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Authors: Richard Doetsch
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following the elusive sounds of racing footfalls.
There was a sudden shouting of “Police! Stop where you are! Drop your weapon!”
And then a gunshot. And another. And another.
Jack honed in on the cacophony of violence and burst through a door to see the two thugs with their guns aimed at Apollo, who was pinned behind a column in the wide-open space. A hail of bullets erupted, shredding the column, skipping along the floor around Apollo.
The world seemed to slow down. It was as if Jack could see every bullet explode from the barrels of the guns, as if life had fallen to half-time while his senses and reflexes doubled.
And for the briefest of seconds, Jack froze.
On the range, with paper targets popping up left and right, Jack was supreme, decisions made on instinct, his reaction time barely measurable. But this was real life, with real consequences; this wasn’t for a medal, a trophy, or first place. This was for survival, both his and Apollo’s.
Jack quickly recovered. His hand suddenly rocketed to his hip, quickly drawing his Sig Sauer. He raised his weapon and, without hesitation, fired two shots. The two assailants were thrust back as if a rope had wrapped around their bodies and yanked at them, a single bullet erupting out of the backs of their heads. They were both dead before they hit the floor.
Jack ran over to the two bodies and leaned down, confirming that they no longer posed a threat. He looked at the small bullet wounds in their foreheads, almost identical in placement, just like in target practice. And while the backs of their heads had been blown out, their faces were serene and unmarred but for the single bullet hole. And it hit Jack that the two young faces before him werenot men, as he had assumed—they were teens, hardened children of the street, and he had killed them both. It was the first time he had killed, and he was overwhelmed by what he had done, a sudden nausea taking over his body.
He heard movement, a subtle moan. He raced to Apollo’s side, where he lay sprawled on the bare concrete floor, a bullet wound to the chest.
“Took you long enough,” Apollo said with a smile.
And the world seemed to fall into double-time, moving at hyperspeed now. The bullet had missed the bulletproof vest; like threading a needle, it had found the small gap beneath Apollo’s armpit. Jack tore Apollo’s shirt open, ripped the vest off, and quickly examined the wound. Blood pumped out of the hole on the left side of Apollo’s chest in a rhythmic pulse, his life flowing out of him with every beat of his heart.
Knowing that he was in a war zone, Jack hoisted Apollo off the floor and threw him over his shoulder. He raced down the stairs, his partner on his back, and out the door.
After laying him down on the sidewalk, Jack grabbed the med kit from the back of his car, trying desperately to plug the wound while he waited for the ambulance to respond to the “officer down” call.
But despite his efforts, despite everything he could do, Apollo died. They were partners for all of one hour.
In the wake of the incident, a tragedy that hit the front page of every newspaper, Jack nearly succumbed to his grief. The guilt he carried over the deaths of his partner and the two teens was overwhelming. If he hadn’t hesitated, if he had listened to Apollo about waiting for him, if he had held his emotions in check and instead followed procedure, Apollo would still be alive.
And although Jack was cleared of any wrongdoing, he knew that the death was his fault. The irony of his nickname in the wake of his failure was like a heavy chain around his body.
At such a young age, Jack found himself at a crossroads in life. He resolved to push ahead. He swore that he would never pick up a gun again in the line of duty, he would never take a life, he would find other ways of carrying out law enforcement.
He enrolled in Fordham Law, attending at night, dreaming of a way out of the life he had chosen. He remained on
There was a sudden shouting of “Police! Stop where you are! Drop your weapon!”
And then a gunshot. And another. And another.
Jack honed in on the cacophony of violence and burst through a door to see the two thugs with their guns aimed at Apollo, who was pinned behind a column in the wide-open space. A hail of bullets erupted, shredding the column, skipping along the floor around Apollo.
The world seemed to slow down. It was as if Jack could see every bullet explode from the barrels of the guns, as if life had fallen to half-time while his senses and reflexes doubled.
And for the briefest of seconds, Jack froze.
On the range, with paper targets popping up left and right, Jack was supreme, decisions made on instinct, his reaction time barely measurable. But this was real life, with real consequences; this wasn’t for a medal, a trophy, or first place. This was for survival, both his and Apollo’s.
Jack quickly recovered. His hand suddenly rocketed to his hip, quickly drawing his Sig Sauer. He raised his weapon and, without hesitation, fired two shots. The two assailants were thrust back as if a rope had wrapped around their bodies and yanked at them, a single bullet erupting out of the backs of their heads. They were both dead before they hit the floor.
Jack ran over to the two bodies and leaned down, confirming that they no longer posed a threat. He looked at the small bullet wounds in their foreheads, almost identical in placement, just like in target practice. And while the backs of their heads had been blown out, their faces were serene and unmarred but for the single bullet hole. And it hit Jack that the two young faces before him werenot men, as he had assumed—they were teens, hardened children of the street, and he had killed them both. It was the first time he had killed, and he was overwhelmed by what he had done, a sudden nausea taking over his body.
He heard movement, a subtle moan. He raced to Apollo’s side, where he lay sprawled on the bare concrete floor, a bullet wound to the chest.
“Took you long enough,” Apollo said with a smile.
And the world seemed to fall into double-time, moving at hyperspeed now. The bullet had missed the bulletproof vest; like threading a needle, it had found the small gap beneath Apollo’s armpit. Jack tore Apollo’s shirt open, ripped the vest off, and quickly examined the wound. Blood pumped out of the hole on the left side of Apollo’s chest in a rhythmic pulse, his life flowing out of him with every beat of his heart.
Knowing that he was in a war zone, Jack hoisted Apollo off the floor and threw him over his shoulder. He raced down the stairs, his partner on his back, and out the door.
After laying him down on the sidewalk, Jack grabbed the med kit from the back of his car, trying desperately to plug the wound while he waited for the ambulance to respond to the “officer down” call.
But despite his efforts, despite everything he could do, Apollo died. They were partners for all of one hour.
In the wake of the incident, a tragedy that hit the front page of every newspaper, Jack nearly succumbed to his grief. The guilt he carried over the deaths of his partner and the two teens was overwhelming. If he hadn’t hesitated, if he had listened to Apollo about waiting for him, if he had held his emotions in check and instead followed procedure, Apollo would still be alive.
And although Jack was cleared of any wrongdoing, he knew that the death was his fault. The irony of his nickname in the wake of his failure was like a heavy chain around his body.
At such a young age, Jack found himself at a crossroads in life. He resolved to push ahead. He swore that he would never pick up a gun again in the line of duty, he would never take a life, he would find other ways of carrying out law enforcement.
He enrolled in Fordham Law, attending at night, dreaming of a way out of the life he had chosen. He remained on
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