Terence Fisk's Story

The rain pounded down from the sky onto the windshield, hitting the protective layer that fought against corrosion. Field Training Officer Fisk sat in the passenger seat, with an eye on Neven at all times. The man was supposed to be training him on the street, but he felt as if he were being evaluated the whole time instead of being supported. Fisk showed his middle age with a graying hairline more than halfway receded, not yet giving up on it by going full on bald. It was the eighth day Neven had spent with Fisk. They ran traffic, responded to shoplifting calls from one of the super centers in town, and had a couple of domestic disputes. No action. He had heard some of the more severe calls on the radio, but he and Fisk had been too far away to respond.

Typically the FTO period could last up to twelve weeks, but he was only scheduled for four. They either had a ton of faith in him for his education and academy performance or the budget just didn't exist to support the full program, likely the latter. These Mega Cities could stretch a department thin. Neven's degree helped him jump a few bumps in pay but it was made clear from the start that everyone needed to work their way up with results in this department. Fisk made sure he got an earful of that when they entered the patrol car on the first day. "A degree might help you climb faster, but you need to prove yourself." Fisk didn't care much for academia, he was a high school dropout and earned a living just fine with the PD. Well, relatively fine considering what most of the world made these days.

Neven thrummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Fisk laughed, lighting up a cigarette with the windows still up. "Kid, ninety-eight percent of this can be boring as hell. When that other two percent hits, you might find yourself wishing it hadn't."

"I just want to-."

"Change the world? Heard it all before, especially from most of you college boys. Do us all a favor and get over that shit real quick. All you might change is what home a kid ends up in, which particular dealer is out on the corner, or what degenerate gets a hole in their head courtesy of the New San Vegas PD. At least until you get out of patrol." The smoke slowly filled the interior of the cruiser. Neven wondered if the smoke was a test, so he just left the windows up as the acrid smoke swarmed his nostrils.

Calls came out on the radio nearer to other units as Neven drove down California Avenue, one of the ghetto streets. Ghettos were so large these days they had sub-ghettos. It was a tough thing to see no matter how many times he passed through. The dirty, trash strewn streets and barely standing houses were a stark contrast to his family's gated community. When acid precipitation came through like the last few days it hardly effected the prepared higher class, but many of the people in this neighborhood were too poor to afford protective covering. Some of the weaker built homes were already showing visible damage from the rain. Most children weren't out today, no mother wanted their child scarred. That left no friendly faces for the police in this neighborhood.

"Dispatch to 487," dispatch rang out over the radio and each officers ear piece.

Fisk, badge number 487, pushed in the transmit button on his bluetooth. "487 to dispatch." All the cars and had GPS units on them, so when a call came in dispatch knew which officer to assign

"We've got a domestic dispute on 17th and Van Buren, apartment number eight at Community View. The husband is calling, says his partner is out of control. He's concerned for the safety of their two children, the data should be uploading on your terminal." The data instantly showed on their terminal. Sean Wilkins was the identified caller, an African American male with a history. Two counts of aggravated burglary and one count of aggravated kidnapping. His ex-wife was listed as Rose Bynres, they had been divorced for two years. She had a history of incarceration at Benioff's, a mental care facility further North in NSV. Two children, ages four and five, were listed. The address was registered as hers, Community View was one of the many low-income housing projects that littered the poverty stricken sections of any Mega City. All the information the police had on both subjects and their children was on the terminal, technology made the research work much easier.

"10-4, show myself and 067 en route." The last domestic Neven had responded to was neighbors arguing over what lawns a cat should be able to shit on, he hoped this one was a little more serious. Neven activated the lights and gunned the accelerator.

Neven felt as if the door was going to break inward from the force he applied to it. "Open up, NSV PD!" Whoever was inside surely heard it, but he kept his voice low so the whole of Community View was not aware of their presence. People on the street did not mind taking a shot at a cop these days. Fisk looked down the hall toward the stairwell and nodded at someone, but they were a shadow the time Neven averted his gaze there. The FTO raised his hand to jar the door more as it opened inward, revealing Sean Wilkins with a laceration across his right brow. The man was of average height but had a massive girth to make up for it. He had been a professional linebacker for the Chargers until a knee injury in his first year that ruined his career. On the way up Fisk had told Neven rumors that Sean was involved in smuggling these days, it was a matter of time til he was back in prison.

