Catching Bullets

I tripped as I came out of the car, falling to the pavement. I saw the shooter’s feet facing the car, body jolting slightly with each shot. I heard a grunt. I saw and heard my partner’s body hit the ground. I pulled my gun as I stood up, hearing footsteps.

The shooter ran off into a dark alleyway before I could aim. I ran around the car to my partner. He’d been dead before he’d hit the ground, bullet in the brain. I glanced inside the car to the police radio within.

I turned and ran after the prick.

I charged down the alleyway and turned the corner before I realized I couldn’t hear the man’s footsteps anymore. I cursed myself. He stood down the alley a ways in a shooter’s stance, waiting for me.

I dropped to one knee, hearing gunfire, his and then mine. I steadied, aimed, missed. Bullets pinged off pavement, cracked off concrete, shattered windows. I felt something hit my chest, harder than anything I’d ever felt before. Pain exploded. My body spasmed and I hit the ground knowing I was already dead.

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