Period of Mourning

April 16, 15:13 Hours

Maxine went to the open trunk of the RMP, the thud of her duty bag hitting the bottom resonating in the quiet surroundings. Without hesitation, she went to the passenger side door, yanked it open, and plopped heavily onto the seat.

With one foot still planted on the ground, she twisted her body towards the shotgun brace, her hand gripping the magazine. With a forceful slam, she pushed the object into the brace, exerting pressure with her palm. When she heard the clicks, she secured it and sank back into the seat.

As Kelly performed the pre-vehicle checks, a nagging feeling told him that something was off. He bided his time, knowing that she'd break down within the next eight hours. He couldn't escape from hearing or knowing what was bothering her, whether he wanted to or not.

If it were any other boot he'd trained over the past three years, the mere thought would make him cringe. He would endure their agonizing stories of heartache, family feuds, and wild escapades, silently wishing for a reprieve. But this was Max.

He slid into the driver's seat and closed the door. He looked over at her, who was feverishly texting. Maxine's eyes were red and puffed, and she breathed heavily through her nose.

While in roll call and twice after, she used a tissue to wipe beneath her eyes before retreating to the women's locker room slash lounge.

As he put the RMP into reverse, she slammed her phone down between her legs. As she folded her arms and looked out of the window, Kelly shot her a quick glance.

"Call us in service, boot," he sighed. Max's eyes widened in immediate reaction. She leaned over, her fingers reaching out to grasp the handset from the cradle. When she depressed the PTT, her voice sounded harsh and monotonous, lacking any inflection.

"Six-three David to Central. We're ten-eight. Two hundred on the O2, trauma kit, two-man unit. Good afternoon."

When they pulled into 7-11, Kelly parked in a secluded spot away from the other RMPs. After he shifted the car into park, he opened his door and let out a long, exasperated sigh.

"Okay, Max," he said. His question trailed off into uncertainty. "What's the matter? And don't tell me nothing. We have eight hours ahead of us, and if something bothers you, spill it now."

Maxine's silence hung in the air, unbroken by any words. With her arms folded, she remained fixated on the view outside the passenger side window. Just as Kelly was about to leave, Maxine turned and snapped at him.

"Do you remember the other day on that reckless driving motor vehicle stop?" she asked.

"You mean the kid in the Mustang?"

"Yes, the pain in the ass, kid in the Mustang. And do you remember what you said to him? You know, after he asked you if you knew who his father was?"

For the first time since they were in the car, she stole a quick peek at him from the corner of her eye. Kelly couldn't help but be scared when he saw the tension in Maxine's face and the fire in her eyes.

"Heh," laughed Kelly. "Yeah, I said I don't know. Didn't your mother tell you? Why?"

"Because Kelly," she snapped. When she finally cast a full look at him, she saw the faint smile playing on his lips. She twisted at the waist, her jaw opened, and she shook her head at him.

"Are you kidding me?" asked Max.

Kelly's first reaction was to laugh, but he knew that wouldn't bode well, so he lowered his eyes and dropped his head.

"That kid is the son of one of my father's country club buddies. And I caught shit about it last night for over twenty minutes."

Kelly took the tobacco pouch from his utility pocket and slapped it against his palm but didn't open it. He ran his fingers along the seam and removed a leaf caught in the zip pouch.

His foot, resting on the pavement outside the car, bounced with restless energy.

"And I had to defend you to my father, who believes you'll be my downfall. And dickweed Sal Bongiovanni is constantly filling his head with all kinds of bullshit about you."

Kelly paid little attention to what people thought about him. He'd done a tour in both Afghanistan and Iraq. He'd seen things he would never see again but in his nightmares and considered the time in those countries to be his hell-on-earth awakening.

But hearing this from Max caused him to sweat. He felt his hands tremble as he unzipped the pouch and fumbled to get some tobacco. He pursed his lips, his gaze fixed on Maxine, eyebrows raised with inquisition.

