The street gunfight exploded across Los Angeles almost instantly. Reporters swarmed in, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, microphones practically shoved into the mouths of officers holding the line.
Some journalists launched into demands about their "right to interview," but it was useless. All they got in return was the standard line: no comment until the investigation was complete—there would be a press conference later, and they could attend then.
Frustrated but powerless, the media settled for snapping away at the forensics team as they worked the scene, stooping to collect shell casings under the cordon.
By the afternoon, Deputy Chief Robin stepped forward as spokesperson, convening a briefing in the Temple Station's cramped conference room, now packed shoulder-to-shoulder with reporters.
Robin wore a spotless uniform, hair combed to a glassy shine, every piece of equipment in perfect order. He approached the microphone with a polished smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am Deputy Chief Robin Skinner of the Temple City Station, Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department. I will brief you on the shooting that took place earlier today in the Austin neighborhood.
At approximately 10:30 this morning, we received multiple calls reporting a severe gun battle—individuals exchanging fire in the street. Our deputies responded immediately. Through close coordination and intense engagement, the situation was resolved. I want to thank our officers for their bravery and commitment to the safety of Los Angeles and Temple City.
Our joint investigation with the crime lab has confirmed that six men exchanged fire. Four were members of a gang known as Barrett Street; the other two were mid-level managers in the gang Lomas 13. Due to ongoing conflicts, Barrett Street sent four members to ambush the two Lomas 13 managers, opening fire on them in broad daylight. One Lomas 13 member was killed on the scene, the other wounded and now receiving hospital treatment.
Of the four Barrett Street members, two were killed by responding deputies, while the other two were taken into custody—one injured and now held at the detention center. All surviving suspects face charges of murder and aggravated assault. The wounded Lomas 13 member will also be charged upon recovery.
In total, over seventy rounds were fired, damaging multiple vehicles and homes. We regret the losses suffered by residents and hope they recover from the ordeal soon.
The Sheriff's Department will continue to crack down on gang violence. We urge the public to report criminal activity via our hotline, website, or anonymous reporting system. All whistleblowers' identities will remain strictly confidential. Thank you.
We will now take questions."
A forest of hands shot up. Robin picked out an attractive female reporter. "Yes, you."
She rose. "I'm with the Los Angeles Times. Deputy Chief, this is the second large-scale gang shootout in the Temple area in quick succession. Does this mean the police have lost control over gang activity?"
Robin regretted calling on her. "No," he said after a pause. "In every gang shootout, we have responded immediately and acted decisively—neutralizing suspects, inflicting heavy losses, and sending a clear message that our resolve to fight crime has never wavered."
Another reporter stood. "Do the police know why these two gangs are clashing so often?"
"The case is still under investigation. I can only say this—whatever the reason, large-scale gang violence will be met with an unrelenting police response. For the safety of our citizens, we will not allow gangs to act with impunity."
"In the crossfire, civilian homes and vehicles were damaged. Does the department have any assistance measures?"
"No," Robin said flatly. "Victims should contact the city government. The Sheriff's Department's job is to catch criminals, not provide compensation."
A voice from the back: "It's said that in both shootouts, a deputy nicknamed Killer with a Badge was involved and achieved significant results. Can you reveal his identity?"
"No. To protect our deputies, no personal details will be released. I can only say that every one of our deputies is brave and dedicated, and they are all the pride of this department."
Click.
Rachel lowered her phone, a faint smile on her lips. "So that's why you dropped by this afternoon? Killer with a Badge?"
"You just admit I came to see you, right? Every chance I get, I'm here—that means something. Means I miss you, girlfriend." Felix nodded solemnly.
"Smooth talker. Don't call me 'girlfriend.' Call me baby."
Felix blinked. "Can't. Sounds gross."
Rachel pounced, grabbing his face in both hands. "Gross? Who's gross? You calling me gross?"
Her grip was surprisingly strong. Felix's face hurt. He shook his head, but she wouldn't let go—so he leaned forward and caught her lips with his.
Lips met, tongues tangled. Rachel loosened her hold naturally, arms sliding around his neck.
Felix was back on administrative leave. With nothing to do, he drove over to see her. She was just as wild—hands all over him before they even left the car.
They tangled again, and by evening, they booked a hotel room. Drinks in the bar, quiet talk. Heat rose with the night.
The next morning, Felix woke in the hotel room, groggy, hand pressed to his lower back as he staggered into the bathroom.
When he came out, clearer-headed, he muttered to himself: getting a girlfriend and letting loose like this—bad idea.
Rachel padded over in a black silk-and-lace slip, eyes still hazy with sleep. She kissed his lips. "What's wrong? Not happy?"
Felix glanced down, avoided her mouth. "Brushing my teeth."
"Jerk. I'm going to wash up." She turned, the silk failing to hide the lines of her body. Her legs were pale enough to glow.
After breakfast, Felix still felt hollow. The scale said he'd lost weight. Alcohol was the devil.
While Rachel went to class, Felix wandered. Around UCLA, there was plenty to see—Hollywood Hills, Sculpture Garden, Universal Studios, and the Walk of Fame. He glanced at each and moved on; crowds weren't his thing, and the streets were full of hustlers—so-called "artists" who handed you a "free" CD, then demanded $50 or $100, blocking your way until you paid.
Eventually, he drifted to Santa Monica Beach—famous for its occasional topless sunbathers. Beautiful or not, most covered their faces.
The sand was fine, the walk pleasant, and if you had cash, a pedicab could take you along the shore. But the real entertainment was spontaneous.
Felix had barely gone a hundred yards before two shirtless Black men started arguing. Their words rattled out like machine-gun fire—rhyming, no less. When neither could talk the other down, they started swinging.
One wore sneakers, one was barefoot. Anywhere in the world, the barefoot man has the edge. He slammed the sneakered man to the ground in seconds.
Tourists ringed them, none stepping in—phones up, hoping the footage would go viral. Felix stayed put, ice cream in hand.
Then a pedicab shot past him and duang—slammed into the barefoot man, staggering him. A subtle kick from the rider finished the job.
A young white guy climbed off, pulled the two apart, and warned them he'd call the cops. Brave man—lucky neither was armed. Both backed off quickly; a records check on most of these guys would read like a rap sheet.
With the show over, Felix strolled back to the hotel. The sea breeze was just lulling him toward a nap when the phone rang—he was to return to work the next day.
"I haven't even had my psych eval yet. Administrative leave's over already?"
"What do you think? A dozen deputies on leave at once—do you know how many we have total? Besides, the DA closed the case. All the shooters you arrested were released without charges."
"What?!"