The blare of sirens and the roar of the Hemi V8 Dodge Charger Pursuit ripped through the evening. "Here we go," Keegs muttered, spitting tobacco into his cup as the patrol car fishtailed around a corner. We were en route to East Coast Green, 108 Fifth Avenue, reports of shots fired and multiple casualties.

"Kill the lights," I commanded, and the world went silent save for the rush of the tires. Three blocks away, we went dark. "Six-three David on scene. All covers come in stealth." The air grew heavy, almost eerie, as we approached the store, our black RMP blending into the shadows.

Three houses down, we stopped. Keegs and I drew our .40 caliber pistols, moving in a staggered, tactical approach. I motioned for him to stay low, circling to get a better view. The windows of the herbal shop were shattered, glass strewn across the sidewalk.

No movement. I waved Keegs forward, and we entered swiftly. Three bodies lay on the ground. One dead, brains splattered. Another bleeding from the neck. The third, a woman, shot in the back, her throat rattling with every ragged breath.

"Clear," I called out, having swept the back rooms. Keegs echoed, "Small room, clear." I grabbed my mic. "Six-three David, Central. Scene secured. Need a bus forthwith this location, and homicide. Have at least one D.O.A."