The Interstellar Police Force, Book One: The Historic Mission by Raymond Klein (ebook reader 7 inch txt) 📕

and glass items shattered on the store’s shelves with the impact of police bullets. An eighteen-century German clock burst apart, bell tolling its final time. Wood splintered and chunks of brick wall went flying. Remnants of items and debris rained down onto the screaming people still lying on the floor. Michael was still frantically counting out loud.

Bollar didn’t take his finger off the trigger and raked the weapon back and forth. Rounds struck police car windshields with sickening cracks. Another Westberry police officer went down with a mortal wound to the head. Some rounds hit the buildings across the street, sending broken bits of brick flying like shrapnel in all directions. Bystanders on the sidewalks panicked and ran screaming. Rounds embedded themselves into a couple of police car engine blocks, steam belching from one while another caught fire with a loud whoosh.

Bollar had an IPF grenade in his hand, one of two he always carried and didn’t even realize he'd pulled it out of his pocket. He pushed the timer trigger and threw it, then lunged for the ground with the A-56 still firing. It fell with a metallic clunk on the asphalt in between two cars. A Westberry policeman saw it and shouted, “GRENADE!” They scattered and dove for the ground as it exploded. Hot metal fragments struck an officer in the lower back and legs. Other fragments from the grenade ruptured a fuel tank of a car, sending a flaming mushroom cloud into the air with a loud boom! Bollar got to his feet and took the opportunity of the confusion to run; he did not stop shooting as he did. As Bollar turned a corner to get a wall between him and the police bullets he felt a searing, burning pain in his arm as he was hit. He stumbled, but regained his footing.

As he ran across Grant Street, the sirens were louder now, along with screeching tires and more shouts and sporadic gunfire. He never stopped firing as he ran. He swept the A-56 back and forth, not caring what he hit. People on the streets screamed and jumped for the ground. Some lay still, never to move again. Brick walls were peppered with holes and shop windows shattered. Tires of parked cars popped loudly, while car alarms were set off with high-pitched crying wails.

Bollar just kept running up the middle of Third Avenue, firing as he went, clearing whatever crowd of bystanders that might impede his progress. Everyone got out of his way.

He turned left on 9th Street and saw the white vintage car of the IPF Agent coming fast toward him. “Not you too!” he said as he brought the weapon to his shoulder and took careful aim. Bollar let loose a steady, controlled burst from the A-56 Auto Loader. Rounds struck the windshield of the replicated 1959 Ford Thunderbird, but harmlessly bounced off the protecting generation field surrounding the cruiser.

“Son of a BITCH!” Genghis shouted, as the rounds loudly struck the field. Trent hit the brakes hard and spun the wheel to the right. The Thunderbird swerved in a one eighty degree arc, back tires screaming. Trent already had his PK30A in his left hand, and as the Thunderbird came, for a second, broadside to Bollar, Trent fired three shots in succession. The Thunderbird's two left tires bumped hard against the curb of the street as it came to a stop while Trent’s PK rounds were down range heading toward Bollar.

One round sliced across Bollar's left temple cutting a deep gash across his head, followed by the second scrapping the top of his left shoulder and cracking his collar bone. The third tore off his left ear. Warm blood flowed down the side of his face as Bollar screamed in pain and went down to one knee. He saw the Agent and that dog getting out of the vehicle. Bollar lifted the A-56 and fired a burst in their direction. He knew he wasn’t going to hit him, but he just needed time. He got to his feet and ran toward a store front.

People on the sidewalks were still screaming and running, while in the distance sirens filled the air. Bollar burst through the front door of a flower shop. People who ran into the store for cover all screamed in fear. Bollar fired a couple of rounds into the air. Pieces of acoustic ceiling tiles and dust came raining down. He pointed the now empty A-56 at a clerk. “Back door?” he calmly asked. The clerk just pointed. Bollar walked to the backroom, reloading his weapon. The door was locked with a large padlock. “Screw that!” He fired several shots at the lock. He could hear the people in the store screaming and running out. The padlock and door knob disintegrated under his intense fire. Kicking the door open, he found himself in a series of alleyways that were between the buildings on the corners of Eighth Street and Fifth Avenue. Police sirens were now further off, and he began to see his chance of a possible escape.

Jeff Trent and Genghis Khan saw where Bollar had run, but were fighting against the terrified ebb of people exiting the flower shop, “Make way! Make way! I’m a police officer.” Jeff and Genghis got into the now empty flower shop, and saw the open back door and ran to it. They entered a maze of back alleyways.

Genghis brought his nose to the air and made a series of quick sniffs. “Jeff, to the left.” They both started to slowly walk the narrow passageways of the ally. Bollar was around the corner sitting on the ground, back against the wall with knees to his chest. He just needed a couple of seconds to rest. The adrenaline was now beginning to fade and he was breathing heavily. His arm and shoulder hurt, but not as badly as his head, which was constantly throbbing.  He leaned over slightly and poked his head around the edge of the