No Safety

No Safety

Orion Edain

I struggled hard to throw the shifting mass off of me and regain control. It is hard to remain calm when you are staring down the barrel of a 9mm Glock. I could smell the sweet scent of oil and the sharp musk of spent powder. I could see the man’s finger on the double trigger of the Glock 17, his nails perfectly manicured. But I could not see his face, I was too focused on the barrel. I didn’t need to see it, though. I still remember the description from dispatch: male, white, five foot seven, two hundred pounds, blue tee shirt, black pants, domestic in progress.

How do I know so much about this weapon? It is my own. A police officer’s worst fear is to die by his own weapon. From day one it is ingrained into the recruit’s mind. “Lose control of your weapon and you are dead.”

I could see the anger and sheer determination in the aggressor’s face. I could hear the conviction in his voice as he screamed “I’m gonn’a kill you, fuckin’ pig!” His sounded voice more like a primal scream than that of a human.

I still was reeling from the shock of having a two hundred pound man go from being cooperative to suddenly belligerent and then attacking me. Within a second I was on the ground and he had reached for my weapon. Somehow he had pulled it loose. I could tell that in the process he had pulled my duty belt ninety degrees to where the now empty gun holster was now stabbing me in the groin.

I tried to yell for my partner. All that expelled was a sound akin to gargling with a more guttural, primal scream. Summoning my inner strength, I attempted to shift my weight to throw this man off of me, the gun barrel still in my face giving me it’s unique Cyclops stare.

Why hasn’t my partner taken a shot yet? That’s when I realize how slow time is going by, seconds like hours. My partner has the legal justification to shoot. The mantra they had us repeat in the academy comes to mind: weapon, intent, delivery system.

“Drop the weapon!” I hear my partner yell.

“Finally,” I think, “backup has arrived. The game is over, good guys win, I get to go home another night and see my wife.” I hear the distinct snap of the gun strap removed with a quick movement of the thumb followed by the quick brush sound made by his service pistol clearing leather.

Two quick shots ring out followed by a third. Two shots hit my assailant in the chest and one in the head, textbook. I feel the hot sticky spray from the newly opened wounds. His blood hits my face with force.

There is only one problem, my attacker’s finger was on the trigger when he was shot, and on a Glock model 17, there is no safety.

MS Word Count: 499