UNNAMED

It

Fuck! That shit head got away again. As I stepped into the car I slammed the door so hard the window cracked, "Fucks sake!" I flipped off my sirens and red and blue lights. Put the car in drive and roared out of this boggy shit hole.  The gravel kicked out from beneath my tires and wafted out into a cloud-like shape around the rear wheels. I brushed down my jacket with my left hand and the dried mud of what's left of our countryside was revealed beneath. I rummaged in my pocket to find my, shit, where's my gun. Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit. Suddenly my back window was blasted in, my shoulders covered in a hail of glass. That mother fucking freak show got my gun, I pulled the handbrake and twisted the car across the road and zoomed in the other direction. The pain started off quite subtly, I didn't notice it much at first. The warm feeling greeted me with pleasure at first before I noticed the cracked glass on my windshield, the hole breezing the air into my hair. I looked down and almost puked. The crimson shade sprucing up my usually crisp white shirt. The form became soggy and loose. I coughed and more blood restricted the dashboard. I swerved to the side, seeing the other squad cars appearing over the horizon. They pulled up along side me and swung open the door. The rest is all a blur but I know one thing for sure. This isn't the end of me and that fucking freak will be in my custody soon. That nut job. 

As I woke, I didn't hear the soft beeping of a life support machine. But the chatter of males and females sitting around a light oak table in the shape of an oval. My shirt was still stained with blood. My overcoat was fucking ruined, a hole had pierced the fabric turning what was a £150 jacket into a worthless piece of shit you'd find in a charity shop. My hair bedraggled over my face. I resembled that freak show. A woman stood up at the head of the table and coughed purposefully. The smart board flicked on; a picture of my car, the bullet holes, the blood, a recovered gun with several shells scattered around, the tire skid marks and my gun in a clear plastic bag. I padded my shoulder holster to find it empty and my gun a few feet up the table ahead of me. Fuck, something doesn't feel right. I saw a delivery man glance in on the meeting room for a second too long before putting a lengthy box down and calling a man in a suit over. I don't recognize this man. I know everyone in this damn office but not him. He peeled back the tape. I sat up to try to get even a partial view of what lies inside. The man in the suit lifted the barrel of an AR15 and then the body, out of the box. He wrapped his slender, darkened fingers around the pistol grip and his hand slid up the elongated barrel. The gun looked as if it was already primed and loaded for firing. Even the fire selector had been set to full auto. I made eye contact with the man and he raised his gun to me.