I'M FEMALE, I'M MAFIA

BRENDA'S POV - IV

It had been a night like no other. I’ve taken more risks than I can count over the years, chased criminals at hair-raising speed, run toward gunfire rather than away and engaged the evils of humanity without much thought. But on this night I’d been tested professionally and personally in ways I could not have imagined before. My emotions were pushed to the breaking point. Thankfully, it was over now. But it wouldn’t really be over until we were both home. The last time I talked to my partner was when the radio call came in. I had been at Langley for almost six months by now, and had met and kicked it off with Cheryl - my partner - a month after we were assigned.

We were under surveillance, we had just finished having dinner together, a treat we rarely allow ourselves especially on duty, because she always said people will talk. I say, “Screw them,” and she just shook her head at me. We leaned against the bumpers of our cars and recited our normal give and take.

“I love you." I said.

“More." She smiled that special smile that never fails to set my heart tripping in my chest.

Suddenly, the horrific transmission silenced our playful banter. A bloodcurdling scream from the miniature audio transmitters raised every hair on my body. “Oscar Four! I’ve been shot!”

Every nerve ending sprang to high alert as voices demanded his location. We jumped into our cars, instinctively heading toward the east end of town, where the Oscar squad worked. You peeled out of the lot just ahead of me, your hand out the window making the I love you sign. And then instead of lovers we were two agents, speeding through the city. In the next seconds, responding agents’ excited chatter and supervisors shouting for an ambulance mixed with the sounds of the wounded agent’s cries over the radio. We pushed our vehicles to the limits, screaming through the streets heed-less of our own safety. This was different. One of us was down. We needed no official declaration. The manhunt was on.

A minute and a half later we arrived in the area. EMS administered first aid to the injured officer and a ring of black suits surrounded the scene. The rest of us began to scour the surrounding area for the suspect: a white male last seen driving an older model Ford truck, orange with a white stripe down the side. “That thing should stick out like a w***e in church,” I told the agent on scene who gave us the description. I only hoped the bad guy hadn’t been able to reach the interstate. I wanted to catch him and I wanted to catch him now.

We fanned out across the sector with our fellow agents, each with our private thoughts for our fallen comrade as we searched. Every agent available in the city was in this zone. This guy had to turn up. A local police helicopter was in the air - the police had been alerted - checking beyond the immediate grid, just in case he’d gotten farther than we’d anticipated. We were updated regularly with tips and possible sightings, but nothing seemed to be panning out as the hours dragged on. The wounded agent was holding on, and his strength bolstered our resolve.

Finally, around two a.m. a gas station clerk called to say a truck matching the description had just pulled in behind his business. I was four blocks away. I stood on the accelerator and wished for a rocket booster that would get me there faster. My approach was from the west and I immediately saw the rear quarter panel of the truck as I made the corner past the building. Orange paint sent adrenaline surging through my veins. This is the moment every agent dream of. With no time to think about anything but preventing escape, I swung my car around to block the suspect vehicle. Another black chevron car entered the parking lot from the east and we drove our bumpers simultaneously into our target, pinning it there.

I hit the release button on my assault rifle as I threw open the door and launched from my driver’s seat toward the car, leading with my muzzle. I moved swiftly to a position just behind the driver’s door. In my peripheral vision I could see the other officer approaching the passenger side. The suspect leaned across the bench seat in that direction. Tunnel vision took over, my focus like a laser beam on the driver. The suspect’s right arm came up.

“Gun!” the other agent shouted. The world around me exploded in gunfire and flying glass. The popping sound of a pistol and the discharge of my rifle seemed to happen in slow motion. I swear I could see the spent casings ejecting from the port. I fired three times. The suspect jerked each time our bullets struck him. When the firing stopped, my ears were ringing. I was standing at the driver’s window looking at the suspect sprawled inside the cab, his right arm outstretched and a pistol just beyond it on the seat. Shards of glass covered everything, including me. I raised my eyes, looking across the interior to where the second agent stood.

“Brenda?”

“Holy s**t!” I breathed.

She was standing there much as I was, glass clinging to her hair and clothes, tiny cuts on her face and arms. I gulped audibly just before a wave of nausea rolled through my gut, and I tried not to think about how this might have turned out. The stunned expression on her face said she was having the same thoughts about me. Neither of us moved. We just blinked and stared. I saw the love in her eyes, but it was fear beneath the surface that twisted my heart. I opened my mouth to speak and nothing came out. The gravity of what had nearly happened overwhelmed me. What if… I cut my eyes to the ground, unable to cope. Service and sacrifice had taken on a whole new dimension.

A flood of agents descended on the location, and controlled chaos erupted around us as the parking lot became posted as a crime scene. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, investigators swarmed, flashbulbs popped and bullet casings were marked on the blacktop. Each of us was whisked away in a different direction, sequestered pending questioning by detectives and union reps. At headquarters, every once in a while I’d catch a glimpse of you as we moved through different stages of the process. I knew rationally that policy and protocol required us to be separated, but I wanted to see her.

No. I wanted to hold her.

Sometime in those next hours she left a message on my cell that she took a few stitches, but was fine. “See ya later,” she started to end, with her standard cheerfulness, and I pictured her dazzling trademark smile. Then I heard her pull in a shaking breath. “I love you, Brenda." I closed my eyes and absorbed the tenderness in her voice. Even in the direst of circumstances she gave me what I needed, and I’m certain I’m not deserving.

That was the last time I saw and spoke to my partner.