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Britton's problem was that he did not think he could safely do as ordered--"Drop the gun!"
The Smith & Wesson Model 29 is a double-action model, meaning he could squeeze the trigger to fire a round with the hammer forward or cocked back. The latter required less pressure from the trigger finger.
It was Britton's belief that one well-aimed shot was more effective than a barrage of shots aimed in the general direction of a miscreant. He also knew that a shot fired in the single-action mode--with the hammer drawn back--was far more likely to strike its intended target than one fired by pulling hard on the trigger with the hammer in the forward--or uncocked--position. The extra effort required to fire from the uncocked position tended to disturb one's aim.
He had, therefore, formed the habit, whenever drawing his weapon with any chance whatever that he might have to pull the trigger, of cocking the hammer. And he had done so just now when he walked out of his front door.
If I drop this sonofabitch, the impact's liable to release the hammer, which will fire off a round, whereupon these two kids are going to empty their Glocks at me.
"Three-six-nine!" Britton said again. "I'm Jack Britton. I'm a detective. This is my house. My wife and I are the ones who were--"
"I'm not going to tell you again, you sonofabitch! Drop the gun! Drop the gun!"
"May I lay it on the ground, please? The hammer--"
"Drop the fucking gun!"
"Take it easy, fellows," a new voice said with authority.
Britton saw two more Philly policemen, a captain and a sergeant. He had not seen another car drive up, but now noticed there were four police cars on Churchill Lane. The wail of sirens in the distance announced the imminent arrival of others.
"Hello, Jack," the captain said.
Britton now recognized him. He had been his sergeant, years ago, when Officer Britton was walking a beat in the Thirty-fifth District.
"If I drop this gun, the hammer's back, and--"
"Holster your weapons," the captain ordered firmly. "I know him. He's one of us."
When the police officers had complied with the order--and not a second before--the captain walked to Britton and squeezed his shoulder in an affectionate gesture that clearly said, Good to see you, pal.
"Jesus, Jack, they shot the car up, didn't they?"
"It's not even two months old," Britton said.
"What the hell happened here, Jack?"
"Sandra and I were at the Rosewood Caterer's, on Frankford Avenue, at the Northeast Detectives Christmas party. I thought I was being followed--2002, 2003 Chrysler Town and Country, pale green in color. I didn't get the tag."
"Tommy," the captain ordered, "put out a flash on the car. . . ."
"Black males, maybe in Muslim clothing," Britton furnished, "armed with automatic AKs, last seen heading west on Wessex Lane."
"Yes, sir," the sergeant said. He grabbed the lapel mike attached to his shirt epaulet, squeezed the PUSH TO TALK button, and began to relay the flash information to Police Radio.
"Kalashnikovs?" the captain asked, shaking his head. "Fully auto ones?"
Britton nodded. "And they got the gas tank." He pointed.
The captain muttered an obscenity and then turned to the young policemen.
"Put in a call to the fire department--gasoline spill," he ordered, and then looked at Britton.
"Well, although I thought for a minute they weren't following me, they were," Britton said. "They came around the bend"--he pointed--"just as Sandra and I got inside the fence. I tackled her behind the wall and then all hell broke loose. . . ."
"She all right?"
"She's in the basement. Shook up, sure, but all right."
