“He’s coming around the back. Cut him off!”
Calhoun Georgia. A small, quiet town of around twenty thousand souls. The town is far from prosperous, not having truly grown in nearly fifty years. Every so often it gains a bank or a housing development, but beyond that it is far from interesting. Even during the rush hours of the workday, the decibels of traffic rarely exceed the minimum level for a city such as Atlanta. Most people go about their day without a single incursion, happy to live out their lot in quiet industriousness or live out their older years in relative peace.
Except for today.
Michael Doe, 24, six three and two hundred and fifty-three pounds of lean muscle ran through an alley in a housing project down town in the middle of the Georgia summer heat. Normally the act would challenge the average person, the fifty pound bullet proof vest on his torso and Smith & Wesson M&P 15 slung across his back adding weight that would have given anyone else heatstroke.
“Dammit! He slipped past me. Anyone got eyes on?”
“I'm moving in on his six now,” Michael said over his radio, the Bluetooth type earpiece allowing him full use of his hands. He jumped over a car, coiling and then kicking his feet out in front of him as he mantled across the hood of the ‘98 Ford Taurus. As he landed he sprung onto a dumpster, using the lip of the opening as a platform to jump over a privacy fence and into someone’s back yard. A dog ran to the end of it’s chain, barking as he landed in the grass, then shying away as he triggered his hand taser; the arcing electricity startling the animal into submission.
“Can you see him yet?”
Michael turned around quickly, finding the target to me climbing a chain fence about fifty meters away. “Freeze! Bail Enforcement, don’t move!” He pulled his sidearm from its holster and took aim, holding the iron-sights over the target’s knee. “I said freeze!” He pulled the trigger, the bullet striking and bursting a pot past where the target had been just a second before.
“I heard shots fired! Michael are you alright?”
“I'm fuckin fine!” He swore as he holstered his pistol. “He took off back onto forty one, I'm coming around now. See if you can cut him off.” Michael took off into the yard the target had ran through, tumbling over the fence and catching his rifle as it fell over his head and shoulders.
“I got him, but he’s getting away!”
“God dammit, take him down!”
Michael ran out of the front yard of the property, startling an elderly couple as he ran by with rifle in hand. As he entered the highway a car skidded to a halt, swerving around him while blaring its horn. Looking right he noticed the target, a man with shoulder length blond hair wearing cutoff denim shorts, cowboy boots and a wife-beater tank top shirt running towards a car stopped at a red light.
“Freeze or I will shoot you!” Michael shouted, lifting his rifle to his shoulder and glaring down the EOTech sight. The man continued to ignore him, closing to the car and breaking the driver side window. He had just enough time to open the door before Michael pulled the trigger, landing the shot squarely in the perp’s right shoulder. The fragmenting bullet caused the wound to balloon on the front side, gore spraying the back window as the man was forced into the car by the round. “I got him. Repeat, I have the target and am closing in now."
“You sonovabitch, you shot me!” The perp had fallen to the ground, propped up against the rear quarter panel of the Subaru Impreza. His hand was clasped over his shoulder, face contorted in pain as he tried to slide away from the encroaching enforcer. “I’ll fuckin ruin you for this! You hear?!” Michael closed on him and placed his boot on the man’s chest, pushing him to the ground and onto his stomach.
“Thomas Reeves, you are under civil arrest for evading bail and breaking parole for possession of lethal weapons.” Michael pulled the man’s hands behind his back, securing them with a long, thick zip-tie. He pulled a sharpened screwdriver from the man’s waistband, tossing it to the side as he turned him over and pulled him to his feet by his shirt. “You have the right to shut the fuck up. Anything your corn-fed hotdog-holder says can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If your broke ass can’t afford one, the court will appoint one to you at no expense.” He continued to list off his modified Miranda Rights as he pushed him along the sidewalk, pulling him to a stop as a black Suburban stopped by the sidewalk.
…
‘Just head on home and sit on your phone. We’ll call you if anything comes up.’
That’s what Michael had been told by the Bondsman after they had turned the contract in to the state troopers. To go home and wait. He sighed through his nose as he turned down the broken asphalt road to his house, knowing exactly why James, his boss, had told him that.
Michael had used what the cops considered Lethal Force in a situation that it wasn’t necessary in, having chosen to fire rounds in stead of subduing him with a taser or pepper spray. From the time he walked into the station to the time he walked out with the rest of the team he heard hushed talk about thinking he was still overseas, how you cant fix a mad dog. He silently endured the snide comments and tolerated the forced congratulations for capturing the man ‘at any cost’. He quieted his mind, however, silencing the loath of doughnut addicted, nickel-plate badges and the civil authorities in general as he turned into his driveway. He turned off the engine, letting the Suzuki XL7 roll around the horseshoe drive until the SUV was behind his house. As he applied the parking brake and shifted the stick to first he let out a frustrated huff, slapping the ball of his palm against the wheel before pulling the keys from the ignition.
Today had been a day he would like to start over. In fact, there were a few months he wished he could restart; things he wished he hadn’t done now that it was a constant reminder that no good deed goes unpunished. With a shake of his head and a running of a hand through his black hair he exited the SUV, taking the duffel from the passenger seat before closing the door. As he closed the door three kids on bicycles zipped past him, laughing as they fired Nerf guns at each other. He sighed, knowing they would continue to se his property as a racetrack even though he had expressed his want of them not to to their parents.
