You're Dead, Pig
With a rap sheet of violent offenses ranging from assaults on officers to homicide, Rish harbored few illusions about the grim nature of his future. The ex-con knew the next time he was locked up, it'd probably be for good. Perhaps that was why he told correctional officers at the time of his last release that it'd be the last time they'd see him—no matter what.
Now, with the cage window open and the Lexington County Detention Center looming ever closer, Rish knew that it was now or never to make good on his word.
He lunged through the open cage window.
Rish's upper torso slammed into Pruitt's side. The officer's Mellow Yellow went flying and, to his horror, he realized that Rish had succeeded in again getting his handcuffed hands in front of him. Worse still, he had a grip on Pruitt's holstered sidearm.
"I've got your gun, cop." Rish yelled. "I've got your gun and you're dead, pig! It's coming out of the holster."
His ears pummeled by Rish's terrifying narrative, Pruitt tried to defend his sidearm against the attack of this homicidal "Houdini" while controlling the vehicle as best he could. He slammed on the brakes and the car's forward momentum catapulted Rish's body through the open window. Rish's back smashed against the dashboard, but if the blow stunned the man, he didn't let on. Worse still, between Rish's death grip on the gun and forward momentum, the ex-con succeeded in stripping Pruitt's .40 caliber Glock from its holster.
Jamming the Glock's barrel hard against the officer's uniform shirt, Rish went for the kill.
Pruitt's right hand shot up, shoving the gun's barrel upward just as Rish pulled the trigger. An explosion went off and gunpowder filled the driver's compartment as a round tore through Pruitt's middle finger, deboning it at the first knuckle. Ignoring the pain, Pruitt canted the Glock upward and away from him as Rish squeezed off another round that splintered the driver's side of the windshield.
With the first gunshot, a loud ringing sound descended upon Pruitt. Half deafened and his hand searing with pain, the officer fought with Rish over control of the Glock, their bodies stretched across the driver's compartment area.
With his back atop Rish's side and shoulder in the driver's seat, Pruitt groped desperately for the Glock, his efforts undermined by the blood spurting from his finger, saturating the firearm, and compromising his grasp.
"I got it pointed at your head," Rish hissed. "I'm going to kill you! I'm going to shoot you."
Bullshit, Pruitt thought.
He knew the weapon's barrel was still angled toward the windshield; he was making damn sure of that. Was Rish tr ying to rattle him or going for some self-fulfilling prophecy with his commentary? Pruitt didn't know. But he did know he wasn't going to let this dirtbag take him out if he could help it. Perhaps sensing the officer's resolve, Rish tried a very different approach.