Short Story Sunday: "Shots Fired"

Well, here's my second Short Story Sunday post, rather late in the day, admittedly, but here!

I'll give a small warning for this one as it is about a police encounter with an armed villain and I mention bullet wounds twice and there is one bleeped-out curse word. (I'm a bit squeamish, so it's not too graphic or anything.)

Shots Fired

“Underestimate me. That’ll be fun,” said the woman, smirking at me even as she took a sip from her mug of steaming tea and leaned against the doorframe, ignoring the white flecks of paint that chipped off when she did so.

I bit my lip and leveled my gun on her. “Turn yourself in, Blackwood, and this’ll be easier for both of us. Hands up!”

“Now, what fun would that be?” she asked, not even moving to obey my order.

My partner, FBI Agent Shad Taylor, poked me in the ribs. “You know Jasmine Blackwood isn’t going to give in easily.”

“I hoped she’d have changed some after three years,” I answered, never taking my eyes off Blackwood.

“You make three years seem like a long time, Detective Falconer, old chap,” said Blackwood with a smirk. “Though, we haven’t seen each other since the Dresden case…”

“Just shut up, put the mug down, and get your hands in the air,” I growled and I heard Shad murmur his agreement.

Blackwood gave me a small smile. “But of course.”

She turned away towards the table, but when she turned back to face me, she held a .45 handgun leveled and cocked.

“Now the playing floor’s more even,” she answered and I recoiled a step, my finger twitching upon the trigger of my own gun.

Beside me, Shad disappeared and Blackwood glared at the seemingly empty space beside me. “Turn the cloaking device off, Shad Taylor. Or do you want me to test the space where you’re standing with a bullet?”

Shad didn’t reappear and with a shrug, Blackwood aimed in his last known direction and with a cool smirk, pulled the trigger of her gun.

I returned fire just as Shad yelled and a moment later he reappeared, holding his right arm and grimacing as blood trickled around his fingers and dripped to the floor.

“Shad, get yourself out of here and get that taken care of!” I said, trying to move to where I could exchange fire with Blackwood, but finding my path blocked by a worn brown leather recliner. “Send Southerland inside!”

“All right! I’m going!” he answered, backing out of the room.

“You’re not going to arrest me today, Falconer!” snapped Blackwood, firing two shots that left holes in the wall behind me.

“You can only run so long, Blackwood!” I answered, crouching behind the recliner and waiting for her to return fire. “And you’re just worsening your prison sentence.”

Silence.

What’s she doing now?

A floorboard creaked, followed by the thump of footsteps and I peeked out from behind the chair.

Seeing no-one crouching behind the wall anymore, I frowned and reached up to my radio. “Southerland, you coming in? Blackwood’s gone silent and I think she’s trying to get out of the house.”

“10-4, Detective Falconer, I’m coming,” answered Coretta Southerland and a few minutes later, she came creeping up beside me, her gun in hand, her gaze flicking around the room, and her nose wrinkled in disgust.

“Smells like old tea leaves in here,” she commented and I glared at her.

“Blackwood’s a British citizen and criminal who’s illegally in the U.S., what do you expect her place to smell like?” I asked, standing up and leading her towards the doorway.

“She hasn’t been here that long,” she answered, casting a distasteful glance at the hideous tan loveseat across the room from us.

“Long enough, apparently,” I answered, stepping into the dining room.

“Mmm,” was her answer as she glanced towards the pantry door right beside it.

I exchanged a glance with her and we both nodded, then approached the pantry door.

She put her hand on the doorknob and I aimed my gun towards the inside of the pantry.

“One… two… three!”

She yanked the door open and I pulled the trigger of my gun at the same time as Blackwood pulled hers.

“Ow!” I shouted, stumbling back, fire blazing through my left shoulder as I dropped my gun and clamped my hand over it. “Geez!”

“Get off me, you ****** fool!” I heard Blackwood yelp and I forced my gaze off the ground and looked into the pantry.

“Hands behind your back,” said Southerland firmly, holding Blackwood down with a well-placed knee as she pulled a pair of handcuffs off her belt with one hand.

“Of all the luck,” muttered Blackwood as Southerland closed the handcuffs around her wrists, got off her back, and pulled her to her feet.

I sighed and gritted my teeth, leaning against the wall and tightening my grip on my shoulder.

Finally! She won’t be getting free this time.

Southerland paused beside me as she escorted Blackwood out to our waiting police cars and looked me over. “You okay, Tris?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine,” I answered, grimacing. “Just get Blackwood to the car.”

“Right,” she muttered, then reached up to her shoulder radio, keeping one hand firmly on Blackwood’s shoulder. “Dispatch, we’ve got another wounded officer here, Detective Falconer’s been shot in the shoulder.”

As she was speaking, Blackwood looked at me and smirked ever so little. “I did get one thing right, Falconer. You didn’t arrest me today.”

I shook my head and ignored her.

As long as she’s not a threat to the public anymore, I don’t care who arrested her. It’s not about who’s the best. It’s about who wins in the end.