The guy was still prone, hammering bursts downrange, so focused he didn't notice Felix creeping along the roofline.
Lucky for him the motel roof was rough black asphalt shingle—no slipping, though it felt spongy, always threatening to give way beneath his boots.
Felix edged closer. Then more sirens wailed—this time SEB armor rolling in.
The shooter heard it, cut his fire, tried to relocate.
Too late. Felix yanked a flashbang from his pocket, lobbed it, and ducked, eyes clamped shut.
Bang!
"My eyes!"
Didn't learn the first time, now he was blind again.
Felix popped up. The gunman was down, clutching his face.
He sprinted.
The man heard boots and clawed for a rifle.
"Looking for this? Let me help you."
Felix shoved the shotgun barrel up under the vest flap, pressed it into his back.
"You SEB? How'd you get up here so fast?"
The gunman tried to distract him, hand sneaking toward a sidearm on his chest rig.
Boom.
Felix ended him with one shot.
"I was just asking. Didn't need an answer."
He tossed the shotgun aside, stood, and gave a thumbs-up toward the street. Target down.
Cheers rose from below.
Mesa beamed. "The shooter's down. Move in!"
"Yes, sir!"
Deputies stormed the entry. Mesa straightened his blouse and, with a smile, told the SEB team leader who had just rolled up, "Sorry you came for nothing. It's handled."
"No problem. A clean end is all that matters." The captain glanced up at Felix climbing down the roof. He asked casually, "What's the name of the deputy who took him out?"
Mesa's hand, half-extended, dropped. "It's late. You'd better head back." He turned away.
Felix pulled off the helmet and descended. Deputies clapped his shoulder, ruffled his hair, even smacked his backside.
"Good work, Felix!""Hell of a job!""Nice ass."
That one sent him bolting, hand over his rear.
Outside the front doors, Mesa strode up. "Well done, Felix. You're the real thing."
"Does this come with a raise?"
"No." The answer came fast.
Too fast for a man not paying out of pocket.
"But I'll push to bump you early to Deputy I."
"Deputy I gets a raise?"
"Five percent." Mesa winked.
Felix straightened, face composed. "It's the department's training. I only did my duty."
Mesa laughed. "Good lad. Hand in your gear and write the report."
"Sure… wait. Why am I writing the report?"
"You shot the suspect. Who else writes it?"
"So that means admin leave?"
Mesa chuckled. "We'll see."
Old fox. Can't even bank on leave now? Where's the promise of neutrality, the objective inquiry?
"Chief, my cruiser's toast. Got a spare Camaro or Mustang lying around?"
Mesa thought. "That's the third one you've wrecked, isn't it?"
"How do you know that?"
"No spares. Tell you what—take mine." He walked off.
Felix stepped outside and blinked. Mesa's "car" was a Dodge Charger Pursuit—5.7-liter V8, 375 horses, 535 newton-meters, 8-speed auto, full-time AWD.
A station chief, never on patrol, driving this. At least the man finally repented.
Felix opened the door—an integrated MDT with a 12.1-inch touchscreen, keyboard, full light controls. Everything the old laptops did, cleaner.
Beautiful. Ford Interceptor? Never heard of it. Key was in; he fired it up. The growl hit his chest. He dropped it in reverse, swung the tail, and roared off.
Minutes later, Mesa emerged, scanning the lot, lost in thought.
Where's my car?
Back at the station, Felix found Susan lugging a stack of files. She sat him down, asked for the outline, then drilled detail after detail.
Why had he suddenly split off a team to search another direction?
"Instinct. A good cop's combat sense. Something was off."
"Sense this—guess my weight."
Felix eyed her barrel waist. Out of spec.
She glared, then wrote: Neighborhood had too many forks; required dividing teams.
At the Siesta entry, Susan embellished freely—how Felix saw deputies fall, how brotherhood surged, how he charged without thought for his life, driven by fury, and brought the gunman to justice.
Felix muttered, embarrassed, "I just did my job. No big deal." He paused. "Still, humility's good. Add 'under Chief Mesa's command.' Perfect."
"Better to leave it out."
"It looks respectful. Shows we're thoughtful."
"Add that, and you prove you're not."
"You're saying the Chief's not thoughtful?"
"I'm saying you're not."
By dawn, Felix was spent. He changed out, grabbed a cab home. Rachel was already gone to class.
