Story code: ST-001326
Part 2: The Blind Trench
Marcus’s shoulder dug into Toby’s ribs with the force of a battering ram. The impact knocked the breath from the rookie in a sharp, ragged hiss, folding him at the waist. They crashed hard against the front quarter panel of the police cruiser, the heavy steel popping beneath their combined weight. The scorching heat radiating from the dark blue hood bit through Marcus’s uniform shirt, but his entire focus was locked on Toby’s right hand.
The black muzzle of the Glock 17 was angled dangerously toward the upper scaffolding, shaking with uncontrolled kinetic energy. Toby’s finger was inside the trigger guard.
Marcus lunged. He slapped his left palm directly over the top of Toby’s slide, webbing his thick fingers tightly across the ejection port. If the kid pulled the trigger now, the gun might fire once, but Marcus’s grip would prevent the slide from cycling, turning the weapon into a dead piece of metal instead of a semi-automatic threat. He used his superior leverage to brutally crank the barrel down toward the chalky asphalt.
Toby fought back like a drowning man. The rookie’s eyes were completely blown out, white entirely surrounding the irises, consumed by the toxic fight-or-flight dump of sheer adrenaline. He was screaming, his face twisting into a mask of pure panic, but the massive masonry saw on the upper deck continued its shrieking, metallic grind through cinderblock, mercilessly swallowing the words.
Past Toby’s flailing shoulder, Marcus watched the lead worker with the rusty pry bar vanish behind the massive yellow treads of the rented excavator. Two more framers chased right on his heels, their heavy boots slipping and kicking up thick, blinding clouds of pulverized dirt. The man who had been weeping on his knees just moments before suddenly scrambled to his feet and sprinted blindly after them, joining the panicked rush toward the hidden trench.
Toby’s left hand slapped wildly at his collar, his clumsy fingers finally finding the transmit button on his shoulder mic. Marcus couldn’t hear the broadcast over the relentless chugging of the twin air compressors at the curb, but he could easily read the rookie’s trembling lips. *Suspect with a weapon. Need backup. Send everyone.*
Marcus couldn’t afford to just sit on Toby and wait for the cavalry. A desperate man wielding a heavy steel spike was rushing into a blind spot alongside a crowd of highly agitated men. Marcus needed eyes on that trench immediately. He twisted his grip on Toby’s weapon, applying a punishing wrist lock that forced the muzzle firmly against the outside of Toby’s own uniform trousers.
“Move!” Marcus roared, projecting the raw command from deep in his diaphragm, attempting to shatter Toby’s tunnel vision. He shoved the rookie forward, essentially using the younger cop as a human plow, driving them both up the steep, rutted driveway.
Thick dust coated the back of Marcus’s throat. Every breath tasted like chalk and copper. The oppressive, stagnant heat radiating from the freshly poured concrete foundation baked them in the afternoon sun. The bass-heavy music blasting from the battered scaffold radio thumped directly in time with Marcus’s racing pulse. He refused to let go of the gun. He kept his right hand planted firmly between Toby’s shoulder blades, maintaining absolute physical dominance as they stumbled uphill.
They finally cleared the towering stacks of oriented strand board. The blind corner of the deep sewer excavation came into view. The ambient noise of the site shifted slightly, the acoustics temporarily blocked by the massive dirt piles. Beneath the chaotic mechanical roar, Marcus suddenly detected a rhythmic, sickening thud.
It was the horrific, distinct sound of heavy steel violently striking something soft and wet. Over and over again.
Marcus shoved Toby aggressively against the mud-caked tracks of the excavator, slamming the kid’s gun hand between his own chest and the heavy machinery to keep it immobilized. Marcus leaned hard against the hot yellow metal and peered over the crumbling edge of the ragged trench.
The deep hole was shadowed by the immense machine, the bottom completely obscured by a massive, freshly collapsed wall of damp, red clay.
The lead worker was buried waist-deep in the unstable earth, swinging the massive steel pry bar downward with terrifying, frantic force. The rusted metal plunged violently into the dirt and unseen debris. A thick spray of dark liquid kicked up with the brutal impact, splattering across the worker’s neon shirt and streaking his face. The other men were jumping directly into the tight trench beside him, tearing at the compacted dirt with their bare, bleeding hands.
The man with the pry bar let out an agonizing, guttural scream. He raised the heavy steel spike high above his head again, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, preparing to drive the metal down right into the center of the frantic, digging men.
Toby saw it all. The rookie let out a jagged cry of absolute horror. Believing he was witnessing an active, brutal murder unfolding in the ditch, Toby violently twisted his pinned arm against the excavator’s steel treads. The sudden, desperate burst of leverage popped Marcus’s locking grip loose just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough.
Toby tore his weapon free, leveling the black barrel straight at the back of the screaming worker in the trench.