Cowgirl

Officer Jordan C. Billows stalked slowly down the narrow isle of the 7-Eleven. She could feel her heart pounding savagely in her chest, and her 9mm Berretta M9 was shaking in her hand. She eyed either side of the isle, seeing magazines with horses on the cover, and front pages proclaiming things like “Cow Appreciation Day”. She tried to focus on what was in front of her, but the bright colors and realistic photographs on the magazine covers kept forcing her to take a glance. The middle of nowhere had never felt so crowded.

She suddenly missed her apartment in the city. The magazines on her coffee tables announced the times and locations of art shows, where she could see the works of Rembrant. Her favorite Dutch painter. But she was losing focus. She tried to listen closely, trying to pick up any signs of movement in the isles to her right and left. Her small frame was much less intimidating than most male officers, likely the reason the suspect had been so ballsy in the first place. But it at least made her a more difficult target.

Not that it mattered when facing a shotgun.

How did I get into this mess? She tried to fight the thought, but it was too late. It had already wormed its way into her head. She had been driving, coming back from a very distant call that she had gotten while on the edge of her patrol. Some domestic disturbance, turned out to be nothing more than someone’s dog scratching around in someone else’s lawn. Calling it a "Domestic Disturbance" in the first place should've been a near capital offense, as far as she was concerned.

While on her way back, she decided to pull into a gas station so her patrol car didn’t run empty before she got back to the city. It had been cold outside, and she didn’t want to leave the car, but she did anyway, thinking she could just warm up with a cup of coffee.

She had no idea what she’d wandered into.

A man with a sawed-off double barrel shotgun had been holding up the store when she pulled up. He had, foolishly, fired one of the barrels at her through the window as she had approached the building. The pigeon shot he’d loaded his weapon with only shattered the glass, and gave him away.

When she’d pulled her side arm, and taken cover behind a vehicle he’d darted off into the isles. After calling for backup, and being told it would be at least half an hour (again, she was cursed by luck and location) she decided she wouldn’t wait that long, and rushed into the store. Going all "cowboy" as some of her colleagues liked to put it.

If only she’d waited. Now she was at a greater risk to her own life than ever before. At any moment, the man could pop out from any corner, and end her without a second thought.

Unless she did it first.

The prospect of a cat and mouse game might even have been exciting if she wasn’t so goddamned afraid. She kept her weapon up, checked her corners, and moved into the next isle. There was food in this one. Tapioca pudding and gummy worms were the first things she saw. An empty tub of margarine sat in the middle of the isle. While she looked at it, motion caught her eye at the other end.

Her eyes widened as she ducked behind the edge of the isle. Tiny steel ball bearings ripped through plastic pudding cups and thin, clear plastic bags and would have killed Officer Bilows. She turned and fired three rounds from her Beretta, but it was too late. He was already gone.

She heard the metallic clack of the sawed-off opening, followed by the sound of shells hitting the floor. Seeing her chance, she rushed to the end of the isle. She saw the man struggling to load a fresh shell into one of the barrels. Her weapon was too far to the right of him, and he saw her run in. Without finishing loading his weapon, the man tackled Jordan, and they both  went to the ground, struggling for her pistol, and sending his own half-loaded gun sliding across the floor away from both of them.

The struggle lasted for at least a minute, her scratching at his face, elbowing him in the ribs, and his pulling at her wrists, and even trying to bite one of her hands at one point. Finally, the man kicked her in the stomach, somehow got his foot up, and used it to step on her arm closest to the ground, and pull on her hand the gun was in. She pulled the trigger, but in the struggle, she had switched it on, and had no time to turn it off before the suspect had gotten it from her hand.

He aimed it at her, and pulled the trigger, but had met the same result. She kicked at his groin, but he jumped back. The man looked for the safety on the weapon as Jordan scrambled to her feet, ready to tackle him again for the gun. He finally figured it out, and aimed it at her again. She looked away, putting her arm in front of her face and heard a loud BOOM!.

Jordan took her hand down from her face, ears still ringing, and saw the man drop her gun. His own face showed shock, and surprise. He fell first to his knees, and then landed on his face. Behind him, the clerk of the 7-Eleven stood, holding the suspects forgotten shotgun. He looked at Jordan, and she saw that the man was surprised himself. The gun shook in his hand.

Sirens sounded outside the store, and all the woman could think about was the nickname she’d get from her fellow officers for going into a situation like this. Like an idiot. She didn't think of the six months of therapy, and counseling. She didn't think about how she nearly died. She didn't think about what would happen to the man who saved her life. She wouldn’t like it, she'd fight the term for as long as she could, but they’d label her a "cowgirl".