Either he stands down, or the armed response does. Or someone shoots first.
“He’s hesitant,” McCall noted, squinting her light eyes to see his face clearer. The criminal was indeed shaking unsurely. “Is that--?”
“Flynn Jones,” I whispered quietly, also recognising the last criminal standing. What was he doing getting involved in such a high profile case like this one?
We had caught Flynn Jones a few years ago for planning a robbery. He was caught on the property before even committing the crime. He was so indiscreet that he didn’t even get past stage one without being tripped up. Flynn admitted to his plans straight away when confronted. This guy didn’t even know what being a serious criminal entailed.
He’d been desperate to provide for his family, so we’d put him back on the straight and narrow. McCall had personally taken pity on Flynn and provided him with a respectable job that earned a decent wage. It was more than enough money to look after their family. Flynn had been more than grateful for the second chance and opportunities given to him.
It was hard to believe that Flynn Jones was responsible for the transportation of drugs past the borders, without any consequence whatsoever. Surely a man as inconspicuous as he would've been caught well before now.
“What about those other two?” I referred to the bodies sprawled stone-cold dead on the floor.
“Hard to tell. They’re all sort of deformed,” McCall tried to figure them out.
“Sam Mercedes and Robin Wood,” DC Taylor spoke up, staying instinctively close to McCall. Protectively. His jet black hair blew wildly with the wind. “They’ve not long been out of prison, on account of handling offensive weapons.”
“They didn’t learn their lesson then,” I referenced the guns.
Armed response was full of angst, restless even. A tall man stood up straight and attempted to diffuse the situation by calling instructions through a megaphone.
“Put your weapon down,” he said sternly.
Cuts covered Flynn’s arms and cheeks. He shifted on the spot, fingers twitching at the trigger. Armed response was the epitome of professionalism compared to him. A glimmer of sweat trickled across Flynn’s temples and his eye contact darted all around, apprehensively taking in the sight of the crowd. We waited with bated breath.
“We don’t want another fatality added to our list today. I repeat, put your weapon down.” The man with the megaphone deafened everyone with the instructions.
“I’ll shoot!” Flynn screamed in fright at the voice, gun trembling in his grip. He twitched nervously, a glint of fear shining through his eyes. “I’ll do it!” Flynn had a funny lip, tucked up at one side. It often caught on his teeth, a defining feature.
My own palms clammed up. I didn’t exactly want to witness his death too, especially not when the media were bound to get involved. The Flynn Jones we remembered a struggling, desperate man set off on the wrong path of life but who willed himself to do better.
“I will,” Flynn persisted, quieter this time around, clearly assessing his stakes of survival. They were approximately fifty per cent and dependent on his actions under pressure. PC Ryan Shaw's hands were held high in the air in surrender. He was pale as a sheet which wasn’t surprising given that a gun was pointing his way.
Weapons clicked on both sides, signifying that we were all presenting our final warnings. What a day this was turning into. It was the last thing I expected after arriving at the station this morning.
McCall flinched beside us, half-expecting to hear a dozen gunshots rip through his body. I couldn’t tear away from the action, even if I wanted to.
Everyone paused on edge. A ray of sunlight touched his face delicately and Flynn scanned the crowds of faces staring expectantly towards him. Emotion was visible from his hurried action, but then Flynn caught sight of our CID group. Those scared, frightened and emerald coloured eyes locked onto where McCall and I were standing.
Something inside Flynn Jones changed. A droplet of sweat fell from his heavy-set brow and grazed slowly down his cheeks, and then his chin. Begging wordlessly for forgiveness, the hand holding the trigger shuddered. It began to lower, inch by inch, and we let out a collective sigh of relief.
The silence was deafening, apart from the sounds of cars passing on a nearby road. The noise travelled across, carried by the open air. They were going fast, for the familiar whooshing of speed filled our ears. An exhaust backfired and the loud crack made us all jump, for it was dreadfully familiar to the gunshots.
Flynn must’ve thought so too, for he flinched in fear. The fingers positioned on the trigger pulled as he did so, sending a Teflon coated bullet tumbling and spinning towards PC Ryan Shaw. It happened in an instant.
Bang.
Ryan grunted and yelled in sheer pain that was almost palpable, whilst holding the shoulder which the bullet skimmed before it ricocheted to the concrete. The metallic bullet bounced, no longer a threat. When he looked down at his fingers covered in shocking, hot blood, Ryan seemed ready to faint. Having a coward handle a gun was almost as dangerous as having someone collected in charge of a lethal weapon.
Everyone knew it was an accident, for Flynn dropped the gun immediately. It clattered on the floor and the man with the megaphone reacted with speed.
“Hold fire. He’s surrendered.”
Sure enough, Flynn had dropped to both knees and copied Ryan’s action for mere minutes ago. He stuttered incoherently, obviously in shock, and whimpered apologetically. Tears and snot dripped humanly onto the road, and he didn’t resist the officers who ran in to slap cuffs on both wrists.
Ryans uniform had ripped at the shoulder, showing one hell of a nasty nick. He tried hard to disguise the obvious pain that riddled his being, attempting to be strong in front of the departments. Medical assistance was on standby, ambulances too. They had one big cleanup job to complete.
“Geez,” McCall let go of my suit jacket I didn’t
