Crouching Suspect, Hidden Gun

My ruggedly handsome partner and I load our guns with simmunition and head toward the field where we’ve been told a man lurks behind an abandoned brown building. The air feels motionless and hot as we don our bullet proof vests and long sleeved shirts, and a quick glance over at the trucks roaring south on I-25 -- past the vacant field, close enough to reach on foot -- makes me long for the relative safety of the white collar commute.

Weapons at our side, we approach the deserted structure, turn a corner, and encounter a uniformed man crouched in the dry scrub vegetation. Guns drawn, Deputy Miller announces: County Sheriff! We just received a call regarding suspicious activity and need to know what you’re doing here.

Crouching Suspect shuffles in the prairie grass. I’m just doing some electrical work on the house, he explains.

Sir! I add. Please put your hands up where we can see them.

Crouching Suspect: No. I’m holding two live wires here and if I lift my hands they will form an arc and I will die. Electrical job on this decrepit building? More like a snow job. Police work is a snap.

Then give us your name, Sir, while we call dispatch and confirm your identity. This should allow time to tighten my pony tail. With guns pointed at Crouching Suspect, Dispatch informs us we'll need a DOB to confirm ID, something we should have asked for first. Drat.

That’s when the earth accelerates on its well oiled axis. Crouching Suspect draws his Hidden Gun. Rounds exchange in the empty field. Deputy Miller is shot in the head. Crouching Suspect stands. He shoots and strikes. A stinging sensation, and the green goo forms its tiny telltale pattern on my right leg.

Deputy Miller and I remove the protective helmets, compare battle wounds, and walk over to shake hands with the man who tried to kill us.