“Afternoon Mister Doe!” one of the older kids, a 15 year old girl named Jannel, called as she chased after them on foot, smiling and waving before disappearing around the corner and into the street. It was times like these that he was glad he didn’t have dependants; in his psychiatrist’s opinion he was too unstable and surly to be a father.
He quickly made his way toward his front porch, slipping the key into the lock and opening the door before any more of the outside world had time to interfere with him. He closed it behind him, turning the deadbolt to lock it tight.
“You or them?”
The sound would have caught most people off guard; the voice of a woman in a house with one occupant usually considered out of place. But Michael was used to it by now. This had gone on for the past several months, ever since he had found her in the park that night. A night he wished he had stayed home.
“Them,” he said plainly, looking down and noticing he still had the perp’s blood on his sleeve. He walked away from the door, dropping the duffel by the couch before taking his seat by the left arm. “When do I ever come home with my own blood on my clothes?” He looked to his right, making visual acknowledgement of the small winged pony lying on its stomach. The pony raised its hoof slightly, shrugging.
“Fine then,” She said, another oddity that he was used to. “Forgive me for worrying about you when you come home smelling like a warzone.” Her concerned voice had changed to one filled with venom, usually passive gaze now a fiery scowl. “You know not everything is out to get you, right?”
“Yeah, and most people like me would prefer to come home to silence after having just shot someone.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, taking one out before dropping them on the table. “Before you came along I was happily alone, Spitfire. I'd come home with someone else’s blood on me and smelling like a cannon and nobody cared.” He lit the cigarette, taking a drag before placing it in an ashtray. He exhaled, staring at the dark TV over the mantle as she glared at him. After a moment of silence he sighed, picking up the tube of cancer again and sticking the butt between his lips as he opened a magazine. “Thanks for caring.” He said in a blank tone, showing his appreciation in his own way.
“You know you don’t have to be an ice cube all the time, right?” Spitfire rose to her hooves, her head barely rising above his, even in his sitting position. She took a couple of steps toward him, sitting beside him and placing her hoof on his arm. “I actually care about you Michael. You know that right?” She watched with a compassionate expression as he pulled the cigarette from his lips, flicking ash into the tray before exhaling a cloud of smoke. She grew frustrated as he continued to ignore her, Spitfire catching him on the chin with a hoof. “Hey.”
“Would you lay off?” She drew back as he spat the words at her, pulling her hoof to her chest as hurt crossed her face. “I'm fine. I just want to be alone right now, ok? I had a busy day...” He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. Spitfire’s ears drooped low as he pushed her away, the yellow mare getting up and climbing off the couch before walking toward her room.
“Fine. If you wanna talk about it I’ll be in my room.” She pushed open the white door, looking back over her shoulder at the back of his head. Sadness began to grip her throat, as he seemed to not care. He was the only thing on this world that she knew she could trust, and she wished he knew how much it hurt her when he pushed her away. “There’s some food in the oven if you’re hungry.” And with that she retreated into the darkness of her bedroom.
Michael continued to stare blankly at the magazine, not really looking at anything in it, but through the papers. After minutes of staring he was brought back to reality by a pain in his fingers, looking at his hand to notice the cigarette was almost burnt out. He took a last drag before putting the butt in the ashtray, using the magazine to brush the ashes that had fallen on the couch into the floor. He stood up, making his way toward Spitfire’s room and raising a hand to knock before he stopped himself. He knew she was crying. Even if he couldn’t hear it, he knew she would be crying. With a sigh and the shake of his head he turned away from the door, turning right into the dining room and through the swinging door to the kitchen.
The room was hot, meaning she had just finished cooking before he came home, and from the aroma in the air she had made something he had come to enjoy. Opening the oven door he found what he was looking for, a plate of fried potatoes and three biscuits, all surrounding a bowl of carrot and celery stew. He took the food out, leaning against the wall as he ate in silence. It was an undiscussed agreement in the house; if she didn’t want to smell burning meat, she cooked vegetarian meals. He didn’t mind, really; she was a good cook. However the food didn’t sit in his stomach quite right.
With a thought he placed the food on the stovetop, making his way back to the dining room. He took a right after entering the room, heading into the hall that ran between the two bedrooms, the sleeping areas separated by a bathroom. He neared the door quietly, the quiet sniffling and sporadic clearing of a throat meaning she was still crying. He hated seeing her cry…
“Hey,” he called through the door gently, turning the knob and opening the door an inch. “Look… I'm sorry about how I acted earlier.” He released the door, leaning on the frame as he waited for her to reply. He stood silent for a full minute, the only sound being her sniffling and the tapping of the doorknob moving in its seat. “Spitfire…” He was cut off by the door swinging open, the blacked out darkness inside as much of an invitation as he was going to get. He stepped into the room, feeling across the hardwood floor through his boots to find his way as the door closed behind him. He turned to face the door, standing still as he felt the air rushing over his face, neck and chest. “Listen I-”
“Shh…” He felt a soft touch on his lips, identifying it as Spitfire’s hoof. “I’m not mad, Michael.” Her hoof gently slipped down his chin, fading from his senses before the feeling of her feathers brushing his arm replaced it. Her hooves wrapped around his arm, pulling him with surprising strength to the left. He stumbled over something in the floor, falling forward before being caught by the pegasus. “I got you,” She purred, her lips meeting his in an impassioned embrace.
