Shot Down Read online

  — A Novel —

  by Steven Sheiner

  Copyright © 2019 by Steven Sheiner

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Book design by Marie Stirk

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7331348-0-4

  Other books by Steven Sheiner

  Running Still

  Acknowledgements

  Ian Rattray

  Andy Blaschik—Tactical Firearms Academy

  Officer Jim Pendergast—Broward Sheriff’s Office

  Chapter 1

  I’d never drawn my gun in public before. Everything about it felt wrong, scary even, but it had to be done.

  He had barreled through the front door, cursing and shooting wildly. “Everyone down on the floor! Now!”

  Screams pierced the air as people dove for the floor. I ducked behind a kiosk with deposit and withdrawal slips, just as a light fixture exploded above my head. A few feet away, an old woman cowered behind a customer service desk. She closed her eyes and crossed herself. I could see her lips move as she prayed silently.

  A small girl clung to her mother. “I don’t want to die,” I heard her say, and her mother squeezed her tightly, shielding her.

  The gunman jumped onto the first desk he saw, a crazed look in his eyes. He hurled a small duffel bag at the tellers. It flew over my head, landing just behind me.

  “Money in the fucking bag! Now!” he shouted. Dust and debris rained down on us as more bullets shredded the ceiling tiles. “Move it!”

  How many shots did he fire? If I’d been thinking clearly, maybe I would have counted. But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I was terrified.

  My palms were sweaty and my stomach churned. His gun boomed like a cannon, echoing off the walls. I jumped with every shot.

  I have to get out of here. I didn’t want to wait for whatever happened next, but he was between me and the exit. I didn’t dare make a run for it. I had no idea what kind of shot this guy was, and I wasn’t about to find out.

  My thoughts quickly turned to my family. Will I ever see them again? Will I ever play with my kids again? Will I ever kiss my wife again?

  Is this guy going to kill someone?

  Is he going to kill me?

  I tried to consider my options, but I couldn’t think clearly between the fear and the deafening gunfire.

  Nothing prepares you for a situation like this.

  My eyes darted in all directions. People cowered in corners, women screamed with every shot fired, babies cried. The tellers scrambled to gather as much cash as they could, frantically shoving it into the duffel bag.

  How long until he kills someone?

  Seconds passed like hours.

  I knew what I had to do.

  “Hurry up!” the gunman shouted. He fired more shots, and screams echoed again.

  My pistol rested in the holster inside my waistband near the small of my back. I carried it with me everywhere, never really believing I’d actually need it. Hoping I’d never need it. I’d met police officers twenty years on the force who’d never fired their weapons in the line of duty.

  Nervously, I reached back and slowly slid the gun from its holster, keeping it behind me. It was a P30SK 9mm made by Heckler & Koch. It had ten rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. I’d fired it hundreds of times, but never at another human being.

  Until now.

  Crouched behind the counter, hidden from his view, I slowly brought the pistol around in front of me. My hands shook from fear and nerves. I closed my eyes and took a breath.

  Is this really happening?!

  I took another quick look around. One of the tellers locked eyes with me. She saw what I was doing. She shook her head, and with a look, begged me not to do it.

  More yelling, another shot, and we all jumped.

  I peered out from behind the table. He was about twenty feet away, still up on the desk, waving his gun and shouting commands.

  I dipped back behind the kiosk, closed my eyes again and took a deep breath.

  It didn’t feel real, almost like I was watching from the outside.

  I got down up one knee, and slowly leaned out just far enough to get my pistol around the edge of my hiding place. His elevated position meant my background was clear. No one would be hit if I missed.

  Raising my pistol, I prayed he wouldn’t see me before I could fire. My hands shook as I took aim.

  I tried to remember my training, but fear wiped my mind blank. I was going to have to rely on muscle memory and luck.

  The pistol felt heavier than usual in my hands.

  My head was spinning with a thousand thoughts and questions.

  This is crazy!

  Am I really about to shoot at this guy? What if I miss?

  What if he shoots me?

  What if I don’t do it? No, I have to do it.

  I’d practiced with my weapon hundreds of times, but now it was for real. Now it counted.

  I leaned against the edge of the table and steadied myself the best I could. As my hands shook, I attempted to align the sights on his chest.

  I took a slow, deep breath.

  Oh my god…

  I slowly pressed the trigger. POP! The sound was deafening.

  The bullet struck him in the chest, just below his right collarbone. His eyes opened wide from shock as the impact knocked him backwards. He teetered at the edge of the desk but managed to regain his balance.

  How did he not fall?!

  It didn’t take him long to realize where the shot had come from. He glared at me and pointed his gun in my direction. I didn’t hear anything as he pulled the trigger. My ears were still ringing from my first shot.

  I took aim at his head and fired again.

