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I was lucky that by the time I turned around, the two cars, a white newer model Dodge Charger, and a black Mustang GT, were stopped at a red light, motors revving.
They didn’t try to run, which was even better.
They both dutifully pulled into the Best Buy parking lot before shutting off their vehicles.
I went up to the Mustang first, asked for the young boy’s license and registration, before going over to the other vehicle. This man was older, and damn well knew better.
Dumb kids always egging on the adults. Dumb adults for always taking on the little kids.
Men, however, would never change.
I’d just done that very thing two days ago with my brothers in the car. Shit happened.
After writing them both a ticket, I delivered them, and sent them on their way before picking up where I left off on The Loop.
It was another hour into my shift before I got the creepiest call I’d ever gotten while working with The Benton PD.
“Unit 5-2, we’ve received multiple prank calls from 511 Baylor Drive on the South Side. Can you do a well-check?” The dispatcher asked.
“10-4.”
The residence I was supposed to be doing a well check on was completely dark when I pulled up.
It was the only one on the street that didn’t have lights, and the yard was so over grown that I knew immediately that whomever was living there before, definitely wasn’t living there anymore. The sign at the front said bank-owned property for sale, and it was evident that it’d been on the market for some time.
Letting both dogs out, I walked carefully to the door, stepping over large cracks in the sidewalk, and shining my light on either side of the window.
Both windows were still intact, which was surprising. Normally, in abandoned houses like this, squatters tended to stay in them, gaining entry by breaking in the easiest way possible.
The glass panes on either side of the door would’ve been the ideal way to gain entry.
Knocking on the wood of the door three times, I called out, “Benton PD.”
With no response, I knocked again. An eerie sense of déjà vu hit me, and I pivoted to the side as to offer up as little of my body as possible.
Which saved my life.
Three shotgun blasts went off at the same time, and I dropped down, hitting the intercom on my mic and shouting loudly. “Unit 5-2. Shots fired. Shots fired. Code 45.”
Once I was done yelling into my mic, I flipped the switch that would turn it off, and everything went eerily silent.
I’d hoped that I’d called out the right code seeing as they changed them just last week, but I assumed they’d figure it out as soon as they didn’t hear anything back from me. It was standard protocol to turn off one’s radio after letting dispatch know about your life being in danger. The radio most likely would be blowing up right about now dispatching units to this location, and if the radio was still on, whomever had done the shooting would likely hear it seizing with information.
Whoever was shooting shotgun rounds through the door went silent after running out of shells, and I stayed where I was, gun aiming at the trashed door without any knowledge of even pulling it out.
The dogs, both huddled down close to the ground, were quivering in anticipation, and I was glad that Kosher hadn’t lost his shit as soon as the shooting started.
Only after a good minute of no return fire, I started to get worried.
I was one single person in the fucking dark, and there could be who knows how many just lying in wait for me to make my move. Which I knew I had to do.
Flipping the flashlight on my gun, I poked my head around the door only to be met with a face full of shotgun.
A discarded shotgun, luckily.
Whomever had had it had dropped it on a table just inside the door and took off.
I heard scuffling noises coming from the back room, but held my position. Some sixth sense told me they were going around the house, so I gave an order for Radar to stay, and Kosherto go. When Kosher went, Radar and I went into the house.
