Part of the Story

 243.

The young Sarccino boy and his traumatized Mother wisely take cover behind the seat and wait for the inevitable carnage. A single shot from Mustang's R700 or one from the sniper hovering above would end the contest in regulation. I am hoping that Covington chooses the better part of valor and opens the Explorer's door. He sits utterly alone in his dark world of fear and toxic masculinity, his partner still outside the vehicle in the classic kneeling pose of surrender, and I standing thirty feet away with an extended pinkie slowly morphing my hand into a fist.  

"Alright, alright," he screams in synchronistic staccato opening the door and begrudgingly tossing the sawed-off side-by-side about five feet away.

"Kiss the concrete Mr Covington with your hands behind your head," I order in the command voice, and then to "Mustang, cover the kneeling guy and make sure we get the phone before the…"

Arlington police show up with lights, sirens and a mobile gun show.

Mustang hustles over to the kneeling perp, frisks and ties, kicking his automatic sidearm away with a graceful leg sweep. I am moving towards Covington as I see her reach into the prone man's back pocket and pick his cell phone.

Patting him down but struggling to manipulate the snap tie with one hand as an Arlington officer arrives to assist, I instruct him to finish the securing process and then stand by for further instructions.

Ms Sarccino is in shock but fortunately for her the police had the presence to bring an ambulance as a part of their readiness protocol. Two paramedics assume medical responsibilities for the woman as I cut the plastic tie binding the hands of the teen-aged boy.

"You OK." I ask.

"Yeah, but Mom is a little spooked."

"She will be fine, what's your name?"

"VJ" he says without hesitation, and then backtracking to, "Vinny Sarccino Junior."

I introduce myself and assure him that both his parents will be very pleased with the outcome of this potentially catastrophic and unfortunate incident.

"Who are these guys, and what the fuck do they want?" he asks sounding very much like his father.

"It's a long story, one I will start to tell you on the way to our place," I say with as reassuring a tone as I can fake, "you feel good enough to take a ride?"

"I guess. What happened to your arm?"

"Part of the story, let's go."