He crouched over her as she lay contorted on the pavement, one hand thumbing the send button on his mic, the other still holding his weapon.
“10-85 10-85! My partner’s shot! My partner’s shot! Hurry up central!”
The pool of blood beneath her spread like spilled coffee.
He couldn’t tell where the bullet had gone in, or if there had been more than one.
He holstered the gun and tried to unfasten her vest, but she began to cough a pink foam.
“You’re going to be all right, Jenny. We’ll get you fixed up.”
She stopped coughing.
He thumbed his mic. “Hurry!”