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was for her as the Glock swung from target to target, seemingly firing of its own volition. As people fell, Lee began to advance on the spot where Conti was lying in a pool of blood.
    Sirens could be heard by then, but Lee knew the battle would be over by the time help arrived. So it was necessary to put all of her adversaries down before they could shoot anyone else. Suddenly, the Glock clicked empty signaling the fact that all sixteen .9mm bullets had been expended.
    There wasn’t enough time to reload, so Lee pulled the Smith & Wesson. She was in the process of bringing it up when a sledgehammer struck her chest. She staggered but managed to keep her feet. The revolver jerked twice, and blood misted the air as a skull dropped his weapon in order to grab the holes in his neck.
    As he staggered away, Lee dropped a robber with an AK—and took a shot at a perp who was trying to escape. The first bullet missed but the second hit the back of his right knee. He screamed and went down hard.
    Then Lee found herself face to mask with a single skull. He was aiming a .45 at her even as she pointed the .357 mag at him. “That’s a revolver,” he said. “And you’re empty. Good-bye, bitch.”
    Lee pulled the trigger twice and watched both slugs hit his chest. He fell over backwards with arms outflung and lay staring up into the blazing sun.
    Lee flipped the cylinder open and pushed the extractor rod. The empty shell casings produced a tinkling sound as they hit the pavement. “This is a fucking Smith & Wesson 627,” Lee said conversationally. “And it holds
eight
rounds.”
    The speed loader made short work of reloading the weapon, which went back into its holster as Lee knelt next to Conti. There was a lot of blood. And when she pulled his shirt open, there was no body armor to be seen. The heat . . . Conti had left the armor at home because of the heat. Lee swore, and Conti opened his eyes. His voice was little more than a croak. “That’ll teach ’em,” he said. “I’ll bet they’re sorry now.”
    â€œDon’t talk,” Lee said. “The EMTs will be here in a sec.”
    â€œHow bad is it?”
    Lee pretended to look. “Not bad at all. You’ll be up and around in no time.”
    Conti tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Good. Will you let me drive?”
    Lee nodded. “Yes, Bryce. I’ll let you drive.”
    Conti coughed. Blood dribbled down his chin. “
Bryce?
You never call me Bryce.”
    â€œDon’t die on me, Romeo . . . Don’t do it,” Lee said desperately. But Conti couldn’t hear. The light was gone from his eyes.
    Lee began to sob. And when the EMTs arrived, she was cradling Conti in her arms and rocking back and forth. That was the photo that wound up on the front page of the
LA Times
. The caption read: “Cop kills nine but loses partner.” Justice had been served—but the price was high.
    *   *   *
    Three days had passed since the bank robbery and Conti’s death. After being sent to the hospital, where the doctors patched her up, Lee was released. Shortly after that, she was required to undergo the first of what turned out to be three interviews over two days. During that time, all manner of armchair commandos asked her the same questions over and over again.
    Then she was sent home to wade through the TV crews camped out in front of her home—and likely to remain there until the official shooting report was made public. Everybody said it was a so-called “good shoot,” but every cop knew what could happen after a high-profile gun battle. Especially one where
nine
perps fell to a single officer. That was a big deal.
    Members of the media were calling it the West Hollywood Shootout. And while most citizens were supportive—others thought that less force should have been used. “Why not wound them?” one