  Between my shaking hands and his wobbly movements, I missed. The vaulted window behind him exploded, and glass rained down on the floor.

  He startled as the bullet whizzed by his ear, and then he took aim at me again.

  He extended his pistol and fired. Again I heard nothing but the ringing in my ears and the screams all around me.

  I couldn’t block it out, so I would have to deal with it. I took another deep breath, hugged the edge of the kiosk, adjusted my sight picture, and fired again. This time the bullet found its mark, exploding his right eye and penetrating his brain cavity. He toppled backwards off the desk, landing hard on the floor, where he lay motionless.

  He was dead. That much I knew.

  The shootout lasted only a few seconds, though it felt a lot longer.

  I remained down on one knee, arms out, pistol up for a while. I started to shake all over as the adrenaline dump kicked in.

  Despite the ringing in my ears, all I could hear was my heart pounding. I smelled the smoke of my gun. Everything else faded away.

  Moments later, the front doors of the bank burst open as SWAT came crashing through behind a cloud of smoke. They fanned out, guns raised, shouting at everyone to get down, don’t move.

  Smoke filled the air and my eyes began to water.

  I dropped my gun and raised my hands high over my head.

  Someone grabbed me roughly and threw me to the floor. A knee was pressed hard into my back as my hands were bound behind me with zip ties. More than one gun was trained at my head.

  Someone asked me to identify myself.

  Was I a police officer?

  No.

  Was I ex-military?

  No.

  My
name is Dr. Simon Spero.

  I’m an optometrist.

  And I can’t believe what I just did.

  Chapter 2

  One year earlier...

  “You’re gonna be gone how long?!”

  Sara was busy filling a large duffel bag she’d just pulled out from under our bed.

  “Eight weeks,” she replied.

  “Eight weeks?” I said, trying to look shocked and dismayed. “And the boys?”

  “Only seven.”

  “‘Only seven?’” I marched around the room, pretending to be upset. “And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

  “Work. You have your practice to keep you busy,” she said.

  I’d been an optometrist for eighteen years, and owned my own practice for fifteen. Sara knew how much I hated being away from the office for very long, but she was certainly taking some liberty with that fact right now.

  She stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

  “Simon, what are you complaining about? You’re going to have two months of peace and quiet around here. You’re gonna love it.”

  Damn straight, I thought.

  With that, she returned to packing.

  “Besides,” she continued, “Mandy will be here to keep you company.”

  Mandy was our two-year-old Wheaten Terrier we’d adopted as a puppy. Mandy’s mom was rescued from a terrible situation, but when the adoption agency learned she was pregnant, her puppies needed a home. We were thrilled when Mandy came to stay.

  As if on cue, Mandy jumped up onto the bed to inspect what Sara was doing. She was wagging her tail, walking all over the piles Sara had been building, and sticking her nose in everything.

  “And where exactly is this camp?” I asked.

  It felt like I should keep the act going a little longer.

  “Maine.”

  “Maine?! Could you pick one a little farther away next time?!”

  “I could. We could always go to Seattle,” she teased. “It’ll be fine, Simon. You’ll come and visit.”

  “You sure about that?” I quipped.

  She looked up at me as she folded a pair of pants and smiled.

  “It’ll be fine,” she said again. That was Sara’s favorite thing to say when she was trying to be reassuring. ‘It’ll be fine.’ And it was usually directed at me. “Besides, the boys are gonna love it.”

  That was probably true. An all-boys sports camp did sound pretty great. Jordan and Brock had sprinted to their rooms when they heard the news, and had already begun packing. From the sounds of it, they were taking everything they owned.

  I placed my hands on the bed and looked across at Sara, who was still folding away, and let out a sigh. With as much phony bravado as I could muster I said, “I suppose I can hold down the fort while you’re gone.”

  Mandy licked my face in agreement, and jumped down from the bed.

  Sara put down the hoodie she was folding and walked around to my side of the bed. She placed her hands on my face, got up on her toes, pulled me in and, with quite a bit of sarcasm, said, “My hero.”

  She gave me a quick peck on the lips and then returned to her packing.

  “I’m only doing this for the boys,” she said. “Believe me, I’d much rather spend my summer reading and relaxing than looking after however many kids they stick me with.”

  Yeah, right.

  Sara didn’t know how to relax.

  She was a teacher, so she’d become accustomed to working hard. And even though she had summers off, she never spent them reading or relaxing. She’d spent every summer for the last eight years working wherever the boys went to camp. Usually it was a local day camp and we were all together for dinner every night.

  But this time she’d gotten an amazing offer from this sleep-away camp in Maine, and it was too good to pass up. Or so she said.

  “One of the best camps in the country.”

  “An amazing opportunity for the boys.”

  “Peace and quiet for you.”

  She could have written the brochure.

  But it also meant eight weeks away from her. And the boys.

