Post by westeditor on May 14, 2017 10:13:57 GMT -5
“Don’t do it Tommy,” Detective Carol McClure said as she sat against the wall, weapon at the ready; shoulder bleeding heavily from her partner’s shot. “Don’t do it!”
Detective Tommy Sloan struggled to lift his gun from where he lay after McClure’s return fire hit him. She could hear the sucking of a punctured lung as he tried to breath. They both watched the gun rising.
“Tommy! Goddamit!”
He turned the gun toward her.
She pulled her trigger.
McClure jerked her shoulder as the EMT prodded her wound. “Dammit, Hands!” she said. “That hurts.”
“Stop getting shot,” Hands chided as she probed the wound. “You got lucky on this one.”
They lifted their heads at the voice of McClure’s captain.
“Where is that Irish B!!”
McClure narrowed her eyes. I’m Scottish.
Captain Ken Smith came around the corner, ducking under the tape. He looked hard at McClure and shook his head, continuing into the building.
“Hands? Give me a couple of those long Q-Tips. Betadine through the hole, okay?”
“You want a lot or a little?”
“Maximum effect,” McClure said, adjusting the drape covering her chest.
A few minutes later, Smith came out and walked over. His bulging cheek told McClure he was working a large wad of gum.
“Hey, Chief,” McClure said. “What brings you out?”
He glared at her, shoving another stick into his mouth. He looked like an angry red-headed chipmunk.
“Goddammit, McClure! Another partner? How about killing bad guys?”
Detective Tommy Sloan struggled to lift his gun from where he lay after McClure’s return fire hit him. She could hear the sucking of a punctured lung as he tried to breath. They both watched the gun rising.
“Tommy! Goddamit!”
He turned the gun toward her.
She pulled her trigger.
McClure jerked her shoulder as the EMT prodded her wound. “Dammit, Hands!” she said. “That hurts.”
“Stop getting shot,” Hands chided as she probed the wound. “You got lucky on this one.”
They lifted their heads at the voice of McClure’s captain.
“Where is that Irish B!!”
McClure narrowed her eyes. I’m Scottish.
Captain Ken Smith came around the corner, ducking under the tape. He looked hard at McClure and shook his head, continuing into the building.
“Hands? Give me a couple of those long Q-Tips. Betadine through the hole, okay?”
“You want a lot or a little?”
“Maximum effect,” McClure said, adjusting the drape covering her chest.
A few minutes later, Smith came out and walked over. His bulging cheek told McClure he was working a large wad of gum.
“Hey, Chief,” McClure said. “What brings you out?”
He glared at her, shoving another stick into his mouth. He looked like an angry red-headed chipmunk.
“Goddammit, McClure! Another partner? How about killing bad guys?”
