The mob surged around the cops, as if it had forgotten its original purpose of gaining entry to the store. It seemed intent on eradicating the peace officers. Reese was carried along like a leaf on a stream, and in moments was within reach of the chief.
Foster barked orders at his men, and one of them produced a shotgun. Leveled at the onrushing attackers, the sight of the open maw gave them pause. But they were pushed forward by people in the rear of the crowd and renewed the onslaught. Bottles, rocks, and the odd piece of lumber sailed through the air, striking just as many rioters as cops.
Reese ducked a flaming bottle that exploded on the ground behind Chief Foster. Somewhere across the parking lot, he heard Jo yelling his name, but when he turned to look, someone smashed into him and almost knocked him to the ground. He would have fallen had he not in turn smashed into yet another rioter, keeping them all upright.
Through a gap in the flailing arms and improvised weaponry, Reese spotted Chief Foster grappling with a large man. The man had both huge hands wrapped around the bullhorn. Reese had no doubt the assailant had enough strength to bludgeon Foster to death with the bullhorn if he got it clear. Without thinking, Reese charged forward, hands outstretched.
From his right, a bloodcurdling cry erupted. Reese pivoted to intercept the attacker, then realized too late the man had no intention of going after anyone but Chief Foster. He raised his left arm, brandishing a long knife that flashed in the arc lights. Holding it like an ice pick, the man plunged down, right at Foster’s back.
Reese yelled out in warning, but his voice was lost in the din of the riot. There was no time to do anything else but try to tackle the man with the knife. Reese launched himself forward and prepared for the impact. He clenched his teeth and lowered his head, slamming his right shoulder into the man’s side. Just before impact, he saw Foster, and his eyes went round.
Then Reese slammed into the attacker with a bone jarring impact that knocked the air from his lungs. The knife flashed in the air, they tumbled in a knot of arms and legs, and Reese kissed the pavement. A searing pain coursed through his shoulder, like someone had dipped it in lava. A sound like thunder erupted in his ears, something wet and warm covered his eyes—the world went black.
Reese rolled away from the man he’d tackled, his shoulder in agony and his face smeared with—his trembling left hand cleared it away and he could see again—blood. It was blood, and it was everywhere—his hands, his arms, his face, the ground.
Strong hands grabbed his shoulders, and Reese cried out in pain, struggling to free himself.
“Easy! We got you, hang in there, mister,” a rough voice said in his ear. Whoever it was dragged him away from the wall of attackers, now finally held at bay by three officers with shotguns.
“Alright, that’s enough!” roared Chief Foster over the ruckus.
“This ain’t over!” someone in the front yelled, snarling.
Foster drew his sidearm and placed the barrel against the man’s forehead. “Another word, and it’ll be over for you.” The agitator’s face went slack and his eyes tried to focus on the black semi-automatic pistol pressing into the skin above his nose. “I said, that’s enough,” Foster repeated.
The cops with shotguns pressed forward, driving the crowd back until they were abreast of their chief. All of them had cuts to the face and blood smeared on their uniforms. Chief Foster more so than others—the man’s uniform top was in ribbons and his left eye was almost swollen shut while blood leaked from the side of his head. Though his hat was askew, Foster’s eye radiated determination, and his mouth set in a grim line.
“No one is getting past my men tonight, so just go on home. That. Is. An. Order.” He pushed forward, and the man under his pistol staggered back, a red welt on his forehead.
Reese got to his feet and leaned on a squad car, waiting for the violence to continue, but no one made another move. Those in the back of the crowd melted away into the darkness, leaving those at the front exposed. More than one head turned to see they were alone, and just like that, it was over. The mob dissolved in front of him and Chief Foster was left in command of the parking lot and a dozen bodies, bleeding into the asphalt and debris. He lowered his sidearm and his shoulders slumped forward. Leaning on one of his men, he limped over to the car Reese leaned against and nearly collapsed on the hood.
Jo rushed up and shoved a cop out of the way. “Move it, junior, or I’ll take that gun from you and shove it up your—”
“It’s alright, Murray, she’s okay,” Foster said, raising himself up on one bloodied arm.
“But—” began Murray.
“Stow it,” Foster snapped, pulling himself upright. “Her friend there took a knife for me and probably saved my life. Let her tend to the man.”
“Great googleymoogley,” Jo muttered, examining Reese’s arm. “All this blood…where are you cut?” she asked, feeling her way up his forearm.
“It’s his shoulder, ma’am,” Glivens said, appearing at Reese’s side. “I saw it—he body checked that guy,” Glivens reported, pointing at a corpse about ten feet away. The bloody knife lay just a few feet from the man’s outstretched hand. “Dude tried to plant that knife in the chief’s back and your friend took it in the shoulder instead.”
“Bless your heart, you surely did,” Jo