"Max. I'm sorry—"

"Break! Central requests Six-three David and backup units to respond to Two-fifteen, First Avenue. Courtyard of McKenna Pre-School. Multiple nine-one-one reports of shots fired. Callers say one black and one Hispanic male are exchanging gunfire. Possible gang related 1535 hours."

Kelly and Max were two blocks from the shooting. He jammed the car into park and dumped his tobacco into the parking lot. The Dodge Hemi v-10 revved as he sped from the parking lot, gunning the engine. The RMP jerked and pushed as Kelly maneuvered the traffic, swerving over the yellow line and finding the path of least resistance. He took the handset from the cradle and pressed the PTT, keeping his hands on the wheel.

"Central from Six-three David. Any reports of injuries?" Kelly's voice was calm and controlled. His broadcast was precise from the beginning to the end, with no user error cutting in and out.

"Six-three corporal negative at this time."

"Listen to me," he said to Maxine. "Stay with me the whole time. Keep a good six-yard dispersion, forty-five degrees off my left shoulder," he said as they turned the corner.

"There they are," yelled Max. The sirens wailed as Kelly pulled onto the sidewalk, the smell of burning rubber from his acceleration and sudden stop.

Kelly rushed from the driver's side, his .40 cal at the alert just below his line of sight. He took quick cover against an old oak tree surrounded by a six-foot black wrought-iron fence.

"I got visual, Max. We're oscar-mike."

Kelly burst from the tree with Maxine on his outside shoulder, protecting his weak hand.

Keegan and Marcello were moving from the opposite direction, and together, the four of them closed in on the shooting.

"Central, break. Shooters are still active in the playground. Any responding units make your approach from the alley near Two-twenty-eight Second Ave," said Kelly.

"That's six," yelled Keegs as a flurry of overlapping gunshots continued from behind the building. Kelly waved Marcello and Keegan into the school to secure the interior first, then tend to any wounded.

"We're going around back, Max. Situational awareness, and if you have to shoot, don't hesitate."

Three more shots from different pistols overlapped, and then only one pistol fired the final two reports.

Kelly led the way, waving Max to his right.

"Police," he shouted. "Get on the freaking ground."

But as Kelly and Max came closer, they could see one shooter lying motionless on the ground. As the other stumbled, he desperately tried to escape, his pistol wavering as he pointed it back toward Kelly. However, before Kelly got the shot off, the second shooter tripped and landed face-first on the cushion of red rubber pellets that surrounded the playground and benches for the preschool kids.

Maxine reached for her collar mic and hit the PTT.

"Six-three, David. Break. Both shooters are down, and we need a bus forthwith this location. This is not an officer-involved shooting."

"Ten-four, David."

Kelly holstered his .40, prompting Maxine to follow. Keegs had rushed through the back door but slowed as soon as he took in the scene.

"Holy shit, bro. Nobody's hurt inside. It's a miracle," said Keegs.

By now, uniforms and detectives flooded the playground. Many were from the Eight-eight Precinct since they bordered us to the north. Others. Detectives, mostly, heard the transmission and were in the area.

"Keep the channel free," yelled Kelly. "Any info goes through me until we get a detective here."

Kelly and Keegs approached the first shooter, a Latino male no older than nineteen. He lay on his side, his white t-shirt unrecognizable from the GSWs to the neck and lower abdomen.

"He's gone," said Keegs.

"Check for ink," I said. Although I knew he was LREC. The war had begun. Little Jefe's order marked the conclusion of the mourning period, unleashing a torrent of vengeance for Ximenia's murder.

As I walked over to the second shooter, who lay face down in the red rubber, his pants fell below his ass cheeks, and a gunshot pierced through the back of his thigh.

On the back of his head, blood flowed like a small water spout, pouring over the ground and soaking into the child's playground. His body twitched, so I took the pistol from his hand.

The slide was open, so he either got the final say with two shots or didn't. Either way. I didn't care. On his wrist, he had an AK-47 assault rifle running through the middle of a broken skull with the backward S-P in the sockets of the skull. He was a Shadow Possee Enforcer.

"Well," I said. "Negotiations failed, I guess. Time to call Detective Nieves in."