He showered, collapsed into bed.
Sometime later, a stench dragged him awake. He stumbled out—Rachel sat at the table, digging into a durian.
Felix sat down. "Back so early?"
"It's the weekend."
He nodded, staring. "What's good about that? Smells like rot."
"Smells bad, tastes sweet."
A California girl eating durian—who'd have thought.
He shook his head. She tipped her head, grinned, and kissed him full on the mouth. He flinched; she pounced.
Her skin cold as jade, her laughter like wine poured to the brim. After the storm, they went out to eat.
Felix picked a hotpot joint: Little Sheep, Inner Mongolian. The name alone promised authenticity.
Rachel pouted across the table, still sore. Felix chuckled, slid the menu over. "Don't be mad. Order whatever you want."
"I'm not ordering."
"Fine, I will. Start with pig brains, build you up."
"Why not yourself?"
"Two orders, then. We'll both build up."
The waiter sighed. "Sir, we don't serve pig brain. This is a lamb hotpot."
Rachel cracked, laughing, and snatched the menu. "Lamb spine, lamb slices, tripe, cabbage, bean curd, tofu skin, dried bamboo, enoki, sour plum juice. That's plenty."
When the waiter left, she glared again.
Felix slipped an arm around her. "Still sulking? You enjoyed it too—holding my head…"
Rachel flushed, slapped a hand over his mouth. "You say everything! You've no shame!"
"I've no shame." He leaned in for a kiss.
She dodged. "You didn't rinse. Gross."
"Who thinks their own mouth's dirty?"
They tussled, laughing.
Then shouting broke out nearby. "I want it! I need it!"
"We don't carry that, ma'am."
"I don't care!"
"You can leave if you don't like it."
A white woman lashed out, yanking a waitress's hair, slapping her. The waitress fought back, fists full of hair. Diners stood, watching.
Felix watched too—until the woman broke free, grabbed her bag, and pulled a knife.
He bolted, crossing the room in strides.
The blade grazed the waitress's ear. Before a second thrust, Felix's grip smashed the woman to the floor. He wrenched her arms back, badge flashing from under his shirt.
"Call it in. Off-duty deputy, LASD. Suspect in custody for assault with a deadly weapon."
She writhed. "Why not arrest them? They hit me!"
"You pulled a knife. Whatever started this, whoever's at fault—you tell your lawyer and the judge, not me."
He had the staff tie her, bag the knife, prep the CCTV for patrol. Then he went back to Rachel.
She hadn't touched the food. "Why aren't you eating?"
"I was waiting for you." Her eyes shone.
He almost dropped another line—then swallowed it.
The pot boiled. They dug in.
Mid-meal, four officers stormed in. "Who called it?"
The manager hurried over, explained, pointed to the bound woman, the cut waitress, then to Felix.
Felix saw Mark.
He waved. "Pull up a chair."
Mark sent the suspect out with uniforms, then came over, eyeing the chili-red broth. He killed his bodycam. "No way. Not eating that. Not falling for it."
Felix bit into a lamb spine. "Suit yourself. What's with four cars for a knife?"
"Last night. Brian and Rick. That shooter lured them in with a false knife call. Now every assault with a weapon draws double coverage."
Once bitten, twice shy.
"How's Rick?" Felix asked. "Haven't checked. Came straight here."
"Surgery went well. ICU now. Doc says prognosis is good. Through-and-through, and you patched him in time. Credit's yours."
"Just did my job."
"Save it. Eat up. After, get to the station. Internal review's tonight."
Felix blinked. "That fast?"
"They're stretched thin. Every body counts. And your case ties straight into Brian and Rick. They need the file closed."
Felix nodded, let Mark go, and lingered—long enough to calm Rachel. With young women, a meal fixed most things. Older ones held grudges.
By the end, they were back to normal—though Felix promised to ask before "trying new tricks" again. A promise he had no intent of keeping.
He dropped Rachel at her place, cabbed to the station, and froze in the lot.
"Where the hell's my Dodge Charger Pursuit? Stolen—from a police lot?"
Carles emerged. "What are you yelling about? That wasn't your car. You think you can drive whatever you want? Do you know how the Chief got home last night after you took it?"
The old man. Promised him the car, then snatched it back. Felix had no comeback.
"So how'd he—never mind. I don't have a car now."
Carles pointed. "That one. Ford Interceptor. Brand new. It's yours."