After the weekend gathering was set, Mark and the others went back on patrol. Felix, the unlucky one, filed his report, then transferred all his gear into Antrim's trunk and left the naked dancer in his care. Antrim would haul both the man and the equipment back to the station.
Felix drove his battered cruiser to the designated repair shop. The roof hadn't stood a chance against a two-hundred-pound man stomping on it, and the collapsed sheet metal looked grotesque. The worst part was that, since the car was technically still drivable—the damage limited to the roof and the mirror—the vehicle would be handed back to Felix once patched up. The thought of driving a car that had hosted a naked man's dance routine on its roof made his skin crawl.
The shop was mid-sized, with several work bays and a crowded lot. Since it handled both police and private vehicles, the only real perk for the department was the lower cost. When Felix pulled in, every bay was full, and a worker waved him toward the lot.
"Hey, officer, what'd you do—go to war in Afghanistan?"
"I'd have preferred that," Felix muttered, then noticed the worker was Black. "No offense, but the truth is, a naked man—yes, naked—stood on the roof of my cruiser and danced his ass off right in the middle of a busy street. Can you picture that?"
The mechanic doubled over laughing, no effort made to restrain himself. Felix sighed.
"Look, maybe take a look at the car before you split your sides."
"Sorry, sorry," the man wheezed, coughing to compose himself. "All right, let me check."
He examined the dented roof, the scratched paint, then opened the door to inspect the interior.
"Serious roof damage, needs panel beating and a respray. We'll have to strip some of the interior. Mirror's gone, too. One of your warning lights is broken; we'll have to replace it once your department approves the part. Same for the trunk lid."
Felix rubbed his forehead. "Just tell me—how long?"
"Bodywork's quick. But the parts? That depends on your county vehicle bureau. Sometimes fast, sometimes glacial. Out of my hands, you know how it is."
Felix exhaled. "Fine. File for the parts."
As they spoke, a man sprinted past the lot and into one of the bays, face tense. Felix caught the flash of movement.
"Hey. That guy—one of your employees?"
The mechanic blinked, caught off guard. "We've got plenty of workers. Which one?"
Felix's hand went instinctively to the grip of his sidearm as he moved toward the bay.
"Officer, maybe you're being too jumpy. Everyone here's decent—"
A sharp volley of barks cut through the lot. A man in black LAPD uniform stormed in, a black shepherd straining at its leash.
K9? Here?
Felix called out, "Hey, partner, what's going on?"
The handler glanced back, saw another cop, and shouted, "Chasing a suspect. My dog tracked him here."
"I saw a guy duck into that bay." Felix pointed.
"Thanks."
The K9 officer charged forward. Inside, the dog sniffed, then lunged at a parked SUV, barking furiously. Through the glass, a man sat rigid in the driver's seat.
"Out of the car! Now!" the handler barked.
The suspect ignored him, twisting the key in the ignition. The officer shouted twice more, then bent down, scooped the dog up, and shoved it through the open window.
Felix froze. You hunt with it, like it's a damn predator?
Unorthodox or not, it worked. The dog sank its teeth into the suspect's arm, dragging a scream from him. Trained canines never let go once clamped down.
The handler yanked the door open, forcing his way inside. "Hands off the wheel! Give it up!"
Felix turned, waving at the gathering workers. "Clear the area! Now!" Then he drew his weapon and closed in. Too tight. Inside that car was chaos—two men, one dog, limbs thrashing. No clean shot.
"Get out of there, partner! I can't cover you like this!"
The handler either didn't hear or didn't care. He kept grappling. The engine roared, the SUV jolting backward out of the bay.
"Stop the vehicle! You'll get someone killed!"
The driver didn't respond. Metal crunched as the SUV smashed into another car. Felix dove aside. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the handler's hand go for his gun.
"I will shoot you! Stop the damn car!"
The suspect stomped the accelerator again, surging forward, nearly plowing into the wall. That was it. The handler broke, pressed the muzzle against the man's torso, and pulled the trigger.
Five sharp cracks ripped through the garage. The SUV shuddered to a halt only after slamming into another parked vehicle.
Felix advanced, weapon raised. "You all right, partner?"
"I... I'm fine. He's down."
Down? More like finished.
"Step out, then. Let us check him."
"Y-yeah... okay."
The officer climbed out, dragging his dog with him. Felix reached out.
"Hand over your weapon and gear. That's procedure."
The man hesitated, then unbuckled his belt and handed everything over. Felix felt a weight lift; adrenaline could drive a man to worse mistakes.
Circling the SUV, he glanced inside. The suspect slumped against the wheel, chest and abdomen shredded by close-range rounds. No saving him.
Felix pocketed the keys, called dispatch for backup, and told them to notify LAPD. Their mess, their man.