Any unit to handle, Orange Avenue, 417, man with a gun threatening apartment residents. Any unit to clear and handle, priority one. Isn't that the adress of the gang shooting last week? Carly Edwards asked the question half to herself and half to her partner for the night, Derek Potter, as she slowed the cruiser. They were two blocks from the address given. You're right. Let's take it, we're close! Potter grabbed the radio and responded to the dispatcher. We should wait for backup. Two gangbangers were shot last week. They'll be here! Come on, let's go! We can get this guy.
Potter's adrenaline flooded the car and infected Carly. She hit the gas. In seconds they were 10-97, on scene. Drop me off in front. You take the back. Potter didn't wait for a response. He leaped out of the car as Carly slowed. Wait- The slam of the door covered her angry shout. Potter should know better. He'd been on the police force longer than Carly had, and she was nearing her ten- month anniversary. Even though things looked quiet as she scanned the area, it was never a good idea to split up on gun calls. She wouldn't be in this situation with her regular partner, Joe King. But he'd call in sick, and she was stuck with Punch Drunk Potter, Los Angels PD's troublemaker and fight starter.
Against her better judgment, Carly continued to a rear alley and parked the black and white. As Potter worked his way back from the front, she'd work forward from the rear. With luck, they'd meet in the middle and be able to clear the call unfounded. Wind whistled with an eerie sound, funneled between apartment buildings. Tepid gusts flung thrash everwhere. Lit only by the glow of parking structure lights opposite the dispatch address, the alley was deserted, strange for a hot night when people generally hung around outside. The problem adress itself silent- no TV noise- and all the windows overlooking the alley were open but dark. Carly strained to differentiate between wind noise and any people noise. A black gate connected the complex courtyard to the alley, but she was not going through it until she had more information.
Carly pulled out her handheld radio. Who called. she whispered to dispatch. Your CP is anonymous. He did not want contact. This information opened the floodgates in Carly's mind for a new scent of concerns. Is this a setup? Glass crunched under her heels as she stopped to survey the gate and surrounding area. Sliding the radio back into it's holder, she unsnapped her handgun and drew it from it's holster. The radio crackled with the news that backup was close. Emboldened, she shone her flashlight into the semidarkness and moved closer to the gate.
Movements near some trash cans to the right of the gate caught her eye, and she directed the beam of her light there. She saw a face. Hello! Police! Her gun and flashlight steadied on the target, and her heart thudded, straining the confines of her vest. Show me your hands! The man moved, and a bright object flashed in his hand. He lunged forward. Time slowed for Carly. Everything around her faded as tunnel vision took over. There was no time to call for Potter, no time to go get the radio. Certain the object in the man's hand was a gun and that her life was in danger, Carly fired twice. The crack of her. 45 echoed like a bomb in the alley. The man crumpled in front of her, supporting himself on one hand to keep him from falling flat on his face.
Before she could speak or inspect the object the man had dropped, Potter burst through the back gate. On Carly's left and several feet closer to the man, Potter fired. Bang, bang, bang... In rapid succession, the deafening sound of fifteen gunshots rang in Carly's ears. The man danced with the impact of several bullets, then went down all the way, but Potter kept shooting, emptying his gun. The next seconds were cauterized in Carly's mind. Permanent impressions: the man wasn't a threat, he didn't have a gun, and still he reloaded. Derek, stop! He's down!