"Officers, come on in. Rose really lost it this time." All of the apartment could be seen in its bare glory from the front room except for the bedrooms and bathroom in the back. The kitchen was to the right of the door, equally bare. It was hard to believe anyone lived here, they probably had to sell all their furniture to buy food. A drawer had been pulled out of the kitchen counter, spilling knives, forks, and spoons across the floor. The two children, Darnell and Julius, sat there playing with the utensils.

"Is that wound from Rose?" Fisk asked. Sean nodded in confirmation and Fisk pulled his handcuffs from his duty belt. "Did you hit her back?" Sean shook his head, he claimed he knew better than that. Violence on a domestic was a quick trip to jail. Rose was nowhere to be found in the front of the apartment.

"Rose, if you don't come out now we're going to have to come get you. I don't think you want that." Fisk walked closer to the doors as Neven stood with Sean, the kids were oblivious to it all.

Rose burst out of a bedroom door as Fisk called her name on last time, her face contorted in furious anger. "You ain't going to take my children!" She had a kitchen knife raised in the air as she charged at the senior officer. Neven pulled on her in a smooth motion and fired two rounds dead center in her chest. As she collapsed he wondered why she thought her children were going to be taken but there was no time to contemplate that or the fact he had killed someone, as gunshots rang out from the next floor in continuation with his. Sean seemed relatively unfazed as the children rushed to their fallen mother.

Fisk looked at Neven as if he had stepped in a huge pile of dog shit and wished he was walking through a different lawn. "Ready for that two percent? Maybe thirty percent these days." Both officers had their weapons out as they rushed out of the apartment and toward the stairs.

The two officers rushed to the stairwell. Fisk called for backup, but there was no way they could sit by as people traded bullets upstairs. Innocent lives were at stake with bullets becoming as numerous as raindrops, with a different type of burn. Fisk was about to run headlong into the stairwell as Neven’s hand gripped his shoulder to halt him. The man turned angrily back at his trainee but had no time to scold him. Having just gone through the academy live fire drills, Neven knew anything could be lurking around the next corner.

He ducked and dropped into a roll into the doorway to the stairs, barreling past the ascending steps. A shotgun blast sounded from the next level, sending wood splinters raining down around Neven. “Yo, those cops are coming!” Oddly he seemed to know they were already there. The thug shouted as he racked another shell, and then keeled over from the bullet Fisk placed into his skull, falling over the railing down to the first floor. The thump of his body hitting the ground floor was rather satisfying. The time was going by at what seemed like lightspeed, actually being in a real gunfight was surreal for Neven. He felt as if he were a character in one of the police novels he devoured on his downtime.

Fisk holstered his sidearm and picked up the thug’s sawn-off shotgun which had declined to follow the man in his trip downstairs, turning and smiling at Neven. “Bet you wish you had your AR with you, huh?” Neven was seeing a different side of the man, it was as if he were more comfortable with himself. The FTO appeared to be a cranky veteran that just did what he had to do to make it by, but he was no stranger to these situations. Fisk had his back against the wall, standing adjacent to the doorways that lead to the next set of apartments. “Hopefully luck is on our favor and most of these bastards killed each other already.” Neven was silent, letting the FTO do all the talk. Fisk was more experienced, plus the rookie wasn’t sure he was capable of speech at the time due to all the adrenaline going through him. A few pot shots came through the doorway at the top of the stairs.

Neven jogged up the stairs and strafed across the doorway to its other side, glancing into the entryway as a hoodlum wearing a bandanna over his mouth raised a pistol toward him. The walls of the hallway were riddled with bullets and half a dozen bodies were strewn out on the ground, pools of blood spreading from their bodies. One of them seemed to be missing half his head; no doubt there was more than one sawn-off shotgun on this floor. Bandanna fired a round at him as he crossed the doorway, cutting through the fabric of his shirt just under the vest, tearing through flesh and tissue above his right hip. He hissed in pain as Fisk took the opportunity to lean into the doorway, propping the shotgun against the wall for support. The sound of the blast was deafening, the scream that followed confirmed a hit.

