Chapter Text
Disclaimer: The E! characters do not belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.
"Stoker Gets Stoked"
By Ross
Chapter One
"Station 51...Unknown type rescue...2808 West Charlotte...Two-eight-zero-eight West Charlotte...Cross streets Orange and Whitman...Time Out: 20:02."
Captain Hank Stanley recorded the call and thumbed their radio's mic'. "Station 51 KMG-365. " He passed his paramedic team a copy of the call address and then went trotting off across the apparatus bay.
"I hate 'unknown type rescues'," the Captain confessed, as he hauled himself up into the leather seat beside his Engineer.
Mike Stoker shot his passenger a sympathetic glance and then hit Big Red's lights and siren.
Both trucks pulled out of the Fire Station and onto the street, heading right—right into the...unknown.
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Six minutes later, the firemen found themselves standing under a street lamp in front of 2808 West Charlotte.
Suddenly, a woman's muffled scream came from somewhere inside the single-storied dwelling. "Help! Please? Somebody help me!"
The rescuers raced up the walkway and found the home's front door locked.
Captain Stanley pounded his fist against the portal a few times and yelled out, "Fire Department! Open up!"
Chains rattled, dead bolts clicked and a pretty, positively petrified young lady appeared. "Thank God!" she exclaimed and clutched at her racing heart. "I knew I could count on you guys!"
"What seems to be the problem?" Stanley asked, as they were ushered into a well-lit entryway.
The little lady looked a wee bit embarrassed. "Um...Uhhh...We-ell...you guys came so fast, you actually beat the problem here."
The 'guys' glanced at one another in confusion and then turned to their Captain, who looked equally bewildered.
Stanley took a moment or two to regroup, and then calmly queried, "Look, Miss, do you need our help, or not?"
"Oh, I very definitely need your help!" the girl assured him. "At least, I will..." she added and gazed fearfully off, in the direction of her front door.
Paramedics Gage and DeSoto heaved a pair of weary sighs and set their heavy equipment cases down.
Their Captain's patience was rapidly wearing thin. "We were sent here to rescue someone," the fireman icily informed their confusing hostess. "Now, for the last time, is there anybody at this address who needs our help?"
The girl nodded—vigorously. "Yeah. In just a few more seconds, you guys can rescue me. You see, my boyfriend saw me with this other gu—"
"—Ma-am," the Captain cut in, sounding every bit as stern as he now looked, "the Fire Department doesn't handle domestic disputes. If you're worried about your boyfriend, I suggest you call the Police Department."
The pretty miss appeared positively horrified by his suggestion. "I couldn't call the-em!"
Nothing the girl had said, so far, seemed to make much sense, but the 'guys' found her latest remark the most baffling of all.
Chet Kelly gave voice to their combined confusion. "Why not?"
"Because policemen have guns, and I don't want Nat to get hurt!"
"The Police don't go around shooting pe—" Captain Stanley began only to be interrupted, right in mid-comment, by the sound of shattering glass.
"Unless, they're shot at first!" Kelly exclaimed, as he and his colleagues hit the deck...well, the carpeted floor of the hallway, actually.
"That had to be a rock," the homeowner assured her grounded guests. "Nat doesn't own a gun."
Stanley latched onto the little lady's arm and pulled her down onto the floor with them. "Maybe he 'borrowed' one," he tersely proposed, just prior to thumbing the transmit button on his HT. "LA, this is County 51. Request police assistance at our location—"
The girl shot him a pleading glance.
"—Possible gunshot fired. Advise police to approach with caution. There could be a sniper out there."
"10-4, 51," the dispatcher acknowledged.
Stanley lowered his handy-talky. "Lopez, secure that door! DeSoto, douse the lights!"
Marco kicked the front door shut. Then he cautiously reached up and slid one of its three deadbolts back into place.
Roy raised his arm up over his head and flicked the hall light off, plunging them into complete darkness...almost.
"Gage, go kill that lamp in the living room!" Stanley further ordered.
"Aye, aye, Cap!" John readily replied, and went crawling off.
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The lamp he'd been ordered to extinguish was situated in front of the living room's large picture window. He low-crawled over to it.
There was only one fire that John Gage refused to face, and that was gunfire. Before pulling the lamp's plug from its wall socket, the fireman determined that he would find out if they had, indeed, just been shot at. So he slid his helmet off and slowly raised it up, above the window's ledge. The sound of shattering glass was heard, once again, and the helmet went flying out of his hand. He quickly killed the lamp.
"John?" his Captain called out. "You okay in there?"
Gage swallowed hard. "Yeah. I'm okay." The fireman retrieved his helmet and then went crawling carefully back up to his concerned Commander to report his...findings. "That was no rock, Cap."
Stanley frowned and thumbed his HT, again. "LA, County 51. Advise police we are under definite sniper fire here." He turned to the girl. "What's your boyfriend's name?"
"Nat—Nathan Berrows. I'm so-o sorry. I thought he was just going to beat me up."
Hank gave the remorseful girl a reassuring pat on the back and then pressed his radio's call button again. "LA, sniper's name is Nathan Berrows."
"Affirmative, 51. Will advise."
"NATALIE!" a man's angry shouted voice suddenly broke the silence. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! YOU TWO-TIMING—" the rest of his statement was drowned out by the disturbing sound of more windowpanes being blown out—er, in.
The firemen cringed and hugged the carpeting.
'Natalie' started to cry.
Captain Stanley did his best to comfort her.
