Katrina Standoff
DESCRIPTION:
Every detective has an origin story. For Anne Chambers, it was her sister’s death.
And it was Anne who pulled the trigger.
That tragic event informs her character. In these two short stories, you will see how she conducts her cases as a Houston homicide detective, and the decision she makes when she’s cornered in New Orleans post-Katrina.
In “Father’s Day,” Anne confronts a horrid sight: a dead man impaled on a bronze military statue. As she digs deeper, she discovers a secret dating back decades, to the Vietnam War.
In the title story, Anne is trapped in New Orleans in the chaotic days after Hurricane Katrina ravaged the city. No electricity. No lights. No back up. Nothing. Only her, her gun, and the punk holding a gun to her partner’s head. She has the angle. Does she pull the trigger, or repeat the mistake she made with her sister?
Genre: Short story | Police procedural | Women detectives
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Excerpt:
I flexed my hand around the butt of my gun and steadied my aim. I could make out the punk’s head in my line of sight.
I had him cold.
I inhaled and took stock of my situation. One cop, Joe Brooks, was down, splayed on the ground, unconscious. One dirtbag was also down, his blood dark on the gray pavement. A civilian, scared shitless, cowered near the broken front door of the drug store. The broken glass under his feet sparkled with the light of the fire raging inside the store.
No electricity. No lights. No back up. Nothing.
That left only me, the other New Orleans cop, Paul Rodgers, I had been patrolling with, and the second asshole who currently held a gun pointed at Paul’s head.
I took a deep breath as the punk kept rambling something about ‘Put the gun down, bitch, or I’ll fucking blow his head off.’ It’s always ‘bitch this’ or ‘bitch that.’ Can’t these assholes come up with something more original?
I tuned him out. I could see the sweat pouring off Paul’s face as the barrel of the gun dented his temple. Cop or not, he looked scared. The civilian quaked in his shoes. His backlit form cast a long shadow along the damp street. The smell of rotting food and gasoline permeated the air. The lump on the ground behind the punk might have been a dead dog. Or a person.
I steadied my breathing and went through my inner checklist to determine if I had the shot. I had it, but after what had happened with my sister, I wanted to make sure. I could only see a quarter of the dumbshit’s face from behind Paul’s head but that was enough. As long as he maintained his position, I had the shot.
I smiled.
“What you smiling at, bitch? Ain’t you see I got a gun to your partner’s face?”
A dozen pithy action movie quotes raced through my head. What was it one of Elmore Leonard’s characters said: “If I have to draw my gun, I’ll shoot to kill.” Wouldn’t work. Already had the man in my sights.
The punk moved a step to his right. Paul scuffled along with him, wincing as the tip of the gun barrel dug into his cheek.
My shot was blocked now.
I stepped sideways.
Clear.
I wondered how long this little dance was going to take. Either way, I could wait. I didn’t think the punk could.