Harmonies in the Dark

You may know where you are. God may know where you are. But only God can help you if dispatch doesn’t know where you are.

It was kind of a joke; a deadly serious one told by the dispatcher who gave us an introduction to radio procedures class during the academy. Most of us nodded knowingly, understanding what they meant. Now I was the one who needed help, and while I knew where I was, I wasn’t so sure about God knowing, since He wasn’t helping.

Almost fifteen years on the street, and this is how I go out?

A call from a regular CI with a request to meet in this old warehouse. Said he had information on a major drug deal going down. Thought it’d be a simple meetup. It always was. Except this time…it wasn’t. My instincts were screaming the second I pulled up. It was too quiet. I thought I was smarter than the setup. Working as a solo unit, no backup. I should’veknown better. Still, I went in like it was nothing. Like I was invincible. I thought my experience would keep me alive.

Turns out, experience doesn’t stop bullets. Stupid. Stupid.

There was a thunderclap of gunfire: too close and too fast. Then pain. Blinding, blooming in my chest like fire. The first round hit center mass, knocking the wind out of me. We had seen the videos showing how well a ballistic vest worked, but the videos didn’t mention how bad it still hurt.

No time to think, I drew my weapon. Dropped it as another round hit. I staggered and fell. The floor was cold. I reached for the radio mic on my shoulder, touched it. A faint click as I pressed. I tried to speak but only a wet gurgle came out. Another click as my hand relaxed.

“Unit five-tom-six, you were unreadable. Say again,” came the call from dispatch. One small thing in my favor: I had managed to key the mic long enough for them to identify me. But how quickly would they be able to locate me? I knew the dispatcher was pulling the GPS data for my vehicle. It would be a race.

There was a pause as the dispatcher gave me time to respond.

“Unit five-tom-six, status.” The dispatcher’s voice was steady, but there was a hint of concern. I knew every officer on duty was listening intently to their radios—waiting, holding their breath, willing me to respond. Cursing the silence they were listening to.

My breathing was becoming agonal, and I tasted copper in my mouth.

I faintly heard the alert tone come over the radio. “Unit five-tom-six, status.”

The pause was shorter this time.

“Negative contact with unit five-tom-six,” the dispatcher said. This time I heard the quaking in her voice. “All units stand by.”

My last breath rattled up my throat, and I could no longer hear the radio, but I heard something else; a new sound. Music.