Sgt Ranma wrote:
Debating for a moment whether he should get some aspirin
for his hangover or brush his teeth and shower first, he was
too lazy and tired at the moment to go with the former. He'd
go with another solution instead for his headache, one that
he could accomplish on the fly. Grabbing a beer from the
fridge, he popped the can and chugged away as he clumsily
stripped his clothes, he turned on the shower and jumped in,
draping the shower curtains in. He didn't bother to wait for
the water to warm up; the icy cold sensation would clear his
head up and bring him to full consciousness. As soon as
those water droplets had hit his body, his entire form and
shape shifted and morphed, transforming a muscular 5' 10"
pigtailed man into a 6' pigtailed beauty.
Magical water triggered curses and conservation of mass. What a curious
combination.
The Beretta was a fine piece for any military or law
enforcement operative, sporting an accurate 5" barrel, a
flawlessly reliable cycling action, standard LAPD issue
customized glow in the dark Tritium night sights, and a
round capacity of 15 in the mag and one up the pipe. It was
combat loaded as such with a full clip and chambered round,
utilizing hi preferred ammo of choice, Winchester Ranger 147
grain hollowpoint rounds, dubbed "Black Rhinos" by cops who
used them for its serious and effective stopping power. The
pistol wasn't by any means fancy and made do with simplicity
and ergonomics in mind. The only reason Ranma hadn't
replaced it was because it had been free, and he disliked
using his own money for anything unless absolutely
necessary.
Yes, obviously the author likes guns. But why does Ranma like guns so
much? And why does he work out so hard? How much strength does it take
to pull a trigger?
Upon closer inspection, it was a police badge. Ranma
picked it up and looked at it with a submissive look on his
face. It was a shield badge, shaped almost like a very big
egg that had been flattened, but with intricate inscribing
and artwork, mixing blends of gold and silver. The top of it
read <Detective>, underneath was a picture of a building
with a square base and a tall center tower. Underneath that
was the proud symbol Ranma acknowledged every day as he went
to work, <Los Angeles Police> it read.
Why is this character named Ranma?
top brass. It was a Korean tailor who Ranma had helped a few
months ago, his daughter had been mugged and beaten savagely
in broad daylight by a lowly thug with a thick criminal
record. Ranma had been across the street at a hot dog stand
and chased after him and made sure the hoodlum was never
able to walk again, thanks to a snap to the spine inflicting
paralysis. Ranma didn't feel any regret in punishing the
cur;
Ah. Fortunately Ranma's still stupid. I was beginning to think there
was nothing that was the same about this character. However there is a
slight problem in that he'd be on suspension until his dismissal from
the LAPD came through. The free time would be put to good use though
dealing with the resulting criminal trial and lawsuite.
the tailor's daughter had been beaten so badly that she
had required reconstructive surgery on the lower parts of
her face as well as treatment and rehabilitation for a
broken arm. The furious and heartbroken tailor and father
thanked Ranma from the bottom of his heart, and offered his
services for free, stating it was the least he could do.
Ranma didn't have the heart to accept anything for free, and
came to a compromise by paying only the invoice cost of the
suit. So now he had a $3,000 Valentino suit hanging in the
back of his car, paid with only $600 from his own pocket.
Cool! That'll look great at his trial. And accepting a 2,400 dollar
bribe will help the lawyers on the other side a lot.
It would be at least another 20 minutes before he'd get
to his destination at the moment; he was going through the
Van Nuys Divisional district. Radio traffic was calm and
normal just like every other morning, just the usual mishaps
(drugs, fighting, minor chases, all that plain boring
stuff), nothing serious.
Today's fate had different plans.
"All units, all units, officers need assistance,
shooting in progress at Hornady and Bradburn, inside a
school playground. One officer down, barricaded suspect with
sniper rifle, Code 3," the radio chirped.
"This is 9-Adam-23, we're already there, over.
Requesting Metro SWAT unit support immediately!" someone
else said on the radio.
A scowl formed on Ranma's face, it wasn't everyday you
had some nut shooting at kids and cops. He picked up the
radio handset, "This is unit 5-King-90-16, enroute to the
sniper call, over."
"Acknowledged, SIS detective arriving on scene, out."
Ranma reached over to the center console and flipped a
couple of switches, triggering his code 3 emergency lights
and the siren. He mashed the pedal to the floor and raced
towards his new destination. It would only be a short detour
from his schedule.
--------------
The blue Ford rounded a corner at high speed, squealing
its tires to a stop in front of an elementary school. There
were several black and white squad cars parked on the street
blocking away people and traffic, several officers were
surrounding a corridor that was the entrance to some stairs
for the blacktop. All the responding officers had wasted no
time or effort, there was already yellow police tape neatly
surrounding the perimeter. Two officers were down on their
stomachs with their pistols drawn, protecting the area the
best they could without revealing themselves. The entire
school perimeter was surrounded by tall fencing, which
actually helped isolate people from the shooting.
Thunderclaps of gunfire echoed several times in the air.
Ranma got out of his car and casually walked over to the
corridor passing the fence. Several yards away there were a
couple of frantic parents, crying their eyes out to the
police officers. Ranma passed by one detective in a brown
suit, talking to his radio.
"Well, look who's here," the detective spoke with heavy
disdain.
