The Reno Massacre

“There’s a girl outside of Reno named Jessica McClaren, and we believe she is responsible for the shooting that took the lives of two of our own officers during a traffic stop. Are there any questions?” Sheriff Sonny Brown stood at the front of the squad room, surveying the faces of the deputies that were present for the briefing.  He turned back to the projector’s screen on the wall behind him after no one spoke up. “We will hit the house from two different sides simultaneously, both-“

Deputy Jordan who had been leaning on a Coca Cola machine in the back stepped forward. “A and C sides, Sheriff?” Several other officers turned in their chairs to see who had interrupted their boss.

The Sheriff turned to see who had spoken up too, and gave a slight scowl after realizing who it was. “Yes, Jordan, front and back. Now don’t interrupt me again unless you have a damned good reason for doing so.” The new kid acted like he knew it all.

A few officers let out palm smothered laughs from their seats.

Senior Deputy Rodriguez jumped up from his seat in the front row and turned on a heel towards the audience.  Shouting, he said, “Look here for all you who think this is funny or deserves your laughter. This woman might have killed our own damn people! Right now, I’ll pull the damn trigger if she breaths the wrong way!” His face was set hard as stone; his eyes had a wild look to them. He took his seat again a moment later.

Nodding to Rodriguez, Sheriff Brown continued, “I think we have covered enough in here, and maybe it’s best if we get outside and load up. The briefing will continue as we are en route to McClaren’s location. Any questions?” he looked at Deputy Jordan.

Deputy Jordan didn’t bother to get off the Coke machine this time. “And no one thinks we should wait for the state to help us out with this?” Everyone just looked around at each other, except for the sheriff and senior deputy. They were both staring right at him. Rodriguez looked like he would bring his own baton out if Jordan said anything else. “I guess not,” Jordan mumbled.

“Roll out,” the Sheriff said.

….

“This is FUBAR!” Deputy Jordan shouted into his Kenwood handheld radio and he crouched down behind a Crown Vic that had taken probably close to twenty rounds from incoming fire. Static came across the radio a moment later as someone keyed up, but he heard no words from the sender.
Senior Deputy Rodriguez was on the ground a few feet from Jordan with a large portion of his head missing. He had taken a bullet while shooting from under the wide bodied cruiser. Shots rang out from what sounded like the other side of the house. Time to move.

The deputy jumped out from behind the car and sprinted towards the house as fast as he could while carrying a fully loaded Remington 870. He found cover on a large portion of blank brick wall that was void of any windows. From this vantage point he could see the mayhem the shooter in the house had brought on his friends. Three deputies on this side of the house lay in the dirt, dead from gunshot wounds. He thought there might be one who was still alive behind one of the brand new Tahoe cruisers they had just received, but it was useless at this point to try and do anything. All the vehicles on his side had been disabled early in the gun battle.

Shots rang out again from the other side again. Who is this bitch?

He tried his radio. “County from 151 I am in urgent need of an ETA on those troopers!” Static again sounded from the radio but it was unreadable and there was no telling whether they understood his traffic.

The sound of a massive gun sounded from the opposite side of the house. Deputy Jordan knew that gun as the Model 29 Smith & Wesson that the sheriff always carried in a cowboy style leather holster. Deciding that the shooter might be distracted on the other side, Deputy Jordan hugged the wall and moved towards the door. He risked a peek in the small window set in the middle of the door. It was clear. Bringing the breacher barrel up, he stuck it in the side of the door frame near the lock and pulled the trigger.

Deputy Jordan had cleared two rooms on his own before he noticed that no more gun shots had ripped through the air since he had been on the outside of the house. “This is bullshit,” he whispered to himself. He had just passed through a doorway into what appeared to be a dining room when the sound of a hammer being cocked caused him to freeze mid-step. Shit. He willed his body not to move even though his mind was being racked by stress and his own fear of dying.

“Hi,” someone said to the left of him, “I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

Good advice, the deputy thought. “What… what now?” He moved his eyes to try and see the voice that was clearly that of a female.

She let out a weak laugh. “Well… you die now.” 

“I told them that we should not have come here by ourselves,” Deputy Jordan said in a sickly voice. His arms were starting to strain from the weight of the shotgun on his extended arms.

Another laugh sounded from the side. “Well, some people aren’t any good at seeing reason. All they’re good for is dyin’.”

Now it was the deputy's turn to chuckle slightly. “I don’t suppose you would listen to reason?” He turned his head to look down the massive barrel of a .45 caliber pistol.

“Nope,” the woman said as the hammer dropped.