STRIP POKER

"Big surprise there," Rand said under his breath. He had expected this outcome and already had his plan of action worked out.

"10-4, Dispatch. I have that vehicle in front of me, six male individuals,"

Rand did not mention the Hispanic part, or their wearing of colors. Metro bosses were extremely sensitive about racial profiling. The department was catching a lot of flack from the city leaders, so officers were forced to go overboard in their work to not offend any group of people.

"Could you have another unit start heading this way?" Rand confidently added "No code, but I’m going to go ahead and light them up, that’ll be at the corner of Eighth and Mesquite."

"10-4, 783. Unit 789 is on his way."

"10-4."

Rand flipped the switch that controlled the overhead bar of lights, and as he played with the siren control and let the patrol car put out a few loud squawks, he saw all six persons in the SUV react.

They were nervous, very nervous, and Rand knew from experience that innocent people did not act guilty.

He was slightly amazed when the powerful vehicle pulled to the curb; he thought that they might give him a good chase. Rand pulled over behind them, carefully angling the black and white out more into the traffic lane to give him a buffer from passing cars for when he approaches the vehicle.

He did not exit the patrol car, but again picked up his radio. "Dispatch, 10-20 on 789?"

The female dispatcher quickly responds. "He’s on the way."

Rand keyed the microphone. "10-4 let him know that I’m going to wait for him."

He could see the punks fidgeting; the driver was even bent over and appeared to be messing with something under his seat.

Rand had a bad feeling about this call, real bad.

The driver’s door suddenly flew open. Rand picked up his radio and over the car’s loudspeaker he barked in his best cop voice, "Stay in the car, everyone stay in the car and put your hands where I can see them." Rand’s voice blared out forcefully, and lower than normal.

Bad guys have no respect for wimps.

These bad guys apparently had no respect for tough cops either.

All the doors flew open and five youths tumbled out and began running. But it was the driver that Rand had been trained to stay with in a case such as this, and it was the driver who had his complete attention because he was getting out of the vehicle with one lethal looking shotgun.

Rand keyed his radio. "783, Code Red dispatch, get me back-up now! I have five on the ground running and one armed subject at the scene"

"10-4, 783, will advise your back-up."

The driver of the pulled vehicle was now standing in front of the SUV. He stepped to the side and let a blast loose from the shotgun, shattering the patrol car’s windshield.

"783, shots fired, tell them to step on it!"

"10-4, 783, units en route."

Rand had thrown the door to his patrol car open when the kid shot at the windshield, and now he was crouched behind the door. He could see the feet of the driver so he knew where he was, but he hoped that his friends didn’t try and sneak around and come back to help their buddy.

The driver pointed the shotgun around the side of the SUV and let off another round towards the patrol car.

It opened up a hole in the metal mailbox on the side of the road instead.

The driver was being careful not to show himself, so Rand was not able to get a clean shot.

The kid shot aimlessly in the direction of the patrol car once more.

Rand had expected to hear the sound of sirens and strong heavy engines bearing down on them by now, many of them. He knew from past experiences that he had only been waiting for help for just a matter of a couple minutes at the most, but it sure felt like hours to him. His uniform was already soaked with sweat and he had to wipe his eyes to clear his vision.

"783, Dispatch, more shots fired, where’s my backup?"

"783, they’re stuck in traffic."

"All of them?" Rand was dumbfounded, this was highly unusual.

"783, I’m trying to get you someone as fast as I can."

Rand had no doubt that she was, he could hear her composure slip.

Hell, what about his composure, it had slipped and was well on the way to a steep slide.

The kid sent off another wild round.

Rand twisted sideways. He could see the shooter’s feet. The kid was standing dead center in front of the stolen vehicle. And although Rand’s vision had long since narrowed to only focus in on the shooter, he knew that there were vehicles driving in the area, as well as pedestrians, that could be hit by a round from the punk’s shotgun.

He listened closely and he heard no sirens.

He made a decision.