By Dean Scoville
As rounds flew back and forth before him like some ballistic tennis match, Soden got back to his feet and in the fight. Lining up his sights on the suspect nearest him, he fired.
This is what Magro had trained for, why he had spent his nights performing the mundane duties associated with being a small town police officer, to take down a dangerous threat to the community.
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.