Ranma blew past him, ignoring his comment. It was
Detective Sergeant Roy Wilcox, an old homicide cat down over
in the Van Nuys Division. He had met him last year in a
joint homicide case that required them to work together.
Although they weren't enemies, Wilcox wasn't too fond of
Ranma because of his wild behavior. Not to mention he was
jealous by the fact that some young 26 year old punk was a
much better cop than he'd ever be.
A young African-American patrol officer in a black
police jacket had his gun drawn, surveying the area from a
safe distance. His face was sweaty and his hands were
jittery, showing how nervous he was. It wasn't like he was
new to the danger of his chosen occupation, but how often
does ANY cop get to deal with a well barricaded sniper that
well-barricaded
targets children and police?
Ranma walked up to him to ask a question.
"Whaddaya got here?" Ranma asked, walking to get to him.
"Sniper, sir," he replied.
"A sniper? What's he doing?" Ranma asked casually.
Detective Wilcox came up from behind him to get a look
at the playground blacktop, seeing the asphalt riddled with
bullets. "He's shooting kids, one officer down," Wilcox
growled. "This is the regular daily meat grinder, Saotome.
This ain't hide and seek death patrol shit!"
The young patrol cop continued. "The guy's a nightmare
sir, he's still inside. We can't get to him!" he said
despairingly.
Ranma faced Wilcox. "You got a SWAT team coming in?"
The old detective shook his head. "No ETA, they're stuck
over at Devonshire handling another barricade suspect.
They're rushing a unit over here as we speak. Sheriff SEBs
are also rushing a unit our way too."
Wilcox faced Ranma with a frown on his face. "What the
fuck are you doing here anyway, Saotome?"
Ranma walked closer to the steps to see if he could spot
the sniper, surely enough he did. There was a shoddy
apartment complex across from the playground. One of the
windows had a metal sheet plastered for armor. A wild eyed
man with a red cap popped up shooting his rifle erratically.
"I was in the area, decided to drop by," Ranma replied,
stepping back.
"We don't need SIS here, we'll wait till SWAT comes by,"
Wilcox sneered.
"Well, good luck with that then," Ranma merely said, not
bothered by the obviously blatant insult.
Actually that's an implied insult. Also "obviously" and "blatant" are
redundant together
A uniformed sergeant ran down the stairs, carrying an
injured child in his arms. He was shouting for help and some
paramedics, the kid had a bullet wound in the ankle, blood
dripped out in a messy flood because it was too big to
cauterize.
Cauterize? Since when do paramedics cauterize wounds?
The sergeant passed off the kid to some parent
who had run towards him in a mad rage, desperate to see her
son, who was now pale from blood loss.
He walked over to Ranma, a look of sorrow and pain on
his face. "That kid's only nine years old man, Jesus."
Ranma also looked at the kid, who was bawling his eyes
out from the pain. "Nine?" he asked. He looked back up the
stairs, his face seemed to show that he was pondering
something. He slowly walked towards it. "Hey, how good a
shot is this guy?"
The sergeant answered with a blank face. "What?"
"I mean how accurate is he? Does he shoot at random
targets, at cops? Specific kids?"
The sergeant shook his head. "I don't know, random I
guess. A bit sloppy."
"Not much of a sniper is he? Did you get the make of the
weapon?"
"Uh, yeah. It's an automatic, and loud."
Using an automatic weapon to snipe is more than a big sloppy. It' also
implies he'll run out of ammo pretty quick.
Ranma's eyes opened in interest. "Does he have any
hostages up there or what?"
The officer shrugged, "Pfft...not that we know of."
"Yeah?" Ranma took off his flannel and tossed it away,
he pulled out his Beretta, pulling the slide slightly to
check the open top chamber if it was loaded. One round was
firmly stuck in the extractor as he saw a flash of golden
brass, with 15 more in the magazine.
He is now fully erect.
Detective Wilcox scowled, he knew what stunt Ranma was
trying to pull. "Saotome, where the heck you going? Get the
hell back here, get your ass back down here!"
Ranma ignored him and continued marching up the stairs,
his pistol down in a low ready stance.
"Saotome!" Wilcox yelled again. As much as he disliked
the pigtailed detective, he didn't want a dead cop in a body
bag.
As he reached the top of the stairs a female patrol
officer, who was guarding the staircase in a lying position,
tried to grab his pant leg to stop him.
"Get down, you're in the line of fire! Get down!" she
pleaded.
Ranma continued walking towards some monkey bars; he
could see to his left that there were several children
hiding under the benches in fear. About 40 yards in front of
him was another police officer, injured with a round to the
shoulder and slowly bleeding on the asphalt.
Detective Wilcox was still yelling at the top of his
lungs in frustration. "Are you fucking crazy!? Get back here
Saotome! Get outta here, he's gonna shoot ya!"
He halted right underneath the monkey bars, facing
straight ahead up at the barricaded window. Ranma decided to
see if he could talk to him.
"Hello? Mr. Sniper, sir!" he yelled out across the
blacktop.
"Get away!" the man yelled. He popped his head out and
clumsily aimed his rifle hastily.
It was an old, abused Ruger Mini-14 Ranch Rifle,
chambered in 5.56mm NATO rounds. The deranged man shot five
rounds towards the general direction of where Ranma was, who
was about 60 yards away. The rounds bounced off the floor
and sparked off on the monkey bars, all of them close to
Ranma, but none of them hitting him. Ranma's face remained a
neutral mask, he didn't even flinch as the bullets whizzed
past him.
He knows that unlike the previous cop, he has script immunity.
The pigtailed boy took a couple steps forward, raising
his pistol aimed towards the barricaded window, now 55 yards
away. He held a firm and steady grip with both of his hands,
his eyes narrowed slightly and his thumb cocked the hammer
to engage the pistol into single action mode.
"I'm still here, asshole!" Ranma yelled out so that the
man could hear him. His eyes stayed open, there was a fire
burning in them. "Or do you only do kids?"
The man in the barricaded window turned red hot, his
face a mask of rage. "Shut up!" he screamed. Popping his
head back up again, he started shooting rampantly again.
This time however, Ranma squeezed the trigger of his
pistol mercilessly, emptying 16 rounds of hellfire the best
he could in a grouping towards the window. Ranma's steady
aiming hit the man several times, who screamed in pain as he
dropped to the floor with several rounds hitting fatal spots
in his upper torso. More than half the bullets Ranma's
pistol fired hit the metal armor on the window and the
inside of the apartment. After all, the Beretta 92 is only a
pistol, and shooting a person at 55 yards was an amazing
hit.
Ranma didn't take his eyes off his (now downed) target,
he mechanically thumbed the magazine release expending the
used clip and reached down with his left hand to get a fresh
15 round clip, clicking it in place with the slide. He
casually raised his left hand above his shoulder and tucked
his thumb in to show four fingers, signaling 10-4 to any
officer who could see.
Several officers yelled out, running towards the
apartment. "It's clear, it's clear! Move out!" they
exclaimed.
Wilcox ran towards Ranma, who was decocking his pistol
and placing it back in his holster. He reached down on the
ground to get his used clip.
"You're one psycho son of a bitch," Wilcox said, his
old-fashioned 4" Smith and Wesson .44 Special revolver in
his hand in a combat ready stance. "But you're damn good,"
he nodded.
Ranma started walking back to his car, unfazed by the
fact that he had just shot some stranger to death. He nodded
in acknowledgement to Wilcox, picking up his flannel at the
bottom of the stairs. He looked down at his wristwatch, he
had to hurry up and get to Parker Center. Despite all the
procedures he was supposed to follow surrounding an officer
involved homicide, he didn't want to stick around for the
mass media hysteria that would soon follow in the wake of
the current tragedy. His boss would pull some strings to
take care of the heavy bureaucracy.
"I'll be sending your boss a request for a report,"
Wilcox's voice was faintly heard as he walked down the
stairs.
---------------
The familiar smell of city smog was replaced by the
smell of carne asada and refrijidos frijoles from a Mexican
fast food vendor's truck as the Crown Vic entered a large
parking structure.
"KFWB, news 980! You give us 22 minutes, and we'll give
you the world!"
Tap, tap, tap. Ranma's finger drummed a beat along the
steering wheel. Looking around, he cursed to himself, it was
one in the afternoon and everyone had already come back from
their lunch break. He would have to waste his time looking
everywhere for a spot.
"...and with a westbound SigAlert the 91 freeway
westbound is crowded with heavy traffic stretching across
from Artesia. That's traffic on the 'ones', next update in
10 minutes! Now, for the local news." The radio played a
short sound byte and the voice changed to another radio
anchor. "In a violent flurry just half an hour ago, an
elementary school in Van Nuys was held under siege by a
deranged gunman firing several gunshots at police officers
and school kids."
"For Christ's sake, those bastards got the story up
already," Ranma muttered. "Wilcox better not have given my
name."
"...names of the victims have not been released, however
it is confirmed that at least one LAPD officer and several
children were seriously injured. The only information that
the police have told us so far was that a detective who
responded to the scene had single handedly neutralized the
sniper to quickly end the bloodshed. The detective's name
nor his reason for being there has not been released and
we've been told will not be released in the future and will
be kept confidential. This is Edward-"
Ranma found his parking spot and shut off the motor,
turning the radio off automatically. He stepped out and
headed towards an elevator.
Parker center was a huge, rectangular building down in
the Central Divisional Area in downtown LA, taking up nearly
an entire city block, but towering only about 8 stories
high. It was the operational HQ for all Metro officers,
commissioners, the Chief, and was also the branch for the
Investigative Service's Detectives Bureau. Many detectives
from all 18 Divisional Precincts of the four bureaus in the
city competed all the time to get an opening spot at
Headquarters, home of some of the finest detectives in the
world in the finest police force in the world.
Ranma walked through the entrance, several uniformed
officers were guarding the surrounding area to keep out any
trespassers. Ranma had a blue and white ID card clipped to
his flannel, it was mandatory to have police ID cards at all
times when inside Parker Center. Ranma very much disliked
the building, every time he came for work there was always
another crack on the wall or another electrical line that
had to be fixed. The squeaky old building hadn't been
changed since it's creation in 1955, and most of the damage
came from the last few years as a result of the Northridge
quake. The decor was dreary at best, with most offices and
rooms tacked in fake laminated wood and dinged up grey
filing cabinets. Parker Center was overcrowded and would
soon become unacceptably insufficient for the department's
needs, but the officers who worked there made do with what
they were given. The commute down in traffic choked gridlock
wasn't much help either. He headed straight for the
elevator, his destination the 5th floor.
Several officers who were hanging around the lobby
greeted him, some of the senior detectives especially.
Others tried to ignore him, they were very intimidated by
his infamous high profile. Some even frowned at him, giving
him a dirty look. They certainly didn't approve of the
bureau he worked for. He had to walk through the entire
Metropolitan Division inside of Parker Center to get where
he was going to.
Once he got into the fifth floor, Ranma walked westward
towards a sterile clean corridor. There was a steel door
along with a keypad door lock. There were big bold letters
on the door <Special Investigative Section - RESTRICTED
ACCESS>.
He dialed in a seven digit code on the pad; the door
knob emitted a solid *thunk* sound, signaling the electronic
dead lock was disabled for a couple of seconds.
Despite the unusual security, inside it looked like any
other bureau in the building. There were several offices,
some with walled off cubicles for necessary confidentiality,
each with desks and there were rows of file cabinets. There
were several wheeled tack boards in various parts of the
room, all of which were attached with surveillance photos,
beat paths, and multiple outlines of different cases for the
different working teams. In the corner was a steel fenced
door, with a large red sign that said <SIS Armory Locker>.
Ranma entered a door that said <SIS Commander> painted
in white. There was a large office, and a huge wooden desk
in front of a sharp looking old man with a nifty suit. He
sort of looked like Robert DeNiro, except with darker hair.
"Well, well, you're a little late, come on in, Sarge."
Ranma apologized, "Sorry, Captain Davis. I hit a little
bump on the way over."
The old man, a Caucasian in his late fifties, gestured
Ranma over to a seat in front of him, next to another man,
who was in his early forties.
"Hey, McClane," Ranma greeted his good friend with a
smile. John McClane was a cop who had come over a couple of
years ago from New York, receiving a specially privileged
lateral transfer over to the LAPD for some special work he
had done for the city in the past. He was Ranma's loyal
partner and one of his best friends for the past year.
The Lieutenant Detective smirked. "A little bump there,
Ranma? I heard you took out some guy taking pot shots at a
school playground. We listened to it on the broadcast."
"It was nothing. I was just stopping by in the area,"
Ranma shrugged. "KFWB seems to have already gotten the
scoop." He pointed back with his thumb at a radio that was
sitting in the back.
Davis butted in, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You're here now
so it doesn't matter. As long as you're one step ahead of
the media, I'll have less to worry about." He swiveled his
chair to reach a mini-fridge that was next to his desk and
pulled out two bottles. "What'll it be, Saotome? Miller or
Coors?"
Ranma nodded his head to the Coors. "I'll take the
silver bullet."
The senior officer gently tossed the beer to Ranma who
caught it between his thumb and index finger and already had
the cap twisted off by the time his hand gripped it.
"Would you like one too, McClane?" He smiled at John.
"Oh, I forgot. You're a pussy who decided to cut back on the
liquor."
John smiled and shook his head and casually gave a
sarcastic middle finger to his supervisor. John was once an
expert in the art of constant intoxication, but then again
he learned also that it was quite an obstacle to maintaining
a good relation with his family.
"What's today's agenda, Captain?" Ranma asked, taking
back a drink of the brew. In the confines of the personal
sections of the hardworking detectives, Ranma nor any other
detective had to worry about getting caught for drinking on
the job. Anyone who would dare snitch would pay dearly
later.
Davis' visage softened for a moment and he took a short
sip of his beer, rolling it around in his mouth for taste.
"Well, the one child who had the critical GSW in the ankle
didn't make it. Just got announced on the radio." Ranma's
eyes averted Davis', his lips tightening and his brow
furrowing. "But at least the kid got some vengeance." Davis
coughed and straightened out his tie. "Anyway, let's get
back to business. Sorry about that case with those two black
guys over on the east end. Who would have thought that the
last liquor store they tried to rob was already being robbed
when they came in? They popped each other nice and clean,"
he whistled. "I have something a little different, for a
change. We got a tip from a snitch down on Skid Row. He told
us some info in return for some money. Says his friend, a
suspected serial rapist and repeated 211 offender, is going
on the prowl tonight." Davis said, looking over some sheets
on a clipboard.
"Is the tip legitimate or bullshit?" McClane asked.
Captain Gray Davis nodded. "Yeah, it's positive. I'm
working up a case file right now. I'll give it to you guys
later tonight when you go."
"No surveillance, no tracking? We just go?" Ranma said
surprised. Working in this particular sector required an
extensive amount of back to back surveillance and research
on different cases at the same time in order to insure that
they were targeting hardened and hardcore violation
criminals.
"I told you it was something different. It won't be too
bad," Davis scoffed. "The guy you're facing is Hispanic,
most likely unarmed, and if he is it'll probably be some
pistols. I think it's highly unlikely that he'll be
strapped. Besides if we spot him and he does his thing, you
know what to do."
"Whatever. I guess we'll carry a medium load for this
job," McClane replied. He got up to walk out.
Ranma stood up too to join him. "Hey Captain, where is
the stakeout point by the way?"
"I was about to get to that," Davis said. "It's down in
the Wilshire Division, they have some converted undercover
cars you can use, so take Vince and Al with you for back up.
Hopefully our snitch gives us an accurate enough description
as where exactly we can track him from. It's up to you two
to see if he pulls off a job."
"All right," McClane gestured. "Come on Ranma, lets go."
"It's gonna be a long night," Ranma sighed.
* * *
March 23rd, 2001.
Wilshire Blvd - Downtown LA, California. 3:30 AM.
"Damn this is fucking boring. When is this guy coming
in? Davis said he'd be here by 11:00. And we have to stay
here all night till he does come."
Eighteen-year law enforcement veteran John McClane
sighed and drank some hot coffee from a thermos. It was a
damn cold night and their loaned undercover 1990 Mercedes S
Class was equipped with seat heaters that didn't even work,
nor could they turn on the motor to turn on the heating
vents unless they wanted to give away their cover. And to
top it off, he forgot to bring something warm to wear, all
he had was his cheap five dollar Hanes T-Shirt and a plaid
short sleeved button up shirt on top of it. He awkwardly
held his coffee in his left hand while he tried to adjust
the long holo-scoped Ak-74 rifle he had. It was one of the
newer mass produced rifles from master gun maker and
engineer Mikhail Kalashnikov, but this particular rifle was
a much higher quality piece as it had been given a makeover
by a gunsmith for better fit, finish, and accuracy. The butt
of the stock was on the floor and the barrel was sticking
all the way up to John's chest. Despite claiming to take a
"medium" load, it appeared he prepared himself with a heavy
hitter.
"Have a little patience, he'll be here John." Ranma
flicked his pigtail a couple of times. Despite living in the
US for over 7 years, he still had a light Asian accent. He
cradled the short M-4 Carbine that he had on his lap; the
gun had no magazine though and was unloaded.
McClane raised a side of his eyebrows to glance at
Ranma. "Yeah, yeah. I don't have as much patience as you do,
Ranma. I've been working SIS for four years and I've been
around you long enough to savor the action," he chuckled.
"One of these days I'm gonna just take a year long vacation
and spend some time with my family, instead of being with
you in this motherfucking tin can."
"Four years in a unit that does almost 90 percent
surveillance work, and you don't have the patience for it?"
Ranma sighed and tried stretching his back from the
unsupportive seats. "I've seen enough action to last a
fucking lifetime," Ranma sighed. He looked over to John.
"Probably more than even you could handle."
"Yeah, right," McClane replied sarcastically. "With your
curse, you can do more assignments in the department than
anyone else. I'd guess it's a great gift somehow, even
though I don't want it..." he trailed off.
The pigtailed boy shook his head. "I got used to it, but
everyone keeps wanting me to do Vice jobs, and pose as a
hooker or something. I'm cool with doing the vice bureaus a
favor once in a while if it's a big hit, but not full time.
And then there are those dipshits who try to hit on me when
they know I'm male," Ranma said, frustrated. "In fact,
you're a fag for saying that."
The senior detective huffed out in mock irritation.
"Thanks, but you can fuck yourself."
Ranma gave him a cocky smirk. "Hmph."
BEEP. CHIRP. "Unit 3-William-56, please respond."
3-William-56 was the unit-classification Saotome and
McClane accepted for their ratty old Mercedes, it was really
a cover for their real unit designation in case some patrol
unit came to question them. This assignment was a rush
ordered and expedited fiasco, without any prior notification
to the officers in the vicinity and a hastily constructed
alias was needed to keep things from blowing up. Ranma
grabbed the receiver piece and pressed the transmit button.
"Sergeant Saotome and Lieutenant McClane here."
"Suspect has been spotted walking towards your location,
be advised. He should be in your sights soon," the radio
chirped.
"Thanks, Vince. Code 100."
"Roger."
From across the street, a lone Hispanic male popped out
of the dark corner, casually walking his way across the
sidewalk. Even with the dimly lit streets, one could tell
his arms were covered in tattoos.
Ranma nudged McClane. "Is that him?" he pointed out.
"Yeah." John opened up the folder and read down some
files. "That guy was just released from San Quentin
Penitentiary two weeks ago. His name is Roberto Dominguez,
charged with murdering 5 different people working as clerks
in various late night businesses. Supposedly he raped all
the girls he came across in his crime spree too." John
fingered one particular section of the document he was
reading. "However, most of his charges were dropped due to
insufficient evidence of his actions. He's pretty decent at
covering his tracks. Served only 2 years and got paroled for
his manslaughter charge."
Ranma loaded a hundred round drum clip into the magazine
well of his M4. He pulled back the T-bar charging handle,
locking a round in the chamber. "Man, what is our justice
system coming to? Vicious bastard, ain't he?"
McClane let out a huff. "No shit. And check this shit
out, back in '93 77th Street homicide came upon this guy's
leftovers at a small liquor store down in the hood. Him and
a youngster he'd recruited robbed the place, and Dominguez
was suspected as the shooter, but the crime got pinned on
the kid who tagged along instead. He shot her in the head
twice, and according to the report he had sex with the dead
body, using a condom. No fluids found, the condom was long
discarded by the time both were caught. Again, all pinned on
the kid. Don't ask how."
"Atta' boy," Ranma said, nodding at the rap sheet. "I
guess one of the station captains finally decided to kick
the case up to us?" Learning this nut job was a necrophilia
loving rapist made Ranma much more eager to take care of
this guy.
"We managed to get one of his old 'buddies' to snitch
for us so we could track his next hit. Despite what Davis
said though, it says here he seems to be armed pretty well.
