Back when I was young and starting out in mall security, I was too soft on the criminal scum...I shot to wound. I brought them in alive, and was quite proud of that. That changed one day when some meth addicted white supremacist wandered into the mall. As he held up the orange julius at gunpoint, my partner and I made our approach. One look at us, me in particular, and I knew he was crapping his pants. He grabbed a nearby teeny bopper and held her hostage, demanding a helicopter and safe passage to switzerland. With one fluid motion, I broke leather and brought my Glock 21 on target, belching lead and smoke. I hit the dirtbag in the arm, as I intended, and he lost his grip on his weapon and fell to the floor. I twirled my pistol before reholstering, believing the threat to be over. As I nodded for my partner to go over and cuff him up, the dirtbag jumped to his feet, his sleeve gun popping out into his awaiting hand. With my catlike reflexes, I drew down again, only this time I was too slow. My partner took a fatal shot to the head while I emptied my gun into his killer.
After that day I vowed to never aim for the extremities again.