Felix took the Interceptor key with a sigh, handed the Dodge Pursuit key back to Carles, then found his gear bag beside Linda—the poor thing had been dragged all over creation.
He stowed his stuff, changed into uniform, and headed to a conference room for the internal review. Knocked, stepped in—well, well: Chief Mesa, and Sam from Internal Affairs.
No one from the DA's office. Not ideal.
As expected, the two shooting reports he'd scribbled last night had been polished within an inch of their lives—reading like the model work of a spotless officer. They asked a few perfunctory questions and cut him loose.
By then it was dark. He was turning into Frank—every night a night shift.
Felix went looking for Carles, stepped into his office, and opened the mini-fridge. Empty. Not even a cold Coke.
"Your fridge is empty. Time to restock."
Carles had been grinning like a fox. At that, he froze; the smile died. "Soda's bad for you. Affects fertility. From now on, water."
"I'm young; I'll risk it. You've already got three kids and you're worried about that… Want a folk remedy? Goji berries in a thermos—good for the kidneys."
"You got business or not? If not, out!" He slid a hand to block the maca in his own mug.
Felix left. No cold Coke, no conversation. He took the new car out. The Interceptor ran hard enough, but it still felt a shade short of the Pursuit.
The radio news rolled:
"L.A. Flash: Three young Black men were shot in their neighborhood yesterday—one dead on scene, two stabilized at the hospital. The shooter fled by car; police are tracking. Notably, the victims have gang affiliations—a Bloods subset. At the Boyle Heights music-warehouse shooting, suspects shouted Bloods slogans and rival taunts. Whether last night's attack is an extension of that incident remains unclear. Police declined comment. We'll continue to follow."
"Breaking: A firefight at the Siesta Motel last night—over 500 rounds exchanged, a small war. Our investigation shows the suspect lured deputies with a false 'knife assault' call, then ambushed them—one deputy dead, one wounded. More units arrived; the suspect caused another death and two more injuries before being killed. The wounded are stable. The deceased suspect is Patrick Voss, former U.S. Army, awards include the National Defense Service Medal, Army Service Ribbon, and a Rifle Marksmanship Bar—reportedly a model soldier. Sources say he fought police to avenge his brother, Luca Voss, killed while fleeing a narcotics case. FBI and Army had no comment."
How did a reporter know more than a sworn deputy? Felix was still chewing on that when dispatch cut in:
"Adam Three-Eighty-Eight, Adam Sixty-One—drive-by at the Forest Road gas station. Respond."
"Copy. En route."
Barely on the clock and another shooting. For the pay? Untaxed, barely over five grand a month—blood money.
He grumbled, but turned hard for the station. Staff had already fled to the curb—last time a gas-station shootout ended with a clerk catching a round. They'd learned.
Felix drew and advanced. A bike lay toppled beside a pump, pinning two men beneath it—both Black. One groaned for help; the other didn't move.
"Help me! I'm hit!"
"I'll call an ambulance."
"No! I can't pay!"
Pawn the motorcycle? Wouldn't cover it. Figure it out yourself.
"Dispatch, Adam Three-Eighty-Eight. Two GSWs at the station. Send EMS."
"Copy."
Adam 61 arrived. They spoke with the on-duty manager.
"I'm the manager." She pointed at the two under the bike. "They pulled in to fuel. Another motorcycle rolled up behind them—passenger opened fire, then they took off. We called it in."
"Can we see your CCTV?"
"Of course."
They watched the feed: the two victims rode in and stopped; before they dismounted, a second bike slid up behind. Two aboard: driver in a white jacket, helmet, backpack; passenger in a red T-shirt, ball cap, face mask. The passenger fired five shots. The rear victim took four and folded. The driver took one, fell onto his partner. Moral: don't ride pillion.
"Dispatch, Adam Three-Eighty-Eight. BOLO: two-up motorcycle, driver as described, passenger in red tee, cap, mask. Broadcast."
"Copy."
Felix burned a copy of the footage. EMS loaded the wounded; a tow would handle the bike. Crime-scene techs took the lot; Felix and 61 rolled to canvass nearby, hoping to spot the shooters.
Nothing. Motorcycles were ghosts—duck a few alleys, stash the ride, and they vanished.
He was about to call it when the radio snapped: "Adam Three-Eighty-Eight, be advised: Adam Fifty-Three has eyes on suspects—west side of Santa Fe Dam Rec Area, along the Arrow Highway. Requesting assist."
"Three-Eighty-Eight, copy."
A park. No wonder the trail went cold. He'd kept thinking alleys; they'd gone the other way.
Near the park, the radio flared: "Adam Fifty-Three: suspects ditched the motorcycle and ran into the park. I'm on foot—"
"Do not pursue, Green! It's too dark—dangerous!" another unit barked.
"I'm almost on them—uh—"
"Green? Green!"
Felix didn't like the sound of that. He pushed into the lot, grabbed his flashlight, and started searching.
It was a big park—three, four kilometers across—and it ran straight toward the San Gabriels. They could be halfway to the foothills by dawn.
One circuit, nothing. He was about to cue his target-indicator when two more beams approached—Frank and a deputy Felix didn't know.
"Felix, you got Green?"
"No. Too dark, too much ground."
Frank bit down. "He's not answering. His last transmission sounded wrong. I'm calling it—requesting a wider response."
Felix and the other deputy traded a look, then nodded. "Do it."
Within minutes, a dozen more arrived—Carles among them. "Do not drift. Maintain spacing. Check in on the radio with your position regularly."
"Yes, sir."
They swept with lights, shouting Green's name. Nothing.
Half an hour later, the search area still small, Carles' face turned to stone. "We can't keep doing this. We need the main station."
He called Mesa. The Chief arrived furious and tore into him first. After venting, he phoned the park police for camera access; then the East Patrol supervisor to spin up Air Support and K9.
Park police showed first. After times and locations were pinned down, they scrubbed feeds on a laptop and finally found Green: chasing two runners with his flashlight when a shadow burst from the side, tackled him, and the two runners doubled back. Three men subdued Green and hauled him off.
"Keep going. Track them farther," Mesa snapped.
The park cop shook his head. "No cameras deeper in. Budget."
"Carles—you pull exterior cams. I want these three ID'd yesterday—names, addresses, history, everything."
Carles took off.
"Show us the grab site," Mesa said to the ranger.
"Follow me."
More units poured in—over forty now. The ranger swallowed and led them to the spot from the video. They found blood. Green's body cam lay in the brush.
They spread out, working a few hundred meters in every direction. Nothing.
Then rotor thump rolled overhead. K9 handlers and SEB arrived. Mesa hailed the pilot and tasked a perimeter sweep for anyone leaving the park.
K9 handlers scented off the body cam and the blood. The dogs went wild and lunged forward.
"Ten with K9. Everyone else—cars on every exit and feeder road. Stop and search. Do not let them out."
Felix didn't want to sit on a roadblock. He fell in behind the dogs and pinged his skill—find Green Niewicz. The pull in his chest matched the dogs' line. Credit where due: the dogs were good.
If he'd been alone he would've leaned hard on the skill; with this many eyes, he couldn't. On paper, he wasn't a tracker—especially not on mountain trails at night. That would have to be eased in slowly.
An hour on, the dogs exploded into barking. Exhausted deputies snapped awake, guns out, