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when Townsen burst into the lobby. Townsen fired a rifled slug into the ceiling over the agent’s head and yelled, “Drop it or I’ll cut you in half with the next one.” The agent dropped his weapon and repeatedly screamed, “FBI, FBI, FBI…” Townsen decided he looked like a fed and told him to reach slowly into his pocket and show his “creds” (credentials). Although a tragedy was avoided, the agent needed to take his pants to the cleaners.
    It was the end of day work, and Sergeant Townsen was about to start reading out the assignments.
    “Hey, Sarge,” shouted a voice from the back. “Can I get four hours of leave midway through the shift?”
    “No fucking way. I’m shorthanded today, and I need every swinging dick out on the street. We’re doing bank plants again.”
    “Brinson, you’re 10-99 4 in 63; Preacher is 10-99 in 64; 65 is out for maintenance; Rip, you’re in 66; Wilson you’re in 67; PT take 1 and 2 beats on the hour; Crash, you take 3 and 4 on the half; O’ Day and Grab are in the Wagon; Flyboy, Jansen, and Brady, see me for details on a plant.”
    D.C. used a three-man plant system, with one officer in a suit behind a “closed” teller position located on the non-entrance side. He wore an ear mike facing away from the door. Outside two guys sat in a private car wearing old clothes, talking, drinking coffee, and looking casual. On the back seat were two twelve-gauge shotguns covered by papers and clothing. They talked to the inside man and dispatch. In place of the regular service revolver, each carried a .45 caliber Colt, model 1911, semiautomatic for extra stopping power.
    “Brady, you’re the teller.” Townsen handed Brady a brightly colored necktie to replace the usual, black clip-on tie we normally wore. “Stone and Jansen, pick up a radio and tell me which car you’re using, including plates. All of you have done these plants. Any questions? The bank at Connecticut and Woodley has been hit before. Tellers told management they believe they’re being cased again. Be careful.”
    After about three hours of nothing, Brady came on the air with, “I need ones and fives”—meaning armed robbery: two bad guys. Brady got down on the floor with the other tellers on “orders” from the robbers.
    Jansen and I looked for a getaway car and didn’t see one: bad news. Maybe it was out of sight with a shooter we couldn’t see. We walked back to front to the side of the door, waiting for information from Brady. Sirens were approaching rapidly.
    Gunfire!
Multiple gunshots from inside, two different weapons. Brady was not supposed to identify himself in any way except in self-defense. Two bad guys burst out of the bank’s frontdoors, weapons drawn. I swung my shotgun like a baseball bat catching one in the throat. His knees buckled, and he fell backward. Jansen pivoted right and put the twelve-gauge in the other’s stomach with “Surrender or die.” We quickly disarmed the two and cuffed their ankles together, as other units began pulling up.
    Brady was not talking as we raced inside to find him and a teller wounded. The teller’s ear was hanging from the side of his face, a penalty for not moving fast enough. Brady opened his side door and exchanged fire with the gunman who shot the teller. Brady took one in the stomach, but the round went through the door first, expending most of its energy. As I ripped open his shirt, I could see the tip of the lead lodged in his abdomen.
    “Stay still,” I said. “The paramedics will give you a Band-Aid so you’ll be ready for work tomorrow.” A weak smile rewarded the humor.
    Lieutenant Dominik waited outside as the paramedics attended to Brady.
    “Nice job, Flyboy, except you may have killed one of them.”
    “Say what?”
    “According to the doc here, when you swung that barrel it would have been a triple at least. His larynx was crushed so they had to do a tracheotomy to save his sorry ass. Furthermore, he may have been without air for