Alone

The noise of the two gunshots in the pit was deafening, and I saw him jump back in alarm, before firing a round right back, kicking up a divot of dirt in front of my face, forcing me to duck back down. Another shot rang out, though I had no idea where it was hitting. I blindly raised the gun above my head and fired a single shot in his general direction. I heard him shout something, it could've been a curse, it could've been a yell. I had no idea, but it meant he wasn't dead yet. I fired one more blind shot. Despite knowing that sitting still with one round left was a likely death sentence, I froze for a moment. I was scared. God help me, I was terrified, but I knew I had to stay in the fight. I couldn't cower in my own grave and wait for him to come for me, I'd survived too much to let that happen.

After taking a few precious moments to gather my breath, and my courage, I forced myself to lift my head up. I saw him lumbering away from me, towards the BMW, maybe ten or fifteen yards away, one arm swinging at his side, the other nowhere to be seen. I raised the gun, aimed down the dimly glowing sights, and fired the fifth and final shot at him. I missed, shattering the window of the car instead. He noticed, and stumbled around the back of the car. I saw the interior light go on a moment later, but I didn't know what to make of that, until I saw his head pop up over the roof a moment later, pointing something shiny at me.

The night silence had been shattered already by the sound of gunfire, but the cacophony of fire from the Smith and Wesson was far louder. I ducked back down as three, no, four shots came my way in quick succession. I tried to count rounds as he kept firing at me, the bullets kicking up dirt and showering me with it, but in the chaos and terror of being pinned down in my grave, I wasn't able to keep a proper count. I was already panicking, I'd never been in a gunfight before, I'd never fought for my life before, and now I had to do both.

What made this worse though, was that presumably, he had the rifle there somewhere. If he picked that up, I had no chance, but then again, I had no chance anyway. I was out of ammo. Then I realized something. He was using Thomas's Smith and Wesson, not my Glock. Of that, I was certain. He ran to the car for a reason, and then when he poked his head back up, I saw the dull, silver shine of the stainless steel slide and frame. He didn't have my Glock, which meant, even if he had my belt nearby, the magazines for it were useless to him. A quick glance back at Thomas's lifeless corpse confirmed that the magazines for the Smith & Wesson were still in his belt. The million dollar question was, where was my Glock?

I knew I had to find it. That gun was my only chance, and if he'd dropped it during my initial volley, then it could be close enough to grab. It was a gamble, and there was a good chance I'd get shot, but my life was hanging in the balance, and quite simply put, I had no other options. After a few moments of quiet, I steeled myself and poked my head up for not even a second. Two rapid shots immediately followed, and I ducked back down again, but I'd seen it. It was there, not even two yards from the edge of the pit, but with no cover and his gun trained on me, I'd be cut down in a second if I tried to climb out and get it, especially with my hands still cuffed. Then I remembered, Thomas had a key. With difficulty, I rolled him over and unclipped the handcuff key from his belt. Dropping the empty revolver, I took it in my shaking hands and finally undid the cuff from my left wrist. It fell away, and I turned my attention back to my predicament, ignoring the other cuff. It was uncomfortable, sure, but every second I spent in the pit was another second he had to push up and retrieve my gun.

The only thing I had going for me, was that he had no way of knowing I was dry on ammo. If he did, I'd already be dead. Speaking of ammo, how many times had he fired? Maybe ten, eleven times now? Thomas had lit the car up earlier as well, but I hadn't been counting then either. He should be out of ammo, but then I remembered, he'd fired at me with my gun at first, before dropping it and then going to get the Smith and Wesson. I had at least ten rounds or so left in mine. He could have no more than three or four rounds left, of that I was sure. Well, that's a lie. I wasn't sure. I had to remind myself of what I was sure of. I was sure that this wasn't how I was going to die, because despite all that had happened so far, I believed that providence was on my side. I believed that with all my heart.

Adrenaline coursing through me, I launched myself from the pit and scrambled for the gun. Two more shots rang out, but nothing hit me. I saw my hand clasp around the dirty, checkered grip of the gun, and felt the trigger embrace my index finger like an old friend. Immediately, I pointed my gun towards the car, roughly where I thought he was, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing, not even a click. The trigger was just dead. It was then that I saw Greg coming back around the back of the BMW, holding the patrol rifle, bringing it to shoulder. I'd practiced clearing stoppages during shooting classes in the academy, and while I was no Annie Oakley, I knew my gun, and under normal conditions, I was proficient with it. But what happened next, I could never have done before, and I'd never be able to do again. All I could surmise was that I'd been right. Providence was on my side.

I pulled the gun back towards me, slammed a hand into the magazine baseplate and then wrenched the slide back, letting it clear whatever malfunction had come about. Then, without a moment to spare, I punched outwards towards him with the gun, fired, and he dropped like a stone.

***

The first thing I did when he went down was fire again, then get to my knees, aim, and fire again, and then again, and then a few more times for good measure. Once I was sure he was down, I got to my feet, and with terror and fury swirling around in my heart, I approached rapidly, holding my aim on him the whole time.

"SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!" I screamed as I came around the corner, ready to unload the rest of my magazine into him.

I found him lying face down, the back of his head split open like a watermelon, and several more gunshot wounds to his back and thighs, where I'd continued firing at him. I just stood there for a moment, staring at him, blinking as I tried to make sense of it. I survived. I'd just spent the last two hours of my life being violently abused by this man. He killed my partner, hurt me in ways I wouldn't wish on anyone, terrorized me to the point where I was close to wishing for death, and he was moments away from executing me. And now, he laid dead on the ground, the back of his head blown apart. It almost didn't feel real. He was dead, and I was alive.

As the adrenaline started wearing off, everything hurt, and the fatigue was overwhelming. Every step I took felt like I was fighting to climb a mountain, and when I leaned down to retrieve the dropped patrol rifle, which was lying underneath him, I had to stop myself from falling. Eventually I dragged it out from underneath him, and when I picked it up, it felt like it weighed as much as I did. I knew he was dead, but I was operating on autopilot now. I had to disarm him, even if half of his head was gone. When I had it, I walked back to the patrol car, opened up the driver's side door, and sat down heavily, the rifle resting across my lap. I looked down at my hands, they were slick with blood, and shaking uncontrollably.

I then turned my attention to the radio mic, wrapped several times around the steering column. I put my pistol on the dash, rested the rifle up against its lock, and started unwinding the radio cord. Once I had it though, I realized my hands still wouldn't stop shaking, and because of my hands, slick with fresh blood from dragging that rifle out from under Greg, I couldn't get a grip on the mic properly. I let it hang down from the wheel as I tried to wipe some of the blood off my hands. I ended up just getting lots of blood on my shirt though. Oh well, it wasn't like I'd ever wear this shirt again, so who cares? Finally, I found the PTT.

"Fourteen-Tango-Five." I called up, my voice hoarse and weak.

"Fourteen-Tango-Five, go ahead." The dispatcher replied after a moment, sounding tired and cross.

"Fourteen-Tango-Five, 10-24." I got out, the shakes getting to my voice now too.

"Fourteen-Tango-Five, 10-9?" He replied immediately, his fatigue and irritability forgotten for the moment. He sounded slightly scared, but more than a little confused.

"10-24." I repeated, still barely audible. "My partner's dead. I need help." I croaked out afterwards.

A brief pause, before finally, he understood that something was wrong.

"10-4 Tango-Five, sending units to you right now, hang in there." He said firmly, and then the channel lit up with voices.

"Sierra-Six, 10-11." A male voice cut in first.

"Papa-Nineteen, we're 10-11." Announced another.

"Papa-Ten, 10-52 eight minutes." A woman said firmly.

"Tango-Six, we're coming, hold on kid." Was the voice of another training officer.

"Charlie-Two, 10-11!"

"Papa India-Fourteen."

"Sierra-One, on the way!"

"10-3! 10-3!" The dispatcher cut in, drowning out the voices of several more units announcing their acknowledgement. "Tango-Five, can you talk?" He asked after a moment, his previous hesitance and uncertainty forgotten, now the epitome of professionalism.

"Yes." I replied, still trying to get my shakes under control.

"Okay, you said your partner-" He began, but stopped for a moment. "You said he's dead, are you sure, is he not breathing?"

