"Last night was classified as a high-risk incident. Overtime pays double. Day shift that follows—still double." Mark said lazily.
At roughly thirty an hour, Felix did the math. That bastard had pocketed a good sum.
"Fine. You keep making money. I'll keep sleeping." Felix reached to close the door.
Mark jammed it open with his hand. "You can't. You're coming on patrol with me."
"I'm not. I was involved in a shooting. I'm on leave until told otherwise."
Felix pushed, but the door wouldn't budge. For a man who claimed to be exhausted, Mark had surprising strength.
"No leave. You've been cleared. We're short-staffed. You're back on duty. Susan told me herself."
"I didn't get a call, so it doesn't count!"
"Your phone's in two pieces—in the evidence room. I pulled out the SIM cards. Yours and Rachel's. No phones, no calls. That's why I came to fetch you."
"Fetch me? You go earn your blood money yourself!"
"I don't trust myself driving—I'd probably fall asleep and hit a tree. So you're driving." Mark said it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"And I get double pay too?"
"No. Regular rate."
Felix stopped pushing the door. "So you rake in double, and I chauffeur you around on base pay. You call that fair?"
"Not entirely. But look, you were going back on duty anyway. Your car's still in the shop, so drive mine. Consider it a two-man patrol. I'm your partner."
"You serious? I'm reinstated?"
"As real as it gets. Would I joke about this? Call Susan yourself if you don't believe me." Mark reached for his phone.
Felix waved him off. No way Mark was lying about this one. Still, the speed of it surprised him. Normally the department dragged its feet. Last night's shooting, and this morning he was already back in uniform? Must've been desperate.
He told Rachel quickly, handed her SIM back, changed clothes, and stepped out. First stop: two new phones, one for him, one sent to Rachel by Uber.
Two grand gone in minutes. Mark's envy was written all over his face. He muttered about working more overtime—and about getting more use out of Felix, the "rich guy."
You drive, I earn. Perfect.
With the SIM slotted, Felix saw the backlog of missed calls. He rang back the key ones, confirmed: yes, he was reinstated. Shortage was that bad.
Back at the station, he changed into uniform, logged the roster change with dispatch. Then it was Felix behind the wheel, Mark snoring in the passenger seat.
Felix shrugged. Might as well let the man sleep—double pay and all. He parked at a quiet intersection, reclined the seat, turned on the radio. Easy money.
The broadcast cut in:
"Breaking news. Last night's shooting in Boyle Heights left over twenty dead and more than a dozen injured. According to the Sheriff's Department, the incident began when an Atlanta rapper with Crips ties used inflammatory lyrics. Audience members shouted Blood slogans and opened fire, killing the rapper on stage. Gunfire erupted both on stage and in the crowd, made worse by the locked doors that prevented concertgoers from escaping. Some were trampled. Some were shot by fleeing suspects.
"Forensics indicates at least ten victims were killed by the same firearm. That weapon has not been recovered. Authorities suspect the shooter had military training and remains at large. Police vow to track down all suspects and ensure public safety.
"Observers note the rapper killed had Crips connections, while his killers shouted Blood slogans. What this means for the fragile truce between the gangs—or the balance between East and West Coast rap—remains to be seen."
Felix did his own tally. He'd killed nine. He'd seen three, maybe four, go down in crossfire. That left five or more dead at SEB's hands. Yet the press pinned all of it on the "shooting incident."
And the gun that killed ten? No question—it was the one sitting safely in his system's storage. He hadn't expected forensics to pick up that detail from shell casings. America's ballistics work was no joke.
That weapon was now radioactive. Hide it forever, or never use it again. For now, he'd keep it locked away. Safer there than dumped.
The radio crackled:
"Adam29, citizen report of a Black male loitering in the neighborhood. Please respond."
"Adam29, copy."
Felix shook Mark awake as they rolled in.
They spotted him quickly—hooded, all in black, walking slow.
Mark took point. "Evening. What are you doing here?"
Felix hung back, checking the man's aura. Grey. A "good one," surprisingly.
The man blinked. "What?"
"I asked if you're here for someone. Looking for an address?"
"No. Just walking. Problem?"
"Yes. You're not a resident. Neighbors complained. I'm asking you to leave."
The man's arms shot wide. "Why? This is America. I can walk where I want!"
"This is a warning. Leave now. If you refuse, I'll arrest you for loitering. That's six months in jail and a thousand-dollar fine."
Felix thought: Loitering? That's actually on the books?
But it was. California law—intent to commit a crime while lingering in public space. A catch-all if they wanted to haul you in.
The man grew agitated, hands twitching. "You gonna arrest me for walking? I'm a U.S. citizen!"
Mark shot Felix a look of exasperation.
Felix stepped forward. "Calm yourself. Keep acting erratic and we'll run a drug panel."
In L.A., half the city couldn't pass a tox screen.
"You don't scare me! Cops are all corrupt!" The man raised an arm, hand poised to strike.
Felix's eyes narrowed. He thought he saw something. His hand slid to his weapon. "Mark. Careful."
"Hey. What's in your waistband? Is that a gun?"
Mark crouched, hand on his sidearm. "Lift your shirt. Show us now."
"You have no right to search me! I won't show you!" His voice cracked. Feet shuffled. Face twitched.
"Hands up! Don't move!"
"Easy, man," Felix said. "It's just a shirt. Lift it and you walk away."
Good cop, bad cop. No effect.
The man's eyes darted, then hardened. His hand shot under his hoodie.
Felix saw the aura flash red. Gun. He drew instantly, voice snapping: "Don't move!"
Too late. The man's weapon cleared the cloth—
Felix fired. Clean, fast.
He ejected the mag, cleared the chamber, handed the weapon to Mark. "I'm on admin leave. Find another driver."
Mark stood stunned, face flushing with things he couldn't say—not with body cams rolling. He called for backup instead.
Felix knew what he wanted: a shot of his own, a vacation on admin leave. But Felix hadn't waited. Better one man's paperwork than someone dead.
The ambulance came. They loaded the man. Felix handed over his gear, rode back in another unit, spent the afternoon drafting reports.
By the time he left the station, evening had fallen. His phone buzzed.
"Felix? It's Frank."
"Frank? What's up?"
"You forgot dinner at my place, didn't you?"
Felix slapped his forehead. "Damn—sorry. But I can come now. After last night, I wasn't sure anyone else would show."
"Everyone's in. I already told them."
"Alright. I'm coming."
"And bring your girlfriend. Mark says you're seeing someone. The more the merrier." Frank hung up.
Felix sighed, called Rachel. She was thrilled. Said she'd swing by to pick him up.
He waited, thought about grabbing a gift. At a Chinese supermarket he found mooncakes—already on the shelves in August. Bought a mix of flavors, plus a roast duck.
When Rachel arrived, she just laughed at him. "Mooncakes and duck? That's what you're bringing?"
"What's wrong with that?"
She rolled her eyes. "Come on."
She drove him to Macy's. "First impressions matter. Not milk and pastry. For Frank, we'll bring a Napa Valley Hillside Select. Highly rated, good vintage, 2014's priced fair. For his wife, Armani 406 lipstick—flattering, never wrong.
"His son's twelve, right?"
"Philip. His daughter's Ellie, six."
"For Philip, a Nintendo Switch."
"Bad idea. Video games ruin study. A book would be better."
Rachel gave him a look. "Switch. And for Ellie, a Barbie doll."
Felix pulled her close. "Smart as ever. A treasure in the house."
"You'd better mean wife."