Dog days.

Eyes locked forward, he tried to ignore the mob of police officers surrounding the bank. Sitting against the wall he felt exhausted, his arms laid across his knees, and a magnum hung loosely out of his right hand. His clothes were drenched in blood and sweat, and now it was time to quit.

The police were frozen outside, all of them up against their patrol car doors, arms fixed, guns raised. He eyed the radio. It lay on the ground to his left amidst broken glass and blood. He was scared, scared to move, scared of what he’d become.

SWAT teams perched on the rooftop across the street. Stone snipers lay prone, waiting to unflinchingly take fatal shots. There was a spotlight focused on the bank, it spilled through lobby through shattered windows up to the riddled teller booth, illuminating his fallen comrades.

He sat just out of sight, anxiously counting down the minutes, seconds until the damned radio buzzed off. There was nothing left, he was out of time.

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