“Cover me!” Fisk racked a shell back in the chamber and entered the hallway as Neven leaned halfway in the opening. The spread of Fisk’s shell had taken the thug in the groin, thigh, and belly. His bandanna had fallen from his face, revealing that he was little more than a teenager. Disbelief covered his face as he tried desperately to keep his leaking fluids inside his body. A figure holding an AK-47 stepped out into the hallway and Fisk fired at him. The man quickly stepped back inside as the spread tore a large chunk out of the wall. Neven fired two shots into the wall of the room he had just retreated into. Fisk propped himself up against the wall again as he pumped the shotgun. Neven looked back to the bandanna kid and saw he was reaching for the gun he had dropped. He sprinted to join Fisk, kicking the gun out of reach.

“This is the police! Surrender yourselves now and we’ll haul your ass down to jail instead of filling you with lead.” Fisk was answered by gunshots, forcing the two officers to move a back toward the stairs, as their former position became a shooting gallery for machine gun fire.

“Now that wasn’t nice, was it Neven? Little fuckers.” He looked at Neven as if he were studying a specimen in a laboratory. “Are you as good as your range scores?”

“I sure as hell hope so.”

Fisk moved back to the section of the wall that seemed to have more than its share of bullet holes compared to the rest, beckoning Neven to come with him. He walked backward to the other side of the hall where the teenager had passed out from blood loss, shock, or a combination of both. Neven realized what he was about to do and wanted to stop him. The older officer picked up as much speed as he could, running from one side of the hall and throwing his body weight into the one filled with holes. The wall partially collapsed, creating a man-sized entry into what appeared to be what had once been multiple apartments, only a few walls had been knocked down to create one large room that made the hallway look like a playground. Tables and furniture were upturned and ripped to pieces, and just as many bodies littered the floor as outside.

A hail of gunfire targeted Fisk as he tripped over a body and fell to the ground, saving him from imminent death as the three remaining gunmen focused on him. The AK-47 guy was near the doorway he had retreated from moments before. Two other men had opened a safe, throwing drugs and cash into a duffel bag they had abandoned upon Fisk’s entrance. One had an Uzi; the other a 9mm. Neven looked over all this as Fisk was still falling over the body. Two shots came from his pistol in quick succession. AK-47 collapsed as his left eye disappeared in a sea of red and the other shot took 9mm in the chest, dropping him.

Uzi ran for the window when he realized he was out of ammo. The window was already shattered by a previous escapee. Neven dropped his pistol and ran after him. The man made hopped out of the window onto the fire escape as Neven reached for him, getting a hold of his gray hoodie and ripping him back through the window. Fisk was up and joined him, kicking the criminal in the side so hard he cracked a few ribs. Fisk had his sidearm out, pointing it at the thug. This confused Neven, they should be throwing cuffs on him and dragging him into the patrol car, not pointing a gun at him.

“What the fuck is going on here Jeremy?” Apparently Fisk knew the man. Sirens sounded from down the street as the cavalry arrived. Surprisingly the gunfire had not stopped, from beyond the window and out to the East shots still sounded. Someone must have escaped the apartment complex and others had pursued. This was going to be the top story on the news no doubt. Jeremy lay on the floor writhing in pain. He was a young Hispanic hoodlum, probably in his mid-twenties but with the maturity of a toddler. A wisp of a mustache sat above his lip.

“What’da ya mean?” He held his ribs in pain. Fisk kicked him again in the same spot, eliciting more pain.

“Is that necessary Fisk?”

