Read Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." for Free Online Page A

days and probably entered the bar less than twenty seconds behind them, not realizing he’d lost his radio en route. They were no slouches either; they already had the guy in a chair, and one was beating him in the face while the other waited his turn, gun in hand. The guy delivering the assault was a stout man wearing a black leather jacket and low-cut T-shirt over thick chest hair and gold chains. The other, holding the 9 mm, was taller and dressed in basically the same attire. The victim in the chair was bloodied and bruised to the point his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. And the fourth man, a much older and heavier man, stood behind the bar, holding a cannon of a gun. The only light seemed to come from the open door Cools was now standing in, wielding his service revolver. He locked on and yelled, “Freeze!”
    Everyone suddenly turned to him, and in that second, for the first time in his life, he felt panic—even more so when he reached for his radio only to find it missing and began to realize none of them seemed ready to comply. Adding to his predicament, he’d never actually pulled his weapon before, much less on three tough-looking and armed men in a dark bar. His face said, “Oh shit,” and they read it plain as day. “Put your weapons down now!” he tried again, more forcefully. But no one moved an inch.
    Hastily he formed a rudimentary plan. It was simple: if anyone raised their guns, he would shoot at the two younger men first and then dive behind the cigarette machine. It was one of the old-fashioned ones with the pull levers and looked bulky enough to slow some bullets. Again he shouted, “Put your guns down now and your hands in the air!” Still no one moved a muscle, and out of fear, neither did he.
    He entertained the idea of slipping back out the door and making a run for it; probably his best idea thus far, just not anything that was likely to happen. Instead he stepped forward; keeping his weapon fixed on the taller man. “Put your hands in—”
    “No!” yelled the older man behind the bar. “You do not understand as much of our situation we share.” A response in broken English Cools hadn’t prepared for in training. Neither was he prepared for the desperation in the man’s eyes, a man with nothing to lose. Still he stood his ground, not budging, not knowing what to do.
    “Help me!” cried out the man in the chair, in strained echoes of pain.
    “You shut the fuck up!” the short man said, as he hit him in the face, leaving a fresh red mark on the man’s forehead from his gold ring. Then he turned and scowled at Cools like he didn’t have a care in the world.
    “Everyone fucking freeze!” Cools stepped in closer, feeling it all about to go down, trying to keep one eye on the older man behind the bar while considering shooting first.
    The taller man with the 9 mm stood, unmoving; Cools’s had a bead on his thinning hairline. The shorter man looked coldly into his eyes and said, “I think you should put down your gun, Officer, before someone gets hurt.”
    Cools, awestruck by the man’s statement and demeanor, was coming up short of any real response, when the old man spoke again. “Why don’t we sit to table? We drink together. You can…eh…hear our plea.”
    The old man spoke slowly with an assuring and honest tone, giving Cools the odd sense he was a man to be trusted. His request hung in the air as Cools considered an option not yet measured. All of a sudden, he felt no immediate danger. He ran the scenarios through his mind, which also was a little quicker in those days, and came up with two options: either shoot it out with these three guys, most likely getting killed, or do as they’ve suggested and learn why the man was in the chair in the first place.
    “Okay, okay, but I’m keeping my gun!”
    “Has…eh…anyone asked you to surrender to us your gun, officer?”
    No, no one has asked for my gun, he thought, before gradually lowering his weapon. He