I DID A quick peek into the apartment and caught a glimpse of Barbara’s back in a slight profile, her gun extended, pointed at a man who held a small child. His gun was touching the child’s head, Barbara not more than ten feet away.
I stood with my back to the wall, trying to control my rapid breath. Someone would’ve heard my shot and called the cops. We didn’t have much time. I said, loud enough for them to hear, “I’m comin’ in.” I entered, the gun down by my side.
“Put the child down,” Barbara said again.
The man was of average height and weight, with jet-black hair down to his shoulders and intense blue eyes. He held an expensive H&K automatic to Rebecca’s head, my grandniece. The man kept his finger on the trigger, the hammer back on the gun, ready to fire. A pound-and-a-half trigger pull, that’s all that remained between life and death. A dangerous situation. The worst kind.
“I’m walking out of here,” the man yelled. “You’re both going to put your guns down and you’re going to do it right now.”
Ricardo sat on the bed closest to the man and cried.
“Mrs. Wicks,” I said to Barbara, “this isn’t at all what we thought it was going to be.”
She started to turn her head and caught herself. “What the hell are you talking about, Bruno?”
“They’re not your standard, everyday dope dealers.”
“Drop the guns,” the man said. “Now!”
“Bruno, talk to me.”
“The Suburban with the tinted windows, the sniper, and the woman in the next apartment, the way she acts and talks. She had a silenced weapon.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“They’re pros, Barbara, professional operators. This isn’t what we thought it was. There’s no way out, none.”
“Bruno?”
“It’s shark for dinner tonight.”
She didn’t hesitate. She took the shot. The gunshot filled the room with noise and a billow of white cordite.
The man’s head kicked backward. The round hit him solid on the cheek just below the right eye, a brain shot. She’d hit him exactly right and shut down all of his motor coordination.
On the way down, the gun came off target, off Rebecca’s head, and flopped to the man’s right as he wilted dead. His finger remained inside the trigger guard.
The gun in his hand hit the floor.
The gun discharged.
Barbara grunted.
She spun around. I caught her.
“No. No. No,” I said. “Barbara? Barbara.” I scooped her up and laid her on the bed. The children screamed in terror.
“Bruno,” Barbara said, “Get the kids out of here. I’m okay, I’m okay, just get the kids away from all this.”
I pulled her jacket open. Her blouse blossomed with red. A small black hole high on the left abdomen, just below the rib cage, oozed dark blood. Her hand grabbed my shirt. “Get ’em outta of here.”
“Stop it and lie still.” I applied pressure to the wound with one hand. She groaned. With the other I searched her coat pockets and found her phone and car keys just as the phone rang. I checked the screen.
Mack.
Shit.
I answered it. “Mack.”
“Yeah, buddy, you get the kids, okay?” He heard the kids screaming in the background. “What’s going on?”
“Mack, I’m sorry, it went down bad, real bad.”
“Barbara? Where’s Barbara? Let me talk to Barbara.”
“Gimme the phone, you horse’s ass.”
I handed her the phone and, still holding pressure, reached for the landline phone. I dialed 911.
The operator came on. “Police emergency, what are you reporting?”
“Shots fired, officer down. Officer down.” I dropped the phone on the nightstand.
Barbara’s eyes rolled up and her hand dropped the phone. I picked it up.
“Barbara? Barbara?” Mack yelled into the phone.
“It’s me again. I have help responding.”
“How bad, Bruno? How bad, damn you.”
“Mack, you’re going to have to hurry.” A lump rose up in my throat and choked me. “Hurry, Mack.”
Two cops ran in, guns drawn, blue uniforms from Inglewood who’d been dispatched to the first shot in the other apartment. I dropped the cell phone. “This is the chief of police for Montclair. She’s hit hard.” I picked Barbara up, an arm under her legs, and one under her arms. “We need to do a scoop and run if she’s gonna make it.”
One cop said, “I’ll drive.” He yelled at his partner, “Stay with these kids, contain the crime scene, and call Centinela hospital, tell em’ we’re rollin’ in hot with an officer down.”
He led the way out the door and down the walk. Time ticked by too quickly for Barbara and too slow for us.
“How far is it?”
“We’re good, it’s only two blocks, not even half a mile. We’re good. We’re good. Two minutes. We’ll have her there in two minutes.”
He opened the back door. I got in with her as best I could, my leg half out, the space too tight to do anything about it. “Go. Go. Go.”
He took off, driving crazy. The centrifugal force on the first turn leaving the parking area as we entered Arbor Vitae almost pulled us both out the open door. The Inglewood cop spoke on his radio. Two more quick turns, and we entered the driveway to the hospital. He hadn’t exaggerated about the distance. He pulled up on the sidewalk, right up to the emergency room door, got out and came around. He helped me get her out. Her head lolled back, her eyes rolled up, only the whites of her eyes visible. Blood soaked her clothes and mine. Lots of blood. Too much blood.
The automatic doors swung open when we approached, just as the nurses came on the run with the gurney. We set her down, too rough, the gurney already moving back the way it had come.
I bent over, hands on my knees, and tried to focus on breathing.