formed a wall in front of the roof door, which was one way down. The other way was a header over the ledge.
The six of us moved in very tight. I yelled, “All right, don't pull your weapons whatever you do, they'll take them. Just stay close and hold onto each other.”
We dropped our heads like fullbacks, squared our shoulders, and surgedforward. I led and my men followed. A corridor of people opened as we ran through. Men, women, and children started to spit at us. This was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I was a New York City police detective, paid to protect the very citizens who were spitting at me. We made it into the building and charged down. On the stairs and on every floor were two rows of people just waiting to give us some of their saliva. We were covered in phlegm. Then someone threw a can, hitting a civilian man in the head. He bled profusely. Days later we would be accused of causing that wound—nothing new there. The man hit the floor. Upon seeing one of their own down for the count, the people went berserk. They started to punch, kick, and claw at us. I felt a horrific sting below my shoulder. Someone had bitten a chunk of skin out of my back. The pain was excruciating. That was when I ripped what was left of the shotgun out of my jacket and began to swing it wildly back and forth like I was clearing a jungle with a machete. I swung indiscriminately high and hard. If they were in front of me, they were going to get hit. I made a few solid connections before I finally saw daylight.
We charged out into the belly of the beast, 116th Street. I didn't stop swinging. We saw an RMP in the middle of the street and we charged for it. Smoke was now blanketing the area. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of us. What we did see were hands scratching and feet kicking at us.
One of my cops tripped and fell. He was surrounded by ten men. I saw a clothesline rope appear in one of their hands. They were going to string him up. Simultaneously we pulled our guns, charging the group of men, who backed away. We pulled the cop to safety. More men surrounded us. It was seconds before they'd overwhelm us, taking our guns—we were group fucked. Suddenly, Louie D'Alessio, one of the 2-8 anticrime cops, raised his gun high above and let one round go. That stopped them for the time being.
We made it to the RMP, slamming the doors and locking them. The keys weren't in the car. BOOM! The windshield exploded, covering us in a million fine pieces of glass. If that wasn't enough, burning rags soaked in gasoline were tossed in. We were choking. I kicked open the rear doors and we barely made it out, gasping for air. I saw the bus. We charged it.
BOOM! Another explosion, then another gunshot, then blackness draped over me. I felt hands wrap around my midsection. And then it all came rushing back: an incredibly piercing and constant pain in my head, loud ringingand buzzing. I saw everything around me spinning. I heard myself talk, though it was slurred and incoherent, “I'm shot...I'm shot...” Is this it? Is this the way I'm going out? My father. He's going to see me wheeled in, half my head missing. No, not dad, not dad...
I heard voices and screaming and more voices and more screaming. Then I felt my feet being dragged. I opened my eyes. Inspector John Haugh was holding me, pulling me somewhere. Louie D'Alessio was to my right, also dragging me. “Louie, I'm shot, Louie. Don't let them bring me to St. Luke's...My father, Louie, please.” (Louie was killed two years later in the line of duty.)
Then I felt the heels of my feet banging against steps. I was deposited onto a bus. I knew this because I saw the rear doors, but the doors had hands attached to them. Hands were trying to rip open the doors. The sides of the bus were rocking up and down. Nausea gripped me. I felt bile and that unmistakable metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I started to choke on it. The bus floor started to bend.
The six of us moved in very tight. I yelled, “All right, don't pull your weapons whatever you do, they'll take them. Just stay close and hold onto each other.”
We dropped our heads like fullbacks, squared our shoulders, and surgedforward. I led and my men followed. A corridor of people opened as we ran through. Men, women, and children started to spit at us. This was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. I was a New York City police detective, paid to protect the very citizens who were spitting at me. We made it into the building and charged down. On the stairs and on every floor were two rows of people just waiting to give us some of their saliva. We were covered in phlegm. Then someone threw a can, hitting a civilian man in the head. He bled profusely. Days later we would be accused of causing that wound—nothing new there. The man hit the floor. Upon seeing one of their own down for the count, the people went berserk. They started to punch, kick, and claw at us. I felt a horrific sting below my shoulder. Someone had bitten a chunk of skin out of my back. The pain was excruciating. That was when I ripped what was left of the shotgun out of my jacket and began to swing it wildly back and forth like I was clearing a jungle with a machete. I swung indiscriminately high and hard. If they were in front of me, they were going to get hit. I made a few solid connections before I finally saw daylight.
We charged out into the belly of the beast, 116th Street. I didn't stop swinging. We saw an RMP in the middle of the street and we charged for it. Smoke was now blanketing the area. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of us. What we did see were hands scratching and feet kicking at us.
One of my cops tripped and fell. He was surrounded by ten men. I saw a clothesline rope appear in one of their hands. They were going to string him up. Simultaneously we pulled our guns, charging the group of men, who backed away. We pulled the cop to safety. More men surrounded us. It was seconds before they'd overwhelm us, taking our guns—we were group fucked. Suddenly, Louie D'Alessio, one of the 2-8 anticrime cops, raised his gun high above and let one round go. That stopped them for the time being.
We made it to the RMP, slamming the doors and locking them. The keys weren't in the car. BOOM! The windshield exploded, covering us in a million fine pieces of glass. If that wasn't enough, burning rags soaked in gasoline were tossed in. We were choking. I kicked open the rear doors and we barely made it out, gasping for air. I saw the bus. We charged it.
BOOM! Another explosion, then another gunshot, then blackness draped over me. I felt hands wrap around my midsection. And then it all came rushing back: an incredibly piercing and constant pain in my head, loud ringingand buzzing. I saw everything around me spinning. I heard myself talk, though it was slurred and incoherent, “I'm shot...I'm shot...” Is this it? Is this the way I'm going out? My father. He's going to see me wheeled in, half my head missing. No, not dad, not dad...
I heard voices and screaming and more voices and more screaming. Then I felt my feet being dragged. I opened my eyes. Inspector John Haugh was holding me, pulling me somewhere. Louie D'Alessio was to my right, also dragging me. “Louie, I'm shot, Louie. Don't let them bring me to St. Luke's...My father, Louie, please.” (Louie was killed two years later in the line of duty.)
Then I felt the heels of my feet banging against steps. I was deposited onto a bus. I knew this because I saw the rear doors, but the doors had hands attached to them. Hands were trying to rip open the doors. The sides of the bus were rocking up and down. Nausea gripped me. I felt bile and that unmistakable metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I started to choke on it. The bus floor started to bend.
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