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I took in the scene.
The man was writhing on the ground; I slowly walked on my knees toward him, keeping my gun trained on him the entire way.
Once I got close enough, I stood and crouched, kicking the man’s gun away from his reach in a spray of gravel.
“One shooter down. I’m not sure if there’s more, but I’m staying where I am. The shooter’s down, but not dead. Channing’s with me. I’ve been shot in the arm,” I stated crisply.
“10-4.” I heard a few yards away, and then immediately after, through the receiver of my phone.
“Over here.” I called loudly.
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
“Clear.”
The word was repeated over and over again as fifteen people poured out of the shadows.
That was one benefit of being at a cop and MC owned joint. There was no shortage of people knowing what to do. There was also no need to call the cops, because there were six already there: three in uniform, and three in plains clothes.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Channing take Trance’s offered hand as she was lifted up to her feet.
She murmured a thank you before heading to me.
“Oh, God. Your arm looks disgusting,” she cried.
Several chuckles followed her statement, including my own.
“Thanks,” I said amusingly.
She poked at it with a lone finger. “Does it hurt?”
Just that fine of a touch was enough to shoot shards of pain down my arm in droves.
“Ow, fuck. Lay off, woman!” I called out loudly.
I kept my eye on the writhing man, and was amused to see that Channing’s aim was true.
“You shot him up his dick and into his belly,” I mused.
“His insides are probably the consistency of soup,” Channing observed.
That was the truth. I had hollow points in all of my guns. If anything was worth doing, it was worth doing right, in my opinion.
Hollow points were made to expand and mushroom once they hit something. Let it be flesh or wood. If it comes into contact with the bullet, you best believe that whatever it hits will be destroyed.
Police used it to have minimal collateral damage. If a bullet were to hit something, it was made not to travel.
“D-do you think he’ll l-live?” Channing stuttered.
“Maybe,” I hedged.
There was no way the guy was going to live. His internal organs were probably more the consistency of stew rather than soup, but the outcome was still the same. He wasn’t going to make it, but I didn’t want Channing to know that yet. Not until I had my arm taken care of, and we were in the privacy of one of our homes.