A couple of automatic pistols if I read correctly. Seems
like this shit eating bastard enjoys this."
During their small pep talk the two detectives failed to
pay attention to what was happening in the convenient store
across the street. A piercing shriek found it's way to the
undercover car, getting the attention of both John and
Ranma. There they saw their suspect, beating a hapless young
female clerk to the ground.
"Gimme every thing you got in the fuckin' register now!"
yelled Roberto.
The female clerk nodded in tears and in pain and opened
up the register for Roberto to access. Since the register
had been emptied out only a few hours ago, there wasn't much
cash.
Roberto punched the girl again. "This is all the fucking
money you have?! There's gotta be more!"
"That's all there is! I swear! Please don't kill me,
please!!" she pleaded.
"For some reason, I just don't think you're telling me
the truth, bitch," Roberto evilly snarled. He pulled the
girl out of the counter area and pinned her down right in
the middle of the store. Roberto unzipped his pants and
attempted to rape her savagely.
"We got a visual confirmation on felony rape. Here we
go!" Ranma started up the car, not even the least bit
disturbed of what was happening in front of him.
These SIS assignments absolutely required that the
detectives witness the crime actually taking place in order
to take the suspects out. It was the only thing that kept
Ranma from losing his cool and murdering the people he
tracked down with his bare hands.
The old Mercedes squealed out to the street and out of
the curb, heading straight for the corner store. Roberto who
was busy doing his dirty work, looked up to see two bright
headlights aimed straight forward him. He cruelly twisted
the head of the crying girl beneath him, breaking her neck.
He then struggled the best he could away from the counter
while putting his pants back on.
With a loud crunch the Mercedes bounced up on the curb,
shaking its occupants.
Ranma flung his door open, aiming his assault rifle.
"LAPD!! On the ground now asshole!!" Of course, in reality
he knew his order wouldn't be followed, it served to only
provoke an attack. This was exactly what he wanted.
Roberto pulled out two chop-off assault rifles (more
like pistols) that he somehow hid in the crotch of his
pants. He didn't bother to aim and just pointed in the
general direction of Ranma. "Suck my dick, honchos!" he
yelled in a thick Mexican accent.
John was the first to duck down and crouch in his seat.
"Shit!"
The serial rapist pulled the trigger of one assault
pistol madly, the gun was set on automatic and emptied in
just a few seconds. Ranma was taking cover as well, jumping
back into his seat and ducking. Fortunately Roberto's
careless aiming led to all the rounds piercing through the
windshield or windows and exiting out the roof. The glass
windows of the store itself were in shards littering the
sidewalk.
The perp on the other end was running frantically out in
the streets, having enough luck to pull over a large black
Dodge Ram pickup truck on the lone empty road.
Ranma popped his head over the dash. He subconsciously
patted himself, wondering if he'd been hit and was springing
leaks. "Is it clear?" He looked over to his partner, who was
muttering and cursing angrily as he was ducking. "Dammit,
John! I thought you said he had pistols, not fuckin' chop
off rifles!"
John brushed his head off for broken glass. "I didn't
know..." he said sheepishly.
Ranma sat upright in his seat and floored the car in
reverse, smoking his way back out to the street and onto
pursuing their suspect. Fortunately for Ranma, Roberto's
getaway vehicle was big and easy to spot and slow to follow.
In the passenger seat of the truck, Roberto nudges his
weapon against the driver he was taking hostage. "Drive
faster, you goddamn Gringo!"
I think "asshole" would have have a smoother flow.
This stakeout definitely had not turned out the way they
had wanted to. Now there was the added factor of a pursuit.
Ranma picked up the mike piece for the radio. "This is 3-
William-56! Suspect is heading towards Wilshire in a black
Dodge Ram, California license plate 4-Frank-Mary-John-674!
He's armed with assault rifles, and may possibly have a
hostage, pursue with extreme caution!"
The S-Class tailed the Dodge closely with ease, with the
behemoth in front swaying wildly as its high center of
gravity made it swerve from left to right. From behind, an
old and large late model GMC Suburban with internal code 3
lights and sirens drifted out of a corner, giving a furious
chase with Ranma and McClane.
John looked behind his seat. "There's Al and Vince, I
don't see any black and whites helping us."
The thundering crack of gunshots erupted from ahead;
Roberto was leaning out the passenger window shooting semi-
auto fire at Ranma's car. The constant swerving impaired his
aim, causing every shot to hit the hood or the ground. "I
ain't goin' back you fuckin' pigs!" He pushed himself back
into the truck, poking the driver once more with the muzzle
of his gun. "Keep going you fucking cracker or else I'll
kill you!"
Cracker? Since when do Hispanics call anyone "cracker"?
In the midst of all the mayhem, the police broadcast
crackled in Ranma's car. "This is dispatch, we have a
reported 211 in progress at Wilshire and Normandie. All
available units in the vicinity please respond."
McClane picked up the hand piece for the radio, and
clicked a particular button on the receiver. "Dispatch,
cancel that 211 this is a wild fire. Repeat, this is a wild
fire, over."
"Are you sure about that!?" Ranma yelled over the
combined noise of the wind buffeting through the busted
windshield and the rickety roaring motor.
"Don't worry!" John had his thumb off the transmit
button on the mike. "We can take care of this!"
