By Dean Scoville
Pruitt had to go on the offensive. His mind went to his backup gun, which he kept in his uniform pants. He reached for it.
Elasky rose and aimed his Gun at the robber using a Weaver stance, his feet centered and his body positioned for as much cover as the counter could afford. Then he opened fire.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as though the very air about him suddenly became ionized with some ill-defined threat. The officer couldn't suppress the sensation that something was terribly wrong.
An "ambush" alarm brought West St. Paul officers to a credit union where they discovered a robbery in progress.
The red dot of the suspect's laser sights pinballed back and forth between the Crown Vic and Hernandez.
Weber fixated on the short barrel of Johnson's shotgun, mentally committing himself to fire his Glock if Johnson elevated the weapon to a certain level.
Kennedy could see something was wrong. Molander gave her a "we've got a liar" smirk, and she knew that anytime a passenger started playing a felon's game of Truth or Consequences, there's usually a reason.
Barton's gun swung toward him, and its barrel spit fire. Flashes of amber split the night as Barton's Ruger blazed at Dunnigan a mere 10 feet away.
Officer Holly Mong had just gotten into the vehicle in her driveway and no sooner closed the driver's side door than it flew back open. She was being carjacked.
Ellison then went to work, ramming the door with his shoulder. He repeatedly charged the door, slamming it as hard as his body could withstand.