Frank flicked the switch on the B‑pillar and opened the rear door, shoving the man inside.
The back seat of a patrol car is its own cage—doors that can't be opened from inside, a hard plastic divider with a narrow window, and barely enough legroom to move.
That's why people settle down once they're in. There's nowhere else to go.
Frank got back behind the wheel, radioed dispatch with the details, and waited until the tow truck hauled away the mangled Z4. Then he turned the cruiser toward the station.
"Felix," he said, eyes still on the road, "you know why I didn't go after him at first… and then made sure I brought him down?"
Felix thought for a moment. "Because he challenged us."
"Exactly. You need to understand—this job is nothing but risk. Guns everywhere in L.A. If a cop shows weakness, everyone tries to test you. You'll get dragged into a spiral you can't win. So when someone challenges you, you hit back. Hard. You let them know the badge isn't to be messed with."
Felix nodded, serious. He understood: a cop who didn't project strength couldn't enforce the law.
Frank continued, "You also saw I didn't PIT him. And you won't see that in your driving training either. This is a dense city. PITs aren't allowed in populated areas. You follow, you call for backup, and let the spike strips or air units finish it. LAPD and LASD both have birds in the sky—don't worry about runners."
Felix nodded again, outwardly respectful. Inwardly, a little bitter.
If American cops weren't so heavily armed, he wouldn't have to play along with them.
He knew what this meant: in L.A., resisting law enforcement wasn't just hard—it was suicide. In GTA, you needed cheats to survive a chase with squads of patrol cars, SWAT trucks, and helicopters. In reality? No chance.
Even with the system giving him skills and points, he couldn't imagine leveling up enough to face nine thousand LAPD cops and eighteen thousand LASD deputies—if it ever came to that.
Frank's tone hardened. "And one more thing—you chased too fast. What if he'd had a gun? What if there'd been someone else in that car? You'd be dead before you knew it. I've told you before—stay alive. Did you forget already?"
"My bad, Frank. Won't happen again."
Felix meant it—or at least sounded like he did.
But he had his own reason for charging in.
The system.
That gray "sin marker" above the man's head hadn't changed, even when Felix had him pinned. No red, no threat. Safe to grab.
At first, Felix thought the markers just showed him who deserved to die.
Now he realized—they were more than that. They were cheats. Warning signs. If one ever went red, he'd know. No surprises. Unless someone decided to snipe him from a distance.
They returned to the station and processed the arrest. Booking would handle the rest.
Afterward, they smoked outside, running through what they'd done right and wrong. Felix felt the experience settle in his bones. Then they got back in the car. Shift wasn't over.
Another hour of aimless patrol. Then the radio crackled:
"Adam‑44, copy a call—dog trapped inside a washing machine. Handle."
"Adam‑44, roger," Frank replied, swinging the car toward the address.
Felix raised an eyebrow. "We really take dog‑rescue calls?"
"Absolutely," Frank said. "Be glad it's a dog. It beats getting shot at by gangbangers."
"Fair point."
The laundromat was quiet. Someone had left a washer door open, and a dog had crawled in, stuck and panicking. Another customer had called it in.
Nothing heroic here. Felix bought a hot dog and a bottle of water from the corner store, fed the dog until it calmed down, and coaxed it out.
Collar, tags, owner's number. They brought it to the station, logged the report—paperwork for everything—and called the owner.
Procedure. Always procedure.
By the time they wrapped it up, the afternoon was fading. Felix's first shift was nearly done.
"Grab a drink later?" he asked. "My treat. For showing me the ropes today."
Frank waved him off. "You're clocking out. I'm not. Got night shifts to pull—overtime keeps the bills paid. Family doesn't feed itself."
"Fair enough. Another time. We'll get Mark to come."
Mark was another deputy, younger than Frank, closer to Felix's age. They'd met before Felix started.
"Sure."
The radio chirped again: "Adam‑44, welfare check, Bisby Street, South El Monte. Respond."
"Adam‑44, copy."
Frank flipped on the lights and siren, weaving through traffic.
"When someone calls for a welfare check," he said, "it usually means trouble. Follow my lead in there."
"Got it."
Finally—something real. Felix felt the rush.
This was why he wore the badge. Not for tickets. For the hunt.
The cruiser pulled onto Bisby Street.
The caller waved them down in front of a two‑story house.
The front gate was ajar. Fresh tire tracks cut across the lawn. The garage door hung open—empty.
Frank's face tightened. "Find somewhere safe to hide," he told the caller.
Then he moved toward the garage.
Felix followed.
One glance inside and Frank was back out, dragging Felix with him. He tossed a vest at him. "Put it on."
Felix slipped it over his head. "What'd you see?"
"Blood," Frank said flatly. "Plenty of it. Don't know if it's the owner's or someone else's. Vest up."
Frank strapped on his own, then shouted to the caller, "You got a key?"
A head poked out from behind a corner. "No."
"Shit."
Frank drew his Glock 17. "Stay behind me."
Felix nodded, pulled his own sidearm, thumbed off the safety. They fell into a cross‑cover stance, backs guarded, approaching the front door.
"Why not go through the garage?" Felix whispered.
"Because the killer's probably gone," Frank said quietly. "No point storming in. We need to preserve the scene."
At the porch, Frank pressed himself against the wall near the handle, motioning Felix to take position near the hinges.
Felix rapped on the door. "Sheriff's Department! Anyone inside? Open up!" Then stepped aside, clear of the frame.
Training. Always training. Too many cops had been shot standing in the fatal funnel of a front door.