Page 26 of The Session

Mark looked for the officer he’d seen behind the police cruiser, but he was nowhere to be seen.

The gunman, with the angle of the SUV protecting him from the officers to his rear, moved forward and around the door. In the background, the other two officers were exchanging gunfire with someone Mark still couldn’t see.

A bullet ricocheted off the brick to the right of the gunman, stopping his advance. Mark could see the shooter was less than thirty feet from the fallen officer, who was clutching her wounded side. He recognized the severity of the wound. She had minutes before she bled out.

Mark’s training had been clear: He was supposed to wait until law enforcement had secured the scene and it was safe. But his training had never envisioned a situation where he’d be forced to watch an officer die in front of him, yards out of reach.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

He grabbed the heaviest object he could find, lifted the driver’s-side door handle, then kicked it open. He dropped low on the street and moved behind a parked Toyota.

A bullet cracked the air, but it didn’t sound to Mark like it was aimed at him. Having never been shot at, he wasn’t entirely sure he could trust that judgment.

Mark peeked past the bumper and saw the gunman by the SUV firing at the other two officers around the back of the vehicle. As a coach, he understood that real training isn’t about teaching your brain what to do but how your body should react on its own. If you have to stop and ask yourself whether a football’s heading at you, it’s already too late. Your hands need to be up and ready before anything resembling contemplation takes place.

Mark sprinted across the asphalt toward the fallen officer before he’d fully registered that this was his one chance, while the gunman’s attention was focused elsewhere.

He set his improvised weapon down and dragged the officer behind the concrete pillar.

Her hands pressed against her side, trying to hold back the flow of blood. Her green eyes darted from her wound up to Mark, and she gasped, trying to say something.

“Just hold on. I’ll take care of you. Everything’s going to be fine.” Mark kept his voice as calm as he could. He was pretty sure everything was not going to be fine, and he definitely wasn’t calm on the inside, but keeping her from going into shock was the most important thing he could do right now. Inspecting the wound, he saw the bullet had gone deep and might have hit internal organs. He could slow the bleeding and keep her from hemorrhaging out, but not with his bare hands and the few tools on his belt. He had to get her back to the ambulance.

Mark read the name on her uniform.

“Officer Bettencourt, it’s going to hurt for a moment. I have to move you. I need you to hold on, okay? Don’t say anything. Keep your hands where they are, and let me take care of the rest,” he instructed.

Bettencourt nodded weakly.

Mark heard another gunshot, closer this time, as a bullet ricocheted off the pavement a few yards from him. He glanced around the pillar and saw the gunman, who had been focused on the other officers, now walking toward him. The shooter wore a breathing mask, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, along with a thick jacket. He held his pistol out in front of him with both hands, aiming at where Mark knelt.

As a rule, Mark didn’t carry a gun and normally only had pepper spray, but he knew the defensive weapon on his belt wouldn’t be effective here. Instead, he grabbed the fire extinguisher he’d taken from the ambulance, yanked out the safety catch, and squeezed the trigger as he swung it around the pillar at the shooter.

A thick cloud of white dust blasted the gunman, turning the air into a haze. Mark hurled the fire extinguisher at the man as he covered his head to shield his face. Then Mark reached down, slid one arm under Bettencourt’s knees and the other under her shoulders, and lifted her.

Years of training with sandbags and tires had acclimated Mark to irregular lifts. He spun with her in his arms and ran for the ambulance. As he neared it, he saw that the other officer—the one who had vanished—had taken refuge behind the big vehicle.

Midway to the ambulance, he felt his shoulder twitch but ignored it; he had to get Bettencourt to safety. He could worry about a sprain later.

“Out of the way!” Mark snapped as he set Bettencourt down by the bumper and shoved the officer aside so he could open the rear doors.

The officer, barely older than some of the players Mark coached at the high school, complied and shifted to the side while keeping himself protected by the vehicle. Mark grabbed his kit, set it down beside Bettencourt, and worked to stop the hemorrhaging while more sirens and gunshots rang out in the distance.

“Just my fucking day,” Bettencourt rasped between pained breaths.

“We’ll compare notes tomorrow,” Mark replied.

“How are you going to stop the bleeding?” the officer asked from behind the ambulance.

“I’m working on it,” Mark answered.

“No—yours,” he insisted.

Mark glanced at his left shoulder and saw a red blotch soaking through his white uniform. His arm was going numb, but he still had motor function. That was all that mattered. With his left hand still firmly holding a hemostatic dressing against Bettencourt’s side, he reached over with his right hand and yanked his sleeve open. He’d only been grazed, but the blood was pouring out. Mark grabbed a large plastic bandage from his kit, tore the backing off with his teeth, and slapped it over the wound.

“What can I do?” the young officer asked.

“Shoot the other guy or call another ambulance. Take your pick,” Mark growled, keeping his attention on stabilizing Bettencourt.