Then I kicked a fallen chair into his knees and came around the post low.
He fired once.
Missed.
I hit his wrist upward, drove the stolen weapon into his ribs, and used his own forward momentum to send him face-first into the brass foot rail under the bar.
He went down hard.
Not unconscious.
Mad.
I stepped on his wrist until he released the gun.
Then I removed the magazine from mine and his.
Cleared chambers.
Kicked both away.
The bartender stared from behind the counter, trembling.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded too fast.
“Call 911,” I said. “Real one. Ask for State Police, not local dispatch. Tell them possible impersonation, shots fired, multiple civilians.”
He grabbed the phone.
I crouched by the fake officer.
He spat blood.
“You got old,” he said.
I pulled his sleeve back.
Same tattoo.
Black matchstick.
Fresh.
“You got sloppy,” I said.
He smiled with red teeth.