The female dispatch voice responded. "Private request
acknowledged." There was a series of beeps emitted by the
radio. "All units concerning 211 call at Wilshire and
Normandie, stand down."
Ranma meanwhile stayed right behind the truck, he aimed
his M4 at the rear window of the truck to take out Roberto.
The automatic rifle fire didn't even go near the target,
both cars were going left and right too wildly for an
accurate shot.
So, how did Ranma become an irresponsible random killer?
He managed to riddle the back of the pickup
bed and pierce holes into the gas tank. Ranma's spent cases
were flying out the passenger side window, right across
John's face.
"Damn! The truck is swerving too much!" Ranma exclaimed.
He threw his rifle into the back seat because he had used up
the entire 100 round clip in a few short seconds. Ranma
jerked his torso to the left in the nick of time as a 5.56mm
bullet cracked through the windshield and barely missed his
head. The headrest of the driver's seat exploded, the
leather covering it flapping and the yellow foam inside
exposed, mangled. He turned back for a split second, his
eyes wide and mouth agape.
"You almost got a free haircut there!" John lifted his
left leg and kicked the cracked windshield as hard as he
could, sending it flying out into the road. Their forward
visibility was greatly improved, although now they had to
deal with the high speed of the wind in their eyes.
He aimed his rifle on the truck's tires and took a few
pot shots, blowing them out. McClane was a much better
shooter than Ranma was, but unfortunately popping the tires
did no good.
Ranma awkwardly reached his Beretta 92FS on his right
hip with his left hand, his right hand still on the steering
wheel. An idea popped to his head. "We gotta take this guy
out fast," he mumbled. He looked over to John. "Hey, hold
the fuck on all right? You ain't gonna like what I'm about
to do!"
Ranma broke a fuse panel open with his right knee, and
then yanked them all out with his right hand.
John was hastily clicking his seat belt on. "Why'd you
do that?"
"To turn off the ABS!" He slammed his foot on the
accelerator and surged the car forward to get in front of
the slow pickup truck. "HANG ON!!"
With his service Beretta firmly rooted in his left hand
and a glance at the instrument panel which was now blinking
with various red warning lights, Ranma violently turned the
steering wheel around to the left while simultaneously
slamming on the brakes and the throttle.
Everything he planned worked out like clockwork, thanks
to the rear-wheel-drive set up of the drive train and the
disabled ABS. The front wheels locked first as predicted
causing the rear wheels to lose traction and break loose on
the asphalt. The car swerved 360 degrees at 60 mph, Ranma
stuck out his left arm and shot through the windshield of
the Dodge rapidly while he had a clear line of fire.
Roberto, in flabbergasted surprise, accidentally pulled
the trigger against the head of the hostage he was
controlling next to him when he saw the Mercedes dancing
wildly in front of him. A moment after a bullet found its
way to his forehead, although the impact of the windshield
and his thick skull didn't provide enough force for the
bullet to blow open the back of his head.
John was whooping excitedly next to Ranma, shooting his
rifle rapidly at whatever he could. "Hoo, yeah!"
The Benz completed its revolution, slamming into the
left side of the big pickup truck with a crunch. The brunt
of Ranma's car shifted the direction of both cars, heading
them straight towards a curb.
"Oh, shit!" John dropped his rifle on his lap and braced
his arms on the roof of the Mercedes. Ranma had both of his
hands locked tightly against the steering wheels, slamming
on the brakes.
Both vehicles careened out of control, the Mercedes hit
the curb first, the car was instantly lowered as the front
suspension was taken out by the curb and the tires were
blown out on impact, Ranma tried to steer out of the way but
ended up flipping the car instead, and skidding to a stop on
the street.
The Dodge Ram on the other hand was manned by a dead
driver with a stiff foot pressed against the accelerator
pedal. The truck flipped on the curb instantly, it did so at
a higher speed than the Benz, causing it to pummel a
concrete wall across the street.
Ranma and John were stuck in their now demolished
Mercedes Benz S-Class which looked like a crushed tin can.
McClane shook his head, he was still planted in his seat
upside down thanks to the seatbelt, and without a scratch on
him. "Ugh...what the fuck happened?" Everything about this
seemed so familiar to him... It must've happened to him
before, McClane thought.
Ranma was unfortunately scrunched against the roof of
the car, his seatbelt was sliced off by a warped metal door
frame which had almost sliced off the top of his head.
Otherwise, he was unhurt. "Errgh...got a Triple-A card?"
-----------
The two police officers in the old GMC Suburban watched
blankly as the Mercedes a couple hundred yards in front of
them flipped over and slid across the street.
"Whoa," one of them simply said.
The other officer nodded, and looked to his companion.
"Hey, fifty bucks says one of them broke a bone," the other
said.
The first officer turned to face him and gave him a
blank expression, then smirked. "You're on."
-----------
Ranma struggled slightly to get his foot against the
door, he kicked it off hard and crawled out. John was still
able to open his door using the door handle, and climbed out
with no problem. The pigtailed boy smashed his arm through
26 is a bit old to be called "boy" unless you're writing from the
perspective of a senior citizen.
the rear driver's side window, ripping off the door. He
reached in to get his M4 and a fresh 100 round drum which
was inside a tattered duffel bag, covered in broken shards
of glass and mutilated leather seat material.
