“I ASK. “Negative.” Yeah. I didn’t think so. We’re peeling wheels out of the parking lot, spewing a flume of gravel back at all the guys’ personal cars lined up behind us. Ceepak’s at the wheel. I’m riding shotgun as we race off to apprehend Oedipus Skippy, who actually has a shotgun, a tactical shotgun, one with ghost-ring sights for easy acquisition of targets at short distances, not to mention the ability to dump a full magazine of seven rounds before the first empty shell casing hits the gro...und. We don’t want a man pumping that kind of shotgun to know we’re coming because we blared our siren and swirled our roofbar. We stopped by the locker room on our way out of the house. Pulled on our level III body armor before we jumped into the car—heavy vests that go on over our shirts and have POLICE written across the front and back with reflective yellow lettering, I guess to turn us into light-up targets. “All units, all units. Code eight.” On the radio, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, is putting out the call for backup.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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