"He's dead!" I snapped tearfully. "I can see his-" I got out a moment later, but stopped, barely holding back sobs.

No response for a few moments after that. For a solid twenty seconds, I was left listening to my own ragged breathing, the background grumble of the idling engine, and the chiming of the open car door.

"Tango-Five... Murphy, are you hurt?" He asked eventually, his voice softening slightly. I think by then he knew I wasn't okay.

"I don't know." I got out, unable to hold back the tears now.

"Are you safe?" He continued, and I could hear him rapidly typing away in the background.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

I couldn't reply for a moment. I knew he was dead, so it was as safe as it could be, but whenever I tried to talk, I convulsed into racking sobs.

"Murphy, are you there?" He asked after a moment, when I didn't reply.

"Yeah." I choked out finally. "It's safe. I'm the only one left."

***

The first unit to arrive was just a patrol car with a single deputy. A young guy with glasses, probably only about 25 or so. He pulled up, gun already drawn, no idea what to expect, shouting my name. Once he saw me, sitting in the car, looking out at nothing, he did a quick sweep of the scene, picking up the dropped Smith and Wesson, before immediately running back to me, frantically asking me where I was hit. There was blood on my hands, and all across my shirt, but none of it was mine. He wouldn't have known that though, and he was acting on instinct, so I could forgive him for what he did next, which was to tear open my ruined shirt, checking for wounds. He recoiled in shock when my breasts popped out, evidently expecting to see my vest underneath, but then he noticed everything else. He saw the vacant look I was wearing, the bruises on my face, the singular handcuff on my wrist that I hadn't yet managed to remove, and the scratches all across my front, from lying face down on the earth as I was raped.

A detective he was not, but you'd have to be downright stupid not to figure it out at that point. He wasn't, and as he quickly pieced it together, he looked from me, to the dead man slumped a few yards in front of the car, and then back to me. The helpless look of horror on his face made it clear he'd figured it out, or at least, some of it. The first thing he did was take his handcuff key and help me remove the other cuff, before placing them to the side. After a moment of hesitation, he leaned in awkwardly to try and button my shirt up again, but he'd destroyed the last few buttons. He seemed about to say something, to apologize maybe, but he just grimaced, and ran back to his car. He returned a few moments later with a high-visibility rain jacket, which he then helped me put on and zip up. It was far too large, but it still was the first act of kindness I'd experienced in a while.

It wasn't the last either. He stayed with me as the next couple of units arrived and started securing the scene. I watched half a dozen deputies file past me, and while a few tried to talk to me, he directed them to secure the scene instead. Eventually though, my duty sergeant arrived, and after he'd toured the scene, he came back to me and took over. The sergeant knew. I could see it in his eyes. It was that mixture of hesitancy, confusion, pity, and finally, bubbling softly beneath it all, the anger, the outrage. I didn't know him that well, but I liked him well enough, and while the young deputy had taken a hands-off approach, not wishing to disturb me, or let me be disturbed, the sergeant knew that wasn't going to work in the long run.

"Murphy, tell me what happened." He said with a sigh, crouching down in front of me.

I'd been looking at the ground, exhausted, trying to stay warm in the car, but the open door, and the shock of what had happened was finally starting to take its toll, and I was dazed and confused. I looked up at him and saw him looking right back at me, the worry on his face clear as day. He looked a bit like my dad when I was young, when I came home crying from school. I half expected him to offer me an ice cream if I told him what happened at school.

"Jane, you're safe now, but you need to tell me what happened." He added after a moment.

"I had him at gunpoint, and... he got my gun." I whispered, looking him right in the eyes, the tears flowing freely down my face.

His face fell into a look of pure despondency when I said that, and I felt like, at that moment, he understood. He couldn't, of course, how could he? He hadn't been violently raped and terrorized for over an hour by the person who took his gun, and then used it to kill his partner. Despite that though, I felt like I had to tell him the truth, then and there. He had to know.

"He got my gun, and I couldn't do anything. I tried. I swear to god I tried." I got out, knowing I was falling down the rabbit hole, but unable to stop myself. "But then he killed Thomas, and he- and he- he-" I trailed off, looking down as I stifled a sob.