"Come on John, we gotta check it out!"
The two detectives ran towards the mangled pickup truck,
aiming their rifles towards the passenger side of the cab.
Ranma sweeped the mangled truck in a clover pattern to make
sure there wouldn't be any surprise threats. Unfortunately
the two didn't know that the passengers in the truck were
already dead, if not from Ranma's pistol then the strong
impact of the concrete.
John McClane cautiously strafed to Ranma's side, where
he squared his weapon and raised it at the inanimate
occupant of the passenger side. He was the first to
initiate some lead-flesh contact. "FIRE!"
The muzzle rising and rapid recoil of Ranma's automatic
Colt M4 was held steady by his strong grip, the rounds
didn't seem to stop as he emptied all hundred rounds of
5.56mm ammo against whatever life was still left in there.
What the hell? He emptied a magazine into an enclosed space without
being sure the hostage was dead? Well I guess he's sure dead now.
"Riiight...," John replied apprehensively. His mind was
thoroughly mixed with relief and frustration at a hastily
formed assignment that had been a step shy of becoming a
disaster. "Let's have someone else take care of this shit."
As if on cue, the other members of the operation
arrived, their big undercover Suburban screeching to a halt.
A middle aged man in his thirties and another man in his
late twenties or early thirties hopped out of the cars,
their own rifles slung to the side.
"Jesus, you guys had some fun, didn't ya?" the older one
asked. He turned to the other guy he was with. "You owe me
fifty bucks bitch, they didn't break anything."
John waved him off. "Shut up, Vince. You guys were too
late." McClane jabbed the butt of his rifle painfully into
Vince's gut, knocking the air out of him. "That's for
letting Al drive."
"Hmph," Al replied with a smirk, reaching into his
pocket to pay off Vince. He received a kick to his crotch
from McClane when he didn't pay attention.
"That's for being stupid enough to accept a bet like
that, especially having the odds against us," McClane
concluded.
Another car appeared on the street, a black and white
patrol car with a single sergeant in the driver's seat. It
had its lights and sirens blaring, screeching to a stop next
to the crime scene.
The young patrol sergeant gawked at the gory scene in
front of him, not to mention the mass spread of bullet holes
everywhere. "What the hell happened here?!"
Ranma cracked his neck, and walked over to the sergeant
who was probably one of those rare naive rookies who somehow
got promoted to higher ranks. "The suspect executed the
hostage he was holding and we exterminated him. That's all
there is too it." He started walking towards the big GMC
Suburban with John, Al, and Vince, not at all bothered by
what had happened, what he had just done, and the horrific
ramifications of what had resulted.
Several other police cruisers arrived at the scene,
swarming all over the place. The four SIS detectives
casually drove back to their headquarters, Parker Center, to
report in the events of the night.
* * *
One Week Later...
March 29th, 2001.
The Last Stop - West LA, California. 9:02 PM.
Cop hangouts in LA are few and far in between. They were
all over the city, plagued with young cowboys and itchy
trigger fingers. The average LAPD patrol officer consisted
of a couple of basic traits that are immediately recognized:
anal, sarcastic, overworked, cocky assholes. True, they were
considered as some of the best officers in the world, with
the most prestigious police academy in the U.S. (one that
spans for 28 weeks and 1100+hours for the most comprehensive
training program in law enforcement, exceeding even the FBI)
and the best departmental organization from East to West.
Hollywood bigshots and stars hired LAPD officers at
extravagant rates of a thousand bucks/day salaries. Movie
producers referred to LAPD officers and trainers for any
technical support they might need for their mindless, multi-
million dollar action movies.
Oh dude. After what you just wrote you've got no business
characterising action movies as mindless.
Vince was the only one to nod his head. "It sounds
familiar."
"When I married Akane," he paused. "That is, IF I had
married Akane," he resumed, "I was supposed to take her
family dojo and be a teacher there. However, that didn't
happen so it left me wondering about my future. I loved
helping people and making them feel better in college by
defending them with my martial arts.
But then I realised that martial arts totally suck and guns rule.
I was also really
interested in police work because they have the opportunity
to help the defenseless."
McClane laughed at the last part, while chugging his
beer at the same time. "Glad you feel that way, man."
She replied with a nod. "So did my mom. My dad Genma was
a jerk and he blamed me for losing Akane and the dojo. He
was such a greedy bastard, but he was surprisingly
supportive after I made my intentions clear. He used to have
a curse too, you know. Turned into a panda, but was cured
thanks to Ryoga. Ryoga brought back cures for everyone who
had a curse, but I'm the only one who didn't use it."
Vince tried to pretend he didn't hear that last part
about the panda, although the story of Jusenkyo was recited
to him numerous times by Ranma. "That's strange of you."
"I guess it sort of is strange. I've changed a lot in 9
years. I didn't used to fucking cuss all the time or even
think of the prospect of killing anyone. I used to be so
hard headed that I never apologized for anything and I
always insulted people before thinking twice. When I was 16
I never would have imagined being a cop right now. Can you
guys imagine me being a nice guy who doesn't like to hurt
people?"
John gave another laugh. "Hey fool, now you're just
talkin' like a pansy. And you're STILL hardheaded," he
joked. "It's not like you enjoy killing for yourself.
I dunno. He really seems to enjoy it. A hundred rounds into a
motionless body?
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