The men froze at the sound, then sprang to their feet, pistols drawn as they rushed outside.
A black sedan was speeding away, leaving behind several parked cars riddled with bullet holes.
"Call the cops! Get an ambulance!"
It felt strange for police to be the ones dialing 911.
Rick pulled out his phone. Frank gestured for the others to split up and check the scene.
Felix edged toward one of the bullet-scarred vehicles, weapon raised. He leaned in for a quick glance through the window. "This car's clear—no one inside!"
"Same here!" Antrim shouted back.
"There's someone in this one—he's been hit!"
Frank and Mark dragged a bleeding man from a white car. The victim clutched desperately at Frank's shirt, his voice breaking. "Frank, Frank—am I going to die? I don't want to die! Please, don't let me die!"
"Stay with me, you're fine. Help's on the way. You'll be all right." Frank pressed his palm against the man's leg, blood seeping between his fingers.
He yelled over his shoulder: "There's a first-aid kit in my house. Go grab it!"
"I'll get it!" Rick finished his call and bolted back inside.
Felix scanned the vehicle—only the wounded man was inside.
"Felix, Antrim—over here, help hold him down!"
They hurried over, pinning the man alongside Mark. One held his torso, the other two locked down his legs.
Frank tore open the victim's pants, exposing the wound. He checked the location and bleeding. "Through the thigh. Didn't shatter bone, and it's not arterial. He'll make it."
"First-aid kit's here!" Rick came running with two.
Frank ripped one open. "Light me up—use your phone."
He pulled out a windlass tourniquet, cinched it high on the thigh, and twisted until the bleeding slowed. The man screamed in agony, writhing so violently that it took three men to hold him still.
Frank doused the wound with iodine. The man screamed once more, then went limp, passing out.
Frank sprinkled QuikClot powder into the wound—combat hemostatic agent first issued to U.S. troops in 2003. It dehydrated blood on contact, forcing rapid clotting. The stuff saved lives, though the early versions burned like fire.
The victim, Colon, proved it unbearable—pain yanked him awake, only for him to faint again.
Frank cursed the lack of newer COMBAT GAUZE in his kit. He layered gauze, packed the wound, and bound it tight with a pressure dressing.
"Done. As long as the ambulance gets him to the hospital fast, he'll live. The surgeons can chase the bullet." Frank straightened, sweat dripping from his brow. The work had been quick, but it left them drained.
"Life's safe. What about the leg?"
"That's out of our hands, brother."
They looked at one another, covered in blood, then laughed—a rough, exhausted laugh. Shooting never brought joy. Saving someone did.
"Help! Somebody help us!"
The cry tore from a nearby house.
They rushed over. "Mr. Huang! It's Frank—open up, we're here to help!"
"I'm… coming…"
A Chinese man cracked open the door, pale with shock. "Frank… my wife's been shot…"
"Where is she? Take us!"
"She's in the living room…"
Frank pushed past him.
A middle-aged Chinese woman lay flat on the sofa, a blanket half covering her. She must have been resting when it happened. Now her face was a mask of blood, two children clutching her hands and wailing beside her.
One glance chilled them all: a stray round had punched through the wall and struck her head.
"Through the skull—she's still alive, but barely. We can't fix this here. She needs a hospital now."
"Check her first."
The exam was grim. Entry at the crown, exit at the left eye. Weak pulse, vomiting, slipping in and out of consciousness. They cleared her airway, propped her neck, and kept her head aligned.
Frank pressed layers of sterile gauze against the wound. He didn't dare use QuikClot on a head injury. Wrapped her tight, as best he could.
The ambulance finally arrived, taking both victims. Mr. Huang and Colon's wife climbed in to ride along.
With the children left behind, Frank offered to shelter them until relatives arrived.
The men looked down at their blood-smeared uniforms and faces, drained of words. A barbecue gathering turned into this.
"What a night…"
"For a moment I thought we'd stumbled into San Francisco."
No matter the chaos, duty called. They explained the situation to arriving officers, then cleaned up just enough to head to their night shifts. Pay was decent, but the risk, the madness, the constant brush with blood and grief—these things broke men. Too often it ended with rash shootings or misdirected rage. Therapy should never be dismissed. Cops needed it.
Mark and Felix said their goodbyes, each driving home with their girlfriends. Rick, still single, could only watch with envy.
On the road, Rachel glanced at Felix. "Is your job always this dangerous?"
He gave a half-smile. "Dangerous, sure. But it's usually dangerous for the other guy. Otherwise I wouldn't keep getting sent home on administrative leave."
She nodded, thoughtful.
Sensing her mood, Felix changed the subject. "By the way—how do you have that kind of money? Your dad gave you over two million at once? I've never even seen that much."
"My dad's in business. He wanted me to study out of state, so he gave me enough to cover four years—tuition, living costs. And he thought dorm life might not suit me, so he gave me extra to buy a place. I'll sell it after graduation. Might even turn a profit."
No wonder she bought gifts in sets and never flinched at prices. It was second nature for her. Felix, sealed tight in his own world, had none of that. His way of coping with life's weight was different—always heavier, always lonelier.