Free Hard Return by J. Carson Black Page A

jumped out of the SUV and ran into the open building. It was a smash-and-grab—a smash-and-grab wedded to a bank robbery. There would be cars from the sheriff’s and PD momentarily, but for now, she was alone. The other car Jolie had first pegged as stalled in the outside lane—the silver car—looked like an abandoned toy. But it wasn’t abandoned—the engine was running. The silver car that had run the light—looked like a Mazda CX-5 model. The alarm bell yammered. Jolie saw one of the men barge out through the rubble and the glass, dragging a heavy bag in each hand. She reached back and grabbed her long gun from the bracket that held it fast. She had her service weapon, but these days, you almost always needed a long gun. You were naked without it. Cops these days were outgunned, anyway.
    Jolie’s weapon of choice was a twelve-gauge shotgun—one of the most powerful and effective firearms ever made. With a twelve-gauge, you didn’t need to be a marksman. All she needed to do was get close. One three-inch twelve-gauge Magnum double-aught buck putting out twenty-one nine-millimeter-sized lead balls would be devastating.
    Jolie was qualified as an expert with the shotgun.
    A guy holding two big bags of money bulled his way out of the hole in the wall like a linebacker, dragging the bags along the sidewalk. Another figure dressed in black was bashing the ATM with a sledgehammer and trying to pull it from its moorings.
    The man dragging the two bags dropped them to the pavement and opened fire. Jolie took cover behind the engine block of her car. Even as she shot, she was formulating her explanation during the officer-involved-shooting hearing. She hit him square in the chest and he staggered back, bent forward, caught his breath, and put his hand on the trigger.
    He was wearing body armor .
    Shoot for the head .
    He walked in her direction, spraying bullets. Jolie realized this was very likely going to be her last day. But she also knew she didn’t have to be perfect—not with a twelve-gauge shotgun. Head-shot-head-shot-head-shot. She took her time and squeezed off another shot.
    It caught him under the chin of his balaclava. He seemed to take a little skip, almost a pirouette, kind of whimsical, chin tipping up, and with a blurt of automatic fire from his AK-47, he collapsed to the sidewalk—dead.
    At least she thought he was dead.
    Somebody was in the silver Mazda, the getaway car. He was nervous—she could see him change gears and angle out past a car parked along the curb, and the car almost died. Jolie shouted, “Police! Freeze! Get out of the car and do it now !”
    Abruptly, the car slewed in an arc in reverse, coming straight at her and on a direct trajectory with a man running across the street. She held her ground and shot through the back window.
    The car skewed sideways, missing the man by inches, then abruptly stopped accelerating and drifted.
    Pretty sure she hit him. She’d killed two people in a matter of seconds.
    She pictured her explanation during the officer-involved-shooting hearing—her mind running on two tracks.
    How many more were there?
    Three more people poured out of the hole in the side of the bank like insects. Two were well dressed and panicked; the other had an automatic weapon and he was using it. The shooter held one of the hostages by the arm and used her as a shield. He tripped on the curb and the woman stumbled, too, sitting down hard. The shooter managed to keep his feet but now he had no shield. He aimed at Jolie.
    Jolie had a good shot and she took it.
    Twelve-gauge shotgun.
    The guy collapsed in a heap.
    Were there more inside the bank? Was someone holed up in there with a hostage?
    She heard sirens, the big roaring engines of police cars—pedal to the metal. Brakes screaming, car doors flinging open. Shouting, “Police!”
    But it turned out there was no one to shout to. All three of the robbers were dead.
    Jolie’s first thought was: Now I’m in trouble.

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