  I couldn’t deny that I was excited about the time alone, but a part of me was sad.

  Since we were married, we’d never been apart more than a few days. A conference here or a guy (or girl) trip there. But now we were talking almost two months.

  Sara and I met on a blind date seventeen years ago. It was one of those rare fix ups that actually worked. We had the same dentist who, for some reason, thought we’d hit it off.

  He was right.

  With her permission, he called me, told me a little about Sara, and gave me her number.

  I’d like to say, “And the rest was history,” but it wasn’t that easy.

  Me, I knew right away. On our first date. It just felt right.

  But Sara was a few years younger, had just finished grad school, and wasn’t thinking about long-term relationships. She was still thinking about where the next party was. She wasn’t ready.

  We had a pleasant enough time, but we just weren’t in the same place.

  I took her home and Sara was convinced she’d never see me again. I later learned that, upon returning home, her mom told her, “He’s the one.” To which Sara replied, “Not a chance.”

  We would date on and off for the next two years before something clicked for Sara and she was ready for more. She was tired of dating assholes, and she realized she had a good thing with me and didn’t want to blow it. Which she almost had.

  Patience isn’t my strong suit, but lucky for her, I’m the forgiving sort. And I was nuts about her to boot.

  Fifteen years later and we were still happily married.

  Now, Sara was racing around the house, checking her list, making sure she didn’t forget to pack anything important.

  “What can I do to help?”

  Now that I was done pretending to be upset, I could start pretending like I wanted to help.

  “I have four days to pack up three people for nearly two months. You wanna help? Stay out of my way.”

  That, I can do.

  Chapter 3

  “Are they gone?”

  “Yup. Dropped them off at the airport this morning.”

  “How you doing? You okay?”

  Vera was the sweetest woman I’d ever known. In her sixty-two years on this earth, I don’t think she’d ever put her own needs before the needs of others. She was my office manager, had been since the first week I opened my practice. I was extremely lucky to have her. Patients loved her and many came back year after year because of her.

  When I first started out, I went door to door, introducing myself to my fellow tenants and neighbors, hoping to get some referrals and cultivate some new patients.

  Vera was working for a grumpy, overweight internal medicine doc in the next building over. His favorite activity, besides eating, was yelling. It didn’t matter who at—staff, patients, whoever was unfortunate enough to be in his line of fire—and Vera had had enough. She was looking for a way out, and within thirty seconds of introducing myself, she asked me if I was hiring. That was fifteen years ago, and she’d been with me ever since.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “A little sad, but also a little relieved. It’s been a long week.”

  “It’s not easy taking care of two kids by yourself, is it?” she asked. Sara had gone up to camp a week early for trainings, meetings, and team-building activities. I was responsible for the boys for an entire week. Feeding them, shuttling them around, keeping them busy and entertained. I welcomed the break.

  “You have no idea,” I said with a laugh. “I have a new respect for single parents,” I went on. “I don’t know how they do it.”

  “They start drinking early in the day,” she said with a wink. “We
ll, at least now you can breathe a little and take some time for yourself.”

  I nodded in agreement, excited about the idea.

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she said with a gentle smile. She put a hand on my arm, then retreated to her office in the back.

  “Thanks, I will.”

  I picked up the day’s schedule from the front desk and walked down the hall to my office. I set my things down, fired up the computer, grabbed a pen, and popped a mint in my mouth.

  The phone on my desk buzzed.

  “Yes?”

  It was Alexis, my front desk supervisor. Another incredible find. She had a memory like a steel trap. She could remember a patient’s phone number a year after seeing them.

  “Mrs. Owens is in the exam room.”

  “Thanks, Alexis.”

  Let’s do this.

  The day flew by, and when all the patients were gone, and the staff was closing down the office, I plopped down in the chair at my desk. I always took a few minutes at the end of each day to unwind before heading home. With nothing but an empty house and a hyperactive puppy waiting for me, I was in no rush.

  I had already checked in with Lisa, our dog walker, who had assured me that Mandy had been out several times, ran around like a lunatic, and was resting on her doggie bed when she left.

  It was guilty pleasure time for me. I opened up Facebook and began to scroll.

  It saved me a ton of time as I got most of my news and information there. Scrolling through my news feed, I could pick and choose what I wanted to read or watch. It was certainly better than being force-fed whatever CNN or FOX was shoveling that day.

  Oh man. Another shooting. This time in a movie theater.

  June 25th, 2015—A crazed gunman opened fire in a Boca Raton movie theater last night, killing twenty-two and injuring dozens more. It was the worst mass shooting South Florida has ever seen.

  James Henderson was born in 1992 in Delray Beach, Florida. He attended Florida Atlantic University and was about to graduate with a master’s degree in Computer Science. Why he chose to open fire into a crowd of innocent moviegoers remains unknown.