"You're gonna miss this," JD said.
"I know. But I ain't gonna miss it that much."
We laughed and ordered another round. Chuck wasn’t paying for a thing tonight.
Cameron staggered out with his girlfriend and ambled down the sidewalk, heading toward Oyster Avenue.
A few minutes later, two guys burst in wearing ski masks, wielding shotguns. One of them racked a black sawed-off with a pistol grip and shouted, “If you haven't figured it out, this is a robbery. Do as you're told, and nobody gets hurt. Now is not the time to be a hero."
These guys were, perhaps, the dumbest criminals on the island. Robbing a cop bar was certainly up there on the list of stupid things to do. Clearly, they hadn’t done their homework. Half the people in Flanagan's were packing.
"My friend is gonna go around with a bag,” Mr. Shotgun said. “Throw in your wallet, jewelry, and cell phones."
The thug’s accomplice moved around, holding a black duffel bag as patrons began to toss in their valuables.
"Boys, you're making a big mistake," Sheriff Daniels said. “Now, how about you put the weapon down and surrender before this thing gets out of hand.”
The thug swung the shotgun toward the sheriff, the big angry barrel staring him down. "Shut the hell up! Do as you're told!”
Daniels sighed. “You realize you're standing amid half the department. Some in uniform, some in plainclothes."
The thug’s wide eyes glanced around, fully realizing the gravity of the situation. In their haste to knock off the joint, they hadn't really noticed who occupied the bar. But it was slowly sinking in.
The thug swallowed hard but stood firm.
3
You could almost smell the fear oozing from the thug. Sweat soaked his armpits. His wide eyes beamed through his ski mask.
Denise happened to be standing behind him. He had disregarded her as a threat.
Big mistake.
Never underestimate a red-head.
Denise snatched a subcompact that was holstered in her waistband and aimed it at Mr. Shotgun.
He never saw it coming.
"Drop the weapon, now!” she shouted in a voice that was not to be trifled with. “Or you're going to have a really big hole in your head."
The thug tightened.
The air was tense.
The Bag Boy caught sight of the situation, dropped the duffel bag, pulled a gun from his waistband, and aimed it at Denise.
My heart leaped into my throat. The situation had the potential to go downhill quickly.
It all happened in slow motion.
My hand had been resting on the grip of my pistol, holstered in my waistband, waiting for the right time.
Now was just about that time.
Within a fraction of a second, every deputy had their weapon drawn and aimed at one of the two scumbags.
“It would be a good idea for you guys to give yourselves up," Daniels said.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mr. Shotgun raised his hands in the air.
Mendoza snatched the shotgun from his grasp. "On the ground, now!"
The thug’s accomplice held his silver semi-automatic pistol aimed at Denise. His hand trembled slightly, and his wide eyes flicked about, glancing at all the armed deputies and the barrels of their pistols.
He hesitated a moment, then sprinted toward the door.
Mendoza pounced on Mr. Shotgun and slapped the cuffs around his wrists.
Bag Boy pushed through the door and took off running down the sidewalk.
With Denise out of harm's way, the lump in my throat vanished. I gave chase, racing across the bar, sprinting out the door.
Bag Boy’s sneakers slapped against the sidewalk as he sprinted toward the corner.
My legs drove me forward, and my heart pounded as I chased after him. Pedestrians shrieked and parted as the masked thug barreled past them.
He turned at the intersection, hauling ass down a narrow one-way lane that ran behind the bars.
I rounded the corner, chasing after the scumbag.
We raced down the narrow passage past dumpsters and the back end of all the establishments that faced Oyster Avenue. It was a long stretch with nowhere else to go. There were a few mopeds parked out back and bikes chained to racks.
The thug made a hard left at the next block and continued down the cobblestone sidewalk that was lined with palm trees. He crossed Oyster, darted past a few cafés, then cut across the street onto Fitzsimmons Drive.
There were more cobblestone sidewalks and antique lamp posts. He ran past more shops and street vendors, scurried across the street at the next intersection, and barreled north on Florence Street.
My chest heaved for breath as we shot past more storefronts and wide-eyed tourists. A burly dude with his girlfriend stuck out his leg and tripped the thug.
He ate the pavement, and his silver pistol skidded into the street. By the time he sprang to his feet, I tackled him back to the ground, crushing his ribs against the concrete.
He groaned as the air rushed from his lungs.
"Game’s over, scumbag!" I grabbed his wrist and wrenched his arm behind his back. I slapped the cuffs on without much trouble. Then I yanked the dipshit to his feet.
I thanked the tourist.
"Anytime."
I told him to stop by the station and get a commendation from the department—a little souvenir to bring home. He seemed excited about the proposition.
I read the dirt-ball his rights and dragged him back to Flanagan’s. It was a long walk and went by much slower than the initial chase. We both heaved for breath. I yanked the mask off his head. "You didn't think too much about what you were doing, did you?"
He glared at me.
"Are you new in town? Did you not know where you were walking into?"
"I ain’t saying shit to you."
"You’re lucky no one got hurt,” I said. “The last thing you want to do is kill a cop.”
4
We took the perps back to the station and filled out after-action reports. Chuck certainly wouldn’t miss those in retirement.
After we wrapped up, we hit Tide Pool to blow off a little steam. The energy from Chuck's retirement party had long since dissipated. He called it an