Mike Stoker picked his head up off the floor. "Cap, unless he 'borrowed' a gun with a silencer, shouldn't there be a gunshot sound?"
Stanley grimaced again, as another of the home's windows was shot out. His Engineer was right. No loud 'bang' had preceded the explosion of window glass.
The men listened, carefully.
More glass could be heard shattering, closely followed by a dull thud, as something struck the living room's far wall and then went ricocheting off across the carpeting.
"Roy, can I borrow your penlight a minute?" Stoker requested, as he came crawling up to the prone paramedic.
DeSoto pulled his penlight from his front shirt pocket and passed it to the Engineer.
Mike took the light and started heading for the living room, on all fours.
Stoker swung the little beam of light back and forth across the carpeting. Suddenly, the light came to rest. "Just as I suspected," Mike muttered, mostly to himself.
His Captain caught the comment. "What did you suspect?"
"He's using steal ball-bearings and some sort of slingshot device."
His friends raised their helmeted heads. "Huh?" all five of them said, at once.
Stoker crawled back into the hallway and passed the penlight and the little steal ball to his Captain.
The rest of the guys huddled around him, for a closer look.
Stanley stared incredulously down at the marble-sized metal ball in his hand. "Just when I thought I'd seen it all..." he mumbled in amazement. "A slingshot? I would've sworn it was gunfire."
"When fired accurately," his Engineer began, "a slingshot can be every bit as deadly as a gun. And, judging by the way Nathan Berrows zapped Johnny's helmet out of his hand, I'd say his aim is extremely accurate."
Stanley reluctantly raised his HT to his lips. "LA, County 51. Advise police that we are under...slingshot fire and not gunfire. Repeat, sniper is using steal ball-bearings, instead of bullets, and he's a crack shot."
There were a few moments of dead air. Finally, the dispatcher responded. "Roger that, 51...Police will be notified of your...slingshot sniper."
Natalie stopped sniffling and relaxed...somewhat.
Everybody untensed...a bit.
Chet propped himself up on his elbows. "Hey, Mikey? How come you seem to know so much about slingshots?"
"I was the best slingshot marksman in San Bernardino County, seven years running...in my age group, of course."
"Of course," Kelly conceded, sounding tremendously insincere.
The rest of the guys were forced to grin.
Mike ignored the Irishman and continued. "It takes a lot of practice to become proficient with a slingshot. Like any other weapon, it should be treated with respect. Because, as I said before, in skilled hands, a slingshot can be just as deadly as a bow, or a rifle."
"That's right," Chet chimed in.
Marco suppressed another grin. "Chet, when was the last time you heard of someone being killed with a slingshot?"
"Well, they must a' been deadly at one time," Kelly reasoned, following a few moments of thoughtful silence. "I mean, you don't see any giants walking around, do yah?"
This time, the guys both grinned and groaned.
The sound of approaching sirens grew louder and louder. Several police vehicles screeched to a halt. Sirens were cut and car doors were slammed.
Gage nudged his partner. "I can hear 'em now: 'Throw down your slingshot and come out with your hands up'."
"YOU MIGHT AS WELL SURRENDER PEACABLY, BERROWS!" someone yelled, through a bullhorn. "YOU'RE COMPLETELY SURROUNDED!"
There was a terrible crashing sound, followed by a great deal of frantic shouting.
The body's on the hall floor jerked, involuntarily, as someone suddenly began banging, rather loudly, on the dwelling's locked front door.
"Police! Open up!" a familiar voice ordered.
Marco scrambled to his feet, slid the deadbolt over and pulled the heavy portal open.
Officer Vince Howard entered the dark hall. "Is everyone okay in here?"
Roy reached up and flicked the lights back on.
They all started struggling stiffly to their feet.
Stanley got a kink out of his back and straightened his helmet. "We're fine, Vince...just fine."
Vince, who was decked out in full S.W.A.T. gear, breathed an audible sigh of relief and announced, "We got the sniper."
Hank heaved a sigh of relief, himself.
Natalie looked horrified and then hopeful. "You didn't shoot him, did you?"
"No, Miss," Vince assured her. "We didn't shoot him. Would you please come with me? Detective Hadley would like to ask you a few questions."
The 'guys' followed the officer and the girl out into the yard.
With all of the multi-colored emergency lights flashing, the scene they stepped into seemed surreal.
The firemen watched the police escort a handcuffed young man up to one of three police vehicles. They noticed that the front windshield of one of the other two patrol cars was missing. Well, actually, it was lying all over the place, in a million shattered pieces.
Vince ushered their sniper's girlfriend over to a Detective and then stepped back up to Stanley and his men. He saw that they were staring at the shattered windshield. "Those steal ball-bearings are like cannon balls. You guys can stop by the station when you get off work. You can make your statements then, and sign the complaint forms."
The 'guys' gazed blankly back at the officer.
Vince saw that they seemed a bit confused. "You are gonna press charges, aren't you? Assault with a deadly weapon is a felony," he reminded them and pointed to the very sophisticated-looking slingshot device Detective Hadley was holding. "Berrows could've killed somebody with that thing!"
The fireman stared at the deadly weapon...and then at Stoker, who was standing there looking awfully smug.
"Yeah. Sure," the Captain promised at last. "We'll be down in the morning, right after our shift ends." He raised the HT once more. "LA, Station 51 available. Returning to quarters."
"10-4, 51."
Stanley gazed down at the radio in his hand. Was it just his imagination? Or did he really notice a tone of amusement in the dispatcher's voice?
TBC