“Shut up Neven. Now Jeremy, I know you’re part of Casio’s crew. Yet there you stood with someone obviously wearing Diamondback colors. What the fuck? You know I’m not beyond planting a bullet in your skull right now, I bend things as I need them.” Neven did not know Diamondback colors, but they were a small street group that were pretty much mercenaries for hire. Everyone had heard of them, but they were no one special, only occasionally working for someone higher when they weren't running scams and robbing people. He spared a glance back at AK-47 and noticed he was wearing gray-brown trousers and a brick red jacket, all colors of a Diamondback snake. Neven felt stupid for not having made the observation himself. Fisk’s behavior now was also leaving him dumbfounded.

The hood seemed to believe Fisk would kill him if he did not talk. “Someone paid me bigtime ta tip dem off if Dessa ever came by, had uh group o' Diamondbacks on standby fo' an assault da past week. A mothafuckin hobo hit us first tha, kinda a viglantay of sorts.” This thug talked straight from the street, Neven wondered if Jeremy had stepped foot inside a school past the 6th grade. Fisk smiled at the mention of a vigilante.

“Who hired you?” Neven picked his sidearm up from the floor as Fisk threw out his questions, seemingly not concerned with the vigilante that was mentioned.

“Dunno no names.”

“I need something Jeremy.”

“How 'bout Sean Wilkins.” The mention of the father from the domestic they were just at peaked Neven’s interest and he butted in before Fisk could talk, “What about Sean Wilkins?”

The thug smiled, “Dat weren't nahh domestic, dat wuz all setup. Why kill yo' own beotch when you can git da po-po too, dat beotch has always been madness. He wuz jivin' it up ta her how you all wuz coming ta take her kids, part o' his plan.” Fisk put his sidearm away, “You have to be shitting me.” He wanted information on the shootout, but Jeremy seemed in the clear with his offering.

“Trafficking chil'ns. He wuz havin ta pay child support, had ta git something out o' dem. Wit Rose outta da picture dere’s no one ta stop’em.” Jeremy laughed at the thought of Sean one upping the police, shutting up when Fisk threatened with his boot.

“Neven, get your ass down there pronto and see if Wilkins is still there. Whoever the fuck hired the Diamondbacks must really want Dessa dead badly to attack Casio’s place, especially with police already on scene.” Apparently he knew who Dessa was, Neven would have to ask later.

“Yo, dey seem fine ass intent on killing da Frenchie.” Neven pushed through the other officers entering the hallway with guns drawn, letting them know it was over. He rushed to the floor below where moments before he had been talking with Sean. Officers were on scene with the CSI crew. He approached the ranking officer in the room, “Where is the father? The kids?”

“I don’t know, when we got here the only resident was Ms. Byrnes here.” The officer motioned to Rose Byrnes body, one of the many people whom had their ticket punched by Neven. Wilkins had his kids out there somewhere, there was no telling where they were. Neven wanted to shout until his lungs exploded at the thought of those two children becoming some pervert's sexual obsession or being sold for manual labor in a third world country. If he ever got his hands on Wilkins or whoever sent these thugs to take out this Dessa character, he was not sure how he would handle himself. It scared him that he could quickly see himself falling to Fisk's level.

This job was going to be a bitch.

Neven was getting medical attention in the back of an ambulance with a rather attractive paramedic, enjoying his time flirting with her. The wound on his abdomen was nothing serious, but it was still being treated and bandage. The bullet had gone just a little beyond grazing. Fisk stuck his ugly mug in the rear doorway, smiling. "Hey sugar, can you give me and Officer Metcalf a moment?" The paramedic stepped outside, Fisk closed the doors behind her and made sure no one could see inside.

"Great job in there, other than dropping your fucking gun when the guy went for the window. Shoot him in the kneecap next time."

"He was unarmed and his back was to me."

"I don't care, we aren't wearing monitors, it is all about what you articulate."

"What the hell are we going to do about Wilkins?"

"I put the word out to officers, we have an eye out for him. Make no mention of it to anyone, we're keeping that whole mess under wraps. The last thing our department needs is for the media to get on that story, shooting all the minorities today was more than enough."

"There are kids lives at stake Fisk, the more who know, the faster we can find them. An amber alert should be sent out."

