Author's Note

Building off the previous chapter, this interlude deals with the reactions to killing.
It is not to glorify it in any way.
It is to give a accurate description of how it feels to take a life based off experiences that are not my own.
It will not be pretty.
It is to show a truthful and-in some cases- shocking example of how some people deal with that stress.
It is a bit of backstory for Rick.
It completely ruins the mood of chapters one and two, much like Chapter 3 did.
And it is completely optional and not necessary to enjoy the story. It will not be very long.

Interlude: Shots Fired

Two years before the Events of the Party

Rick Kovoso was the youngest Sergeant in El Paso County Sherrif's Office history. At only 23, he had been a deputy for a mere 2 years before his arrest count and notable performance in the Jail and Patrol division made him eligible for promotion very quickly. He had proven that although he may be a baby-cop, he could roll with the best of them.

However, on June 19th of 2016, he did something that many cops never want-or have- to do.

Rick rolled up on the scene in his white Chevy Tahoe. Flicking on his lights, he lit up the dark street-corner with red and blue flashes. Two silhouettes appeared, frozen by the lights. Stopping his vehicle, Rick keyed his mic.

"Sam-Adam 26, civilian contact. Two white male, one about six foot with a headband and blue flannel, the other about 5'9 with a dark duster and dreadlocks."

Sam-Adam 26, copy. Stay safe. Dispatch replied, giving him the go ahead.

Rick stepped out of his car, giving a wave to the men.

"Evening, gentlemen. How are you two doing?"

"We ain't doin nothin wrong, officer!" The one with dreads said.

"Care to tell me what y'all are doing on this street corner at 2 am?" Rick inquired.

"Uh, we jus' takin' a walk!"

Rick looked at the street sign. The southwestern part of Colorado Springs, B Street was just barely county jurisdiction. It was also arguably the worst street in the city. This was a part of the Springs where gunshots and sirens were a regular occurrence. In short, two men "just taking a walk" wasn't a very believable story.

Rick raised an eyebrow. "At 2 am? On B street?"

"Uhhh, yeh!" said the one with the headband.

"C'mon, guys, you know as well as I that that's bullshit. What are you two up to?"

"Nothin officer, I swear by Jesus Mary and Joseph."

"Where you boys headed?"

"Uhhhhh, the Corner Store!" Headband said.

The nearest corner store that wasn't closed for repairs was on South Academy, 4 miles away, across I-25.

"You plan on walking four miles, across I-25? Sorry, I find that hard to believe." Rick said, growing annoyed.

The men stayed silent. Slowly, Dreads unbuttoned his Duster.

"Hey, hands where I can see them." Rick ordered, laying a hand on the butt of his gun.

"Y'know, we don't really take kindly to people like you 'round here.." Headband said, looking at Dreads.

Rick keyed his mike.

"Sam-Adam 26, request backup."

Sam-Adam 26, backup is 15 minutes out from West Uintah.

"Shit." he muttered, keeping an eye on the two men. "Hey, let's not make any choices that we'll both regret" He said to them. They were slowly walking towards him, closing the distance from about 20 feet to around 12.

"Oh, I ain't gonna regret this!" Headband shouted, stuffing a hand into his waistband and pulling something out.

They call it taccie-psychie when everything slows down during a stressful fight-or-flight event. When Rick watched the man slowly pull the pistol from his waistband, he clearly remembered the gleam of the weapon in the light of his car, and could easily identify it as a chrome Beretta 92. At the same time, Rick thumbed down the holster safety strap that kept his gun in place, and drew his issued Glock 22.

During this, the only thought going through Rick's head was, Really? A chrome Beretta?

The mind sometimes says silly things when going through stress.

Slowly bringing his gun up in a two handed shooting stance, Rick began to move towards Dreads. The whole time, he could see Headband bringing up his pistol in a one handed grip.

Looking back on the event later in a Psychological Evaluation with the office Psychiatrist, he couldn't remember who shot first. It felt like the bullets left the barrels at the same time for him.

At this time, time sped up again. Rick pulled his trigger three times as he ran towards Dreads, who was fumbling to get his gun out. Headband's first shot went wild, hitting the light bar on top of Rick's car, taking out the red light. His second hit the ground 10 feet to the left of Rick. After that, Rick's first shot hit headband in the stomach, causing him to double over. His second hit the top of his head, spraying blood and brains everywhere, and the third missed. Headband was dead instantly. Seeing the suspect fall, Rick turned his attention to Dreads, who was still working on drawing his gun. Quickly returning his pistol to his holster, Rick lashed out with a brutal stomach side kick, causing Dreads to fold in half like a book. Wasting no time, Rick grabbed the back of Dread's head and pulled it down as he drove his knee up, causing blood to jet from his nose. Pulling Dread's arm away from the gun, Rick delivered a series of three punches to his face, before locking a hand around the back of his neck and his bicep, kicking out to the left of Dread's right leg, and pulling it back, hitting his calf and shoving him forwards. Keeping a hold on his arm as he fell, Rick quickly used his foot to kick Dreads onto his stomach before twisting both arms behind him, pulling out his cuffs and locking them in place. Pulling him up by the cuffs and the pressure point on the top of the shoulder, Rick all but dragged the kicking and screaming gangster to the back of his Tahoe. Slamming him against the side of the car, Rick thoroughly patted him down, pulling out a massive Desert Eagle pistol, and two small bags of methamphetamine. Checking the pockets of his jacket, Rick found two extra .50 AE magazines. Relieving the cursing gangster of those as well, Rick tore the jacket off of him, ripping the fabric and tossing the useless material on the street. Ripping open the door to his car, he essentially threw Dreads into the back, slamming the door and leaning back against it. Keying his mic, Rick said,

"Sam-Adam 26, Shots fired. I repeat, shots fired. One suspect dead, the other in custody."

Copy, Sam-Adam 26. We have multiple units running code1 to your location.

"Copy."

Letting out a breath, Rick began to shake. Opening the front passenger door, he grabbed his water bottle, ignoring the threats and insults Dreads screamed at him.

Closing the door, he attempted to take a sip, but his hands were shaking too much. Putting the bottle down, he let out another explosive breath, looking out at the body in front of him. Slowly sitting down, Rick dared not close his eyes, opting to keep an eye on the surroundings.

No lights came on in nearby houses. The tenants were desensitized to shootings.

Rubbing an eye with a shaky hand, Rick heard the sirens of multiple units coming to his location.

Leaning his head against his car, he thought about what he had done.

I just shot someone. A gangster, yes, and he intended to shoot me, but a person nonetheless.

So why don't I feel remorse?

Rick pondered these thoughts, his analytical mind working through the facts presented.

The last clear thing he remembered were the CSPD and Sherrif's office cars pulling up on scene. After that, he had bits and pieces, but nothing clear.

He remembered giving a statement on what happened.

He remembered taking the screaming Dreads out of his car, and passing him to the other Sergeant on duty for processing.

He remembered being told by his Lieutenant to go home and relax, and to take the next day off.

He remembered briefly talking to the Psychiatrist to set up an appointment for the next day.

He remembered turning his gun in for inspection, and he remembered driving home.

He remembered the shower he took, where he thought long and hard about what he had done.

He remembered the look on the Gangster's face before it was turned into bloody pulp.

He remembered the recoil of his gun pushing into his hand.

He remembered.

He would never forget.

But he wouldn't let it be all he remembered.

1: Code: When a police car uses lights and siren en route to a call