Bodycams really were inconvenient—you couldn't just sneak up on someone without first yelling a warning, or else it would be a policy violation.
The gunman who had just taken a hit looked like a burst hot-water bag, riddled with holes, blood spurting in streams. The sight was enough to unsettle anyone. No wonder only the toughest soldiers or SWAT operators dared to carry a shotgun at the very front of a breach.
The thunder of the Remington echoed, unmistakable to anyone with ears. Across the street, another gunman turned at the sound.
"Watch out! Armando's been taken out by a cop!"
Sharp eyes, Felix thought, and fired. The man ducked in time, the pellets tearing splinters from the wall he hid behind.
The police-issue Remington M870 was effective out to forty metres, but even beyond that it could still wound—though the spread made friendly fire a risk, and a hit might not be fatal. If the man hadn't moved so quickly, he'd be leaking from more than one hole.
Felix racked another round and darted across the gap between two houses, back pressed to the siding as he caught his breath before moving on.
Instinctively, he triggered Silent Advance. A strange sensation washed over him—an unconscious control over posture and muscle, letting him move with full mobility yet barely a sound. He avoided twigs and debris without even looking down, his body steering clear of anything that might crunch underfoot.
Like a cat, he thought.
"F**k! I'm gonna kill you!"
The low snarl came from just around the corner—and then silence.
Felix realised the gunman was trying to ambush him, but without hearing footsteps, the man thought he wasn't there yet. If he'd known, he would never have made a sound.
Felix gauged the voice's position, levelled the shotgun, and fired through the wall.
The blast blew a jagged hole in the wooden siding. The man screamed and tumbled forward. Felix rounded the corner without breaking stride, pumped another round, and finished him where he lay.
"LASD! Don't move!"
The shout came from behind him, echoed faintly from across the street.
"I'm LASD—Deputy Felix, San Gabriel Valley Station!" he called back. "Two shooters down on my side!"
"Copy."
Several officers approached at a jog, rifles up. One glanced at the bodies. "Nice work, man."
Felix smiled. "Let's go help the guys across the street."
"OK."
They moved in a cover formation, slipping past the corner and using parked cars for protection. Felix peeked out—there was a car stalled in the middle of the road, riddled with bullet holes. A man lay still beside it. Another, bleeding, was curled against the door with a gun in hand; above his head floated a solid black marker of guilt.
Felix relayed what he saw with hand signals, pointing out the shooter's position. The others nodded and took aim.
"LASD! Drop the gun, crawl out slowly, then lie face down with your hands on your head! Do you understand?" Felix shouted.
With other officers present, he couldn't simply rush in and end it; protocol meant giving the man a chance to surrender. If he didn't comply… well, that was another matter.
But this one valued his skin. At the first shout, he tossed the gun away and yelled back, "I dropped it! I'm coming out slow—don't shoot! I'm doing it now!"
Felix sighed. A black mark wasted.
Once the man was in full view, prone, Felix moved first—sliding in, pinning the man's neck with his knee and jamming the shotgun to his back.
"Any other weapons? I said, any other weapons?"
The man groaned, pain-strained voice stammering, "Spare mag on my belt… knife in my pocket… that's it, nothing else."
Another officer kept watch while a partner frisked him, tossing the items aside before snapping cuffs on.
"I can't breathe," the man wheezed. "I can't breathe!"
Reluctantly, Felix got off him. "Huh. Not as quick as they say."
Gasping, the man added, "I've been shot. I need an ambulance—take me to a hospital."
"You'll get one when this is over."
Felix grabbed his shotgun to head for the other side, but a fellow officer blocked him.
"I know you—you're 'Killer with a Badge' Felix. You're good, but you can't do everything yourself. Trust the others—they need something for their résumés too."
Hearing the nickname was enough to make him choke. Still, he stepped back, taking cover behind a car and listening to the ebb and flow of gunfire, piecing together the scene.
If the numbers matched this side, there were four in total—two ambushing from the car. One died on the spot; the other, wounded, returned fire.
They were pathetic. Four of them, and they couldn't finish off a bleeding man before police rolled up.
Soon the gunfire tapered off. A few minutes later, colleagues emerged with two suspects in custody.
Three arrests in total—counting the ambushed survivor—and two dead. No officers injured.
It was, by any measure, a clean and satisfying fight. The smiles said it all; they'd have stories to write up.
Felix alone wasn't quite happy—no extra kills, no fresh rewards. Now the system would only pay out every ten bodies, and who knew when that would be.
Still, he shook hands and swapped numbers with the officers who came over. The more people who knew him, the less he'd have to yell out his credentials mid-firefight.
Truth was, it was his own fault. Last time hadn't counted, but today he'd rolled in without linking up with anyone, no "I'll scout ahead" to put them at ease.
Without warning, even in uniform, there was always that moment's doubt—Is he one of ours?
To their suggestions, Felix could only say, "Next time. For sure."