Dying For LA Ian Jones (the ebook reader .txt) 📖

So …

How many shots have been fired?

Would the magazine have been full in the first place?

Had this gun even been used at all?

If not, did it operate?

How many men were there in total? He could see the two for sure, and could hear at least one voice calling from further away.

He moved his eyes again, careful not to move his head. The two men were facing each other, side on to him. There was rattling, and then a bag dropped to the floor. It was the bag the woman had been holding.

‘Nothing?’ he heard one man ask with a heavy accent.

‘Nothing there,’ was the reply.

Then a shout from one of the men, a couple of words, in a language John had heard before but couldn’t place. A shout in return from a distance, and then another from the same place but moving away. Then the bag was kicked hard, and it skittered away, scattering its contents across the floor.

‘It’s not here!’ a shout, in English.

Muted conversation, and a different bag was kicked heavily.

One set of feet turned away slightly, then the other. More muttered conversation, then raised voices, cursing, not in English.

It was clear the men were annoyed about something, distracted.

John grabbed his chance. Do or die.

He tensed up and then rolled swiftly out from the corner, grabbing the gun and whirling round, yanking the operating handle as he did so. A round shot out the ejector port and still moving up on to his knees he fired twice, hitting both men; one in the chest and the other in the neck; the second man’s gun dropping to the floor with a clatter and then he was moving, running fast and aiming toward the end of the platform to the exit, where he had heard the shouts. He could see one man moving up and he sprinted down the remainder of the platform and fired up, hitting the man near the top and he fell, rolling and then being carried upward on the escalator.

He moved steadily up following the body with the gun held out in front of him and reached the top then walked forward and cautiously turned the corner. He reached the next set of stairs and headed upward slowly, still keeping the gun trained forwards. At the top he saw the street, there was no sign of anyone there, then he heard shouting again from behind him so he ran back down to the platform, taking in the scene properly for the first time. Everyone was still on the floor. There was a man sitting slumped close to him who was calling out for help, over and over.

‘Call 911. Right away,’ John ordered.

The man closed his mouth with a snap and looked back at him, shocked, staring at the gun in his hand.

‘Do it,’ John told him. ‘Now. And then get on up to the street to wait for them.’

The man nodded rapidly and pulled out a mobile phone.

John walked further down. All around him people were staring up at him, frightened, totally bewildered.

‘If you are unhurt please stand up, there is no danger now. Head upstairs,’ he called out.

Slowly, people began to stand, looking all around them, dazed. There was a body not moving close to him so John knelt down next to it, laying the gun down. It was a woman, she had been hit twice in the chest. Her eyes were staring at him but she had a weak pulse. John pulled his jacket off and balled it up and pressed it hard against her chest.

‘Come here,’ he ordered to a man who was standing watching. ‘Look, keep the pressure on, hard, we have to try and limit the blood loss do you understand?’

The man nodded, bent down and did what he was told.

There was another woman lying further down. She was on her back by the edge of the platform, John went over to her but he knew she was dead immediately, there were gunshot wounds across her stomach and chest and a lot of blood. There was a third woman’s body right next to her, lying on its side facing away from him. Also dead.

He returned back to where he had been on the platform. The drunk was looking wildly around, muttering. The two women that had been standing there were now lying on the floor. He couldn’t see if they were alive or dead so needed to help. As he knelt down he heard the sirens and then within minutes the platform was crawling with LAPD and not long afterward the medics arrived.

Gratefully he stepped back and let the professionals get on with it. He looked up and down. People were moving, shocked and glad to be alive, trying not to look at the bodies prone on the platform, including the two attackers he had shot. LAPD officers were talking to people, and he could now see several were pointing at him, which was inevitable.

A young officer with cropped black hair walked over to him.

‘Sir, can you raise your hands?’ he asked as got close, one hand instinctively moving to the butt of the gun at his belt.

Obligingly John did so, laying his palms flat on his head. Another officer came over and searched his jeans pockets, but there was nothing to find other than a couple of hundred dollars in cash and a hotel key card.

‘Er … sir? We’ve been told … I understand sir that you shot the two men that are over there, is that correct?’ the first one asked, looking confused.

John nodded.

‘Yeah, and there’s another one. Upstairs.’

‘So, sir is it correct to say that you attacked, the er … the attackers? You used their own gun?’ the same officer asked.

John nodded again.

‘Sir, my name is Officer Rose, and this is Officer Macker. We need to move you to where somebody senior can talk to you. We have to ask you not to speak to anyone else here at this time. I hope that this is not a