Aviator Sunglasses --an exercise in flash fiction
Aviator Sunglasses
By
Steven Hunley
He only took the call because he was in his neighborhood. Some perp had kidnapped a girl. They were even on a street only two blocks away from where he lived. When he pulled up on his bike, the other black and whites were already there, forming a ring facing the house.
“What’s up?”he said to the detective in charge as he took off his helmet.
“Oh, hi Johnny, some perp is holding a hostage inside, he’s all mixed up, even called 911 on himself. Can you beat that?”
“Yeah, probably some kind of nut. How old’s the girl?”
“About seven I think.”
That made Johnny mad. That was the same age as his kid. He got on his radio and called 911 for details. Then he looked at the layout. It had been an early call. The sun was low, the house faced west. 911 didn’t have many details. The girl had been walking to school from two blocks away with a group of friends when he snatched her up. They still didn’t have her name. He tied her up and threatened to kill her and himself. He sounded nervous.
“If he was nervous then he’s more nervous now,” thought Johnny, “with all these black and whites around.”
All the officers were hiding behind their patrol cars. They knew the danger. Johnny pondered a minute. It made him mad. Hell, it could be his daughter there, his Maria, tied up and scared. And the jerk pulled it off in his neighborhood too! The nerve of the guy! So he formulated a plan. He decided to break cover.
He suddenly stood up, in full view of the house. The other officers’ eyes grew wide.
“What the Hell’s he doing?” one said.
He faced the house, and behind it the sun. His dark aviator sunglasses made him look like General Douglas MacArthur, the liberator of the Philipines. He placed his feet well apart.
“Whadda you doing Johnny?” said one of them, “Where’s your Kevlar?”
The sun was glinting off his badge directly through the open window where he’d seen the curtain move. Inside the room it made a hot spot on the wallpaper, caressing the hair of the girl wrapped in rope huddling against the wall. The perp saw it too, his sweaty hand clutching the 9mm Beretta. He would pay attention now.
As Johnny’s pupils dilated, his irises turned a cruel uncaring pale blue, like sniper’s eyes. He stared directly at the window.
He freed the cold hard steel from its holster. He slid the receiver back with a soft touch, cocking the gun. He faced the house and said these words quite softly, but forming each one carefully with his mouth.
“Get ready for death,” he said, “Get ready for death right now.”
The perp watched from the window.
“I’ll see your muzzle flash,” he said softly, enunciating the words carefully, “then it’s all over.”
“What the Hell’s he doing?” said one of the others, “talking to himself? Why doesn’t he use the bullhorn? Why doesn’t he move back?”
The perp watched closely from the window while the little girl watched the gold hotspot dancing gaily across the curtains.
“I always get my man,” said Johnny, forming with extra care the words, “dead or alive.”
At this, the perp near the window lost his sweaty grip on his Baretta, and melted, like hot wax off a birthday candle. Like the candle, he went out cold, right there on the floor.
When the reporters interviewed Johnny later he boasted proudly,
“It was the easiest arrest I ever made. Not a shot fired. Out cold when we cuffed him. No Miranda act, no hassle, out cold. But it isn’t me who’s gonna take all the credit. I give half of it to the girl down at 911. She’s the one who told me he was deaf.”
You can imagine the surprise on Johnny’s face when the officers were bringing out the little girl wrapped up in a blanket. She broke free and ran straight to him crying, “Daddy, Daddy, you’re my hero now for sure,” she said jumping up into his arms, “I’m sooo glad that’s over.”
I think what he said was, “Maria?” though I can’t be sure, I wasn’t there.
By
Steven Hunley
He only took the call because he was in his neighborhood. Some perp had kidnapped a girl. They were even on a street only two blocks away from where he lived. When he pulled up on his bike, the other black and whites were already there, forming a ring facing the house.
“What’s up?”he said to the detective in charge as he took off his helmet.
“Oh, hi Johnny, some perp is holding a hostage inside, he’s all mixed up, even called 911 on himself. Can you beat that?”
“Yeah, probably some kind of nut. How old’s the girl?”
“About seven I think.”
That made Johnny mad. That was the same age as his kid. He got on his radio and called 911 for details. Then he looked at the layout. It had been an early call. The sun was low, the house faced west. 911 didn’t have many details. The girl had been walking to school from two blocks away with a group of friends when he snatched her up. They still didn’t have her name. He tied her up and threatened to kill her and himself. He sounded nervous.
“If he was nervous then he’s more nervous now,” thought Johnny, “with all these black and whites around.”
All the officers were hiding behind their patrol cars. They knew the danger. Johnny pondered a minute. It made him mad. Hell, it could be his daughter there, his Maria, tied up and scared. And the jerk pulled it off in his neighborhood too! The nerve of the guy! So he formulated a plan. He decided to break cover.
He suddenly stood up, in full view of the house. The other officers’ eyes grew wide.
“What the Hell’s he doing?” one said.
He faced the house, and behind it the sun. His dark aviator sunglasses made him look like General Douglas MacArthur, the liberator of the Philipines. He placed his feet well apart.
“Whadda you doing Johnny?” said one of them, “Where’s your Kevlar?”
The sun was glinting off his badge directly through the open window where he’d seen the curtain move. Inside the room it made a hot spot on the wallpaper, caressing the hair of the girl wrapped in rope huddling against the wall. The perp saw it too, his sweaty hand clutching the 9mm Beretta. He would pay attention now.
As Johnny’s pupils dilated, his irises turned a cruel uncaring pale blue, like sniper’s eyes. He stared directly at the window.
He freed the cold hard steel from its holster. He slid the receiver back with a soft touch, cocking the gun. He faced the house and said these words quite softly, but forming each one carefully with his mouth.
“Get ready for death,” he said, “Get ready for death right now.”
The perp watched from the window.
“I’ll see your muzzle flash,” he said softly, enunciating the words carefully, “then it’s all over.”
“What the Hell’s he doing?” said one of the others, “talking to himself? Why doesn’t he use the bullhorn? Why doesn’t he move back?”
The perp watched closely from the window while the little girl watched the gold hotspot dancing gaily across the curtains.
“I always get my man,” said Johnny, forming with extra care the words, “dead or alive.”
At this, the perp near the window lost his sweaty grip on his Baretta, and melted, like hot wax off a birthday candle. Like the candle, he went out cold, right there on the floor.
When the reporters interviewed Johnny later he boasted proudly,
“It was the easiest arrest I ever made. Not a shot fired. Out cold when we cuffed him. No Miranda act, no hassle, out cold. But it isn’t me who’s gonna take all the credit. I give half of it to the girl down at 911. She’s the one who told me he was deaf.”
You can imagine the surprise on Johnny’s face when the officers were bringing out the little girl wrapped up in a blanket. She broke free and ran straight to him crying, “Daddy, Daddy, you’re my hero now for sure,” she said jumping up into his arms, “I’m sooo glad that’s over.”
I think what he said was, “Maria?” though I can’t be sure, I wasn’t there.