Fisk sighed. "You are going to have to learn that things are not done as you would expect, we have our ways. The way you handled yourself in that apartment complex was great, you show promise. First, you drilled Rose no question when she was coming at me with that knife, that alone shows me you have what it takes. Taking out those thugs? Spectacular." Fisk started prying at his vest and produced a large wad of cash. "Your take." He held the cash out for Neven.

"My take?"

"Don't play stupid, I took a little off the top of what they had in that bag." There was an awkward pause as Neven did not reach for the money.

"Take the money, it will make the boys feel better when I tell them about you." Neven's stomach dropped as he heard this, but he was a little strapped for cash. His parents were wealthy and were always willing to give handouts, which his brother Zach took weekly. Being independent was important to him. The corruption on the force was no secret, and Neven had swore up and down he would not let it touch him. To not take the cash would send another message, creating a target on his back from within the department.

Neven reached out and took the cash, shoving it under his vest and throwing his police shirt back on. "Good, if you had gone the other way, life would have been difficult. Look . . . I understand not wanting to take it. I was like you a long time ago. No doubt some cops are dirty as fuck, but a lot of us just do small things like this to get by. This economy, you know?"

"Yeah." Fisk left him to finish getting dressed, exiting the ambulance. Damon Martin, Captain of the precinct, was talking to one of the reporters nearby. Other news crews, police, and distraught citizens surrounded the complex. Crowd control was looking like a bitch, especially when the EMS workers wheeled more and more bodies out. Fisk slipped into an alleyway nearby where a couple of officers were keeping a low profile. He pulled a cigarette out and reached for his lighter, only to find it gone, probably dropping it when he tripped over the dead body.

"Got a light McTiernan?" Shift Lieutenant McTiernan looked down his glasses at Fisk as he puffed on his own smoke, the man was getting up there in age, but his six-foot-four frame still always left an impression. Officer Cortez leaned against a building wall, letting the conversation play out.

"Did the kid take it?"

"He took it." McTiernan smiled, producing a zippo and lighting Fisk up.

"This is one hell of a mess you and the rookie created. So, you said you like what you saw out of him?"

"Yeah, the field training is far from over, but he's a natural alright. I told you I was thinking of stepping out of FTO duty and hitting the streets with a partner again, this might be the guy. He's a little headstrong and wants to make the world a better place, but I think I can temper that and bring him up to speed."

Cortez laughed, "And here I was thinking you were going to choose me. That Sheehan fella can get a little dull, and he is too damn Irish. Reminds me of a fucking leprechaun! No offense Lt., you being Irish and all." All three officers laughed, Gerard Sheehan was a good friend of theirs, but the bastard did look like a leprechaun.

"Well Cortez, if it wasn't for the uniform, you'd look like a damn Latino pimp, so no offense taken." Lt. McTiernan threw his cigarette on the ground, stomping it out. "Terence, be sure about this decision after the field training period is up. You are one of my most reliable guys, I can't let a wild card ruin what I have in you."

"I understand Lt., I don't think it will be a problem."

"Good, but just remember, I'm the problem solver in these streets. I better go let Martin loose and take over media control. You boys have a good night." Lt. McTiernan left the two officers to shoot the shit as he rejoined the urban chaos.

Fisk stared at the bottom of the glass, half full with strong drink, and pondered his life. Surely his wife was waiting for him at home, especially after hearing about the shooting. His name had been in the news, a program she watched frequently. Terence had turned the ringer off his cell; his wife Nancy had been asking him to promote for years. She wanted him to get a cushy desk job, or at least go to detective so he wouldn't be on the street on a normal basis. It was a continuing struggle.

He pulled the phone out of his breast pocket, touching the screen to see four missed calls from his wife, emptying the liquor down his throat in a swallow. The bar was called the White Pawn. Not surprisingly, the place was full of white people. Of course they were all racist, most sporting bald heads and white supremacist tattoos. Terence was here to meet someone, and they were late.

As he started to put the phone back into his pocket the screen lit up, McTiernan was calling him. What the fuck was Lt. McTiernan calling him for? He had to answer.

"What's going on Lieutenant?" He motioned to the bartender to fill his glass.

