Raymond Long: author of fiction and non-fiction

"Firefight - cops outnumbered and outgunned"
The chatter of automatic weapons sounded loud in Jeri's ears, and grew louder as she ran toward the intersection of Brunswick Street with Clinton Way. She pressed herself against the wall of the building on her right, took a couple of breaths, then peered around the corner into Clinton Way. Something was on fire on Clinton, the mangled wreck of a largish vehicle, maybe a van. Two cars had the glass of their windows shot out or shattered into frost. In the driver's seat of one was a slumped form that must be a human body. Several men with rifles and submachine guns were crouched in cover, behind the cars or other convenient objects, spraying panicky fire at a building. It was a shop, its front windows gone. There were bright muzzle flashes from inside, and a deeper-throated bark than the weapons of the men outside. That told of a more fearsome beast within, probably a mounted machine gun. Jeri stopped short, dumbfounded a moment. The pistol in her hand suddenly felt dreadfully inadequate.

'Control! Heavy firefight on Clinton, near corner of Brunswick! Estimate six shooters, heavy personal weapons! Request some serious backup! Fleesh! Careful now! Don't go charging in!'

'I'm there.' Fleesh's voice sounded small, awed even.

'Lieutenant Stone from control. Looks like you caught a bad one. We're doing what we can about backup.'

The people out in the street shooting at the building were panicking. Don't make the same mistake, Jeri. Calm, aimed shots. Think like a professional. Where she was now, she had to lean out left around a corner. Not a good position for a right-handed shooter. Well, these flimsy buildings wouldn't do much to stop the rounds these guys were shooting. Any cover she might gain was an illusion anyway. So she dropped to a crouch and shifted sideways into the street. She extended her right arm, almost straight, and wrapped her left hand around her right forearm just behind her wrist. She took aim at one of the men shooting at the building.

Breathe in, hold it. Squeeze the trigger. Recoil. Her target dancing in sudden shock. Shift aim to the next target. They're looking around in panic. Breath still held. Squeeze the trigger again. Target looking straight at her, trying with mad desperation to swing his rifle round on her, but too slow. Squeeze. Recoil. The target's chin disappeared, enlarging his mouth, spraying red. His arms flew wide and his weapon fell to the street.

That was enough. She jumped back, threw herself around the building-corner that separated Brunswick from Clinton. She hit the dirt, flat on her back, pistol clasped to her chest. She let out her breath, and her lungs started heaving. Fleesh was standing over her, looking down with her featureless suit face.

'Fleesh! Down!'