a different breed.”

  “It wasn’t like that. The shots stopped. They ran out the back.”

  “Still.”

  Zielinski turned back to the sprawled, still form on the ground. He swept the ground with his flashlight. Something was wrong, and a minute later, he realized what it was.

  “Where’s the gun?” he asked.

  Garrett raised his eyebrows, then pointed to the holstered Glock on his hip. “Right here.”

  “No,” Zielinski said. “Not yours. The driver’s gun. Where is it?”

  Garrett’s eyes narrowed, and he quickly scanned the area.

  “I don’t see any shell casings, either.”

  “That’s not right.” Garrett sounded strange.

  Zielinski looked him in the eye, trying to gauge what he saw there. Garrett’s expression was a jumbled mixture of confusion, anger, maybe even a hint of panic. “Take it easy,” Zielinski said, gently. “Grab your flashlight and help me look.”

  Garrett nodded and hustled back to his patrol car. Zielinski watched him go. A feeling of dread crept into his gut.

  Garrett reached into the patrol car and came out with his heavy-duty flashlight. He started to return, then ducked back into the car. Zielinski saw the tiny, unmistakable red light on the dash wink on, indicating the camera there had just been activated.

  He hadn’t turned on the dash cam when he initiated the stop.

  The dread in his stomach grew.

  Garrett trotted back toward him. Wordlessly, they both swept the ground near the car with their flashlights, searching for either a gun or shell casings. They found nothing.

  Zielinski gave Garrett a hard look as the yelp and wail of the approaching sirens threatened to drown out their speech.

  “Tell me this was a good shoot,” he said.

  Officer Ty Garrett looked straight at him. “It was a good shoot.”

  Zielinski didn’t reply. There was nothing more to say.

  Click here to learn more about Charlie-316 by Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro.

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  i.

  Nole Darlen hadn’t even thought about pulling the trigger.

  The sound, the flashback, the acrid odor—all were so sudden and strong that there was no room for individual sense-impression. Instead, he felt one overwhelming impact, neither hearing, touch, smell but a compound of all senses, so that he tasted the thunderous sound—a coppery pulse of flavor on the roof of his mouth—and heard the rising smell of burnt powder, too loud, like a clashing of brass. And only later, in memory, he saw the bullet’s impact punching the body into a stretched upward leap and crumpling it to the floor. He felt the breaking of the chair as a febrile crinkling, barely audible in the echoing throb of the gun blast. He saw the body land with a fuffing, like a rug being shaken out.

  He really hadn’t known he was going to fire just then, and certainly hadn’t anticipated the crash of effect, and so he stood, overwhelmed, for a moment. The pistol, which had kicked up and back from the firing, was suspended in his raised hand, just at his ear, as though he were listening carefully to the chamber. He was still smiling wryly at that last bit of conversation, the ludicrous challenge: You wouldn’t dare.

  Then he made a small sound, incomprehensible, even to himself. A groaned syllable of some sort. And threw the gun to the floor as realization swept over him, pushing him furious and frightened through the crudely framed doorway. And out into the deep night.

  His first few frenzied steps faulted in the gluey spring mud, sending his body forward and throwing him to shockingly cold wet earth. The fall increased his terror and he wrenched himself upright, running again—this time with an ex
aggerated, high-stepping hop, thrusting and pulling his feet into and out of the grasping muck.

  He ran about ten yards this way, then stopped, stock-still. He made that same single-syllable sound and turned, wrenching his feet about and lurching back into the shed. He dropped to his hands and knees and scrabbled around on the hardpacked floor for the Colt revolver. Tucking the cold heavy piece into the waist of his pants, he arose and left the shed again, this time walking bent forward, with a grim determination, like a soldier moving through hostile fire, following some drilled command: one foot then the other, dogged and deliberate, through the mud and out onto the grassy clearing around the house, which brooded heavily over him. Then he began to run, out of the clear, across the graveled lane, past his tethered horse, and into the deepness of the invisible woods. He stopped, still, again, as the pitched darkness flooded over him.

  “The sonofabitch. The sonofabitch. Sonofabitch,” Nole breathed, as though he were chanting some bizarre mantra. He drew the heavy Colt and held it at his side. Then he ran again, down the steep trail, until his foot kicked against a root and he was flung down once more, this time onto the hard, dropping path. He felt the cold earth, then a burning abrasion on forearms and knees, and he slumped, letting his entire weight fall flat on the ground, lying outstretched and still, the pistol clutched in his hand, now flung out straight over his head, but actually pointing downward, on the cold, stony slope. He rasped out the same small sound this third time, struggling to regain his wind.

  Nothing could have prepared him for this, any of this, in spite of plans and avowals. It was as though the blast of the pistol were something that had happened to him, not something he had willed, done, caused to occur. This time yesterday he hadn’t even known the pistol existed, much less that it would determine his actions so decisively today. And so he had yet to consider how any of this could fit into a sequence of events, actions, and consequences. He had forgotten entirely about his father, whom he had just shot, the body piled onto the floor of that flimsy shed on the splinters of a caned chair that had broken with the sound of crumpling paper. Now, the man did not exist at all, as though the entire day, the shed, the gun itself had been blotted out by that flash, and so Nole’s hand no longer held pistol or weapon, but only a cold, unnameable weight, pressing the back of his fist against the pebbly ground.