"Hey Fisk, I'm in a bit of a pinch here and the boys at the station desk in information aren't picking up. I need contact info for Neven Metcalf." Fisk had been raising the glass to his lips and paused.

"Is there something I should know? Anything going down?"

"You trust me, don't you Fisk?"

Terence slammed the drink down, "Of course, we're brothers in blue."

"Just give me the info." Fisk got the information from his phone and gave it to McTiernan, who let him go shortly after. Terence didn't like the hurried feel of McTiernan's voice. Before he could dig deeper in his alcohol fueled mind about what the Lt. could possibly want to talk to Metcalf about, a giant hand grasped his shoulder.

"Terry! Sorry I'm late man." Dennis McCoy stood over six foot, but was thin as a pole. He had a high pitched voice, off setting any intimidation his height could have created.

"No problem, I just wanted some information and I know you don't talk over the phone." He wanted to call Metcalfe to ask what this was all about, but he had business.

Dennis looked around the room as eyes turned to him. "What do you mean Terry? You know I'm no snitch."

"You're all snitches when it comes to non-white gangs." The eyes turned away after that statement and Dennis smiled.

"Of course. What did you want to ask?" The white supremacists held silence for their own skin color, even opposing gangs, but if you wanted easy information on any of the latino or black gangs, they would give it. The information might not be the best since they weren't exactly part of the multicultural inner circle, but it was better than nothing. On occasion they delivered a golden egg. Terry was his goose, and he wanted that gold.

"Someone hired the Diamondback's to take out the ever elusive Dessa. Casio was almost a casualty of the affair, any word on who is behind it?" Dennis's face went white, he looked around to be sure no one had heard the question. It seemed as if they were in the clear.

"Come with me." Dennis walked away, leaving Fisk at the bar. The tall, thin man entered the men's restroom, turning to beckon to him before the door shut behind him. Fisk got up and entered as well, alarmed when Dennis blocked the door with the bathroom's large trash can. A picture of Adolf Hitler adorned the white-washed wall.

"Why the fuck do you come asking me about the one thing I don't want to know about? You're lucky you saved my life, and you're lucky you're LEO. Anyone else I'd just run off and not say shit. But I owe you." The question had obviously alarmed him.

"What is the fucking deal here Dennis? I've never seen you worked up like this."

"You don't know who hired them because it was your own. Rumor would have been on the street at the least for a few groups trying to pop Dessa, not that there is a lack of hate."

"You mean the NSV PD?"

"Higher, we're talking national government level, FBI and CIA shit man. Dessa isn't controlled by anyone, he's a free market principle man. They want him snuffed out because he is cutting in on their profit. Obviously I'm no government insider, I don't know any names, but look to your own for who is behind that shit. The Diamondback's are just the fall guy in case shit goes bad."

"How did you hear this in the first place? Not that I don't trust you Dennis, but any conspiracy guy would love to spout this shit off." That was not a quality Dennis ever held, he had always been a logical man.

"I am a white power devil, but that doesn't mean I never hang with others. I banged that broad Miranda, the Diamondback's gang leader's sister. She told me she overheard Durango speaking with an agent, a black suit set up with body augmentations and all sorts of high end shit. The guy even spotted her and was ready to snuff her out until Durango argued to keep his sisters life, in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you see a headline in the papers tomorrow that Durango and Miranda have gone missing. How the fuck did you get called there anyways?"

"A domestic call."

"Well someone screening your guys calls fucked up, that call shouldn't have gone through. You and I both know you are just as dirty as the next police veteran in this city, your best bet is to forget what I said. Now get the fuck out, I have to piss." Dennis unzipped and started to whiz away, looking away from Fisk. He made it clear he was done talking.

"If I wanted to find Miranda where would I look?"

Dennis sighed. "What, getting a conscious in your old age? If she isn't at her legally listed address or the Diamondback hangout, check Quan Wei Gardens. That is where we would meet."

"A white supremacist and a Mexican meeting in an Asian botany building? Seriously." Dennis did not bother with a reply. Fisk took another drink before he left, finally getting a bit of a buzz.