I couldn't say it, but I didn't need to. He knew. He'd toured the scene. He'd have seen my bra, wherever it was, as well as my duty belt, vest and the rest. He'd dragged the first deputy on scene away to talk to him for a while before, so I had no doubt he knew why I was wearing this jacket as well. I tried to get myself together, but it was just all too much. In the space of a couple of hours, I'd gotten my partner killed, been raped, and killed a man. It was no wonder my hands wouldn't stop shaking. The sergeant seemed to realize I was only hanging on by a thread, as his next move took me by surprise. He took one of my shaking hands in both of his and gave it a slight squeeze. I looked up at him in shock, but didn't pull my hand away.

That skin to skin contact wasn't something I expected. We'd always been told to avoid touching people who might be overly sensitive to physical contact, especially women who'd been raped. The sergeant had broken that rule, but I was glad he had, because I needed that comfort right then, even if it was just a kind gesture from a superior, and one I barely knew, at that. I realized a moment later that I needed a lot more than that though. In the space of a second, I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around him, burying my face in his shoulder as I tried to hold back my sobbing. I'd taken him by surprise, and he had to get to his knees to stop himself from falling over, but a moment later, I felt him wrap his arms loosely around me.

"It's alright kid." He said gruffly, patting my back. "You're gonna be alright."

I wasn't so sure, but I didn't think he was lying to me. For what it was worth, he believed it. If he believed it, then maybe it was true. Maybe I would be alright.

***

EIGHT MONTHS LATER

"They've started calling me Deadeye Murphy." I said unhappily, flopping down on my sofa next to Sarah, handing off a can of white claw to her and cracking open another.

I had to watch how I rested my leg, as even after seven months of wearing it, I still wasn't quite used to the ankle holster. The weight of the small, but stout Sig P365 pistol was uncomfortable, even after all that time getting used to it, but I never got dressed without it. Hell, even in my own home, I wouldn't take it off, not unless I was in bed or in the shower, and even then, it was always within reach. I needed that gun. It was my backup both on and off the job. The department never used to allow backup guns, however after what happened, that policy was rescinded in days. I still bore some resentment though. Had they been allowed, perhaps I'd have had one, and Thomas would still be alive, but even if I didn't, then I'd at least have known that Thomas carried one. The fact that I never knew he carried one was purely because of that policy, and because he never told me. Had I known he had one, maybe he'd be alive right now. Then again, maybe I'd have just been shot and killed immediately, the same as him. I tried not to think about it too much. It did me no good to dwell on it.

I was still a cop, despite what happened. It had been a traumatic experience, and one I knew I'd never be able, nor willing to forget, but I also knew that if I gave in, then that bastard had beaten me, and Thomas had died for nothing, trying to train someone who just... gave up. I felt like I owed it to him, the department, and myself to be what I knew I could be. It had been hard, but I was glad I didn't quit, despite how awful the first few weeks were. I don't know if I'd go as far as to say I was... happy, but I was getting there. With every day that went by, I got further and further away from it, and things improved. What's more, summer was finally here, my friends were going off to university in a few weeks, and despite it being extended due to... what happened, I'd recently passed my probation. But today and tomorrow were days I had off, and the last few days had been interesting, so I'd invited Sarah and Megan over for a few drinks in the evening.

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Well I mean, that shot was a miracle Jane, can you blame them?"

"No, but it's a bit rich, coming from the same guys who avoided me like the plague since the minute I came back." I replied bitterly. "Now they finally get the chance to see me kill the fucker, they want to talk to me again."

She grimaced but didn't reply, instead just cracking open her own can and taking a sip. Megan was sitting nearby on a beanbag I'd dragged out of my bedroom, but it was pretty clear she wasn't listening. She had her phone out and earphones in, and I could hear music leaking out of them. It was nice of her to respect our privacy, but then again, maybe she just didn't want to listen to what we were talking about. I couldn't blame her really, Sarah and I didn't talk about happy topics very much anymore. I still found talking with her rewarding though. She'd become a confidant of mine, since the incident, and in turn, I'd become a confidant of hers. We had an awful truth in common. She'd been raped, and I'd been raped. We didn't discuss what was done to us, ever. That wasn't what we talked to each other about. It wasn't something either of us wanted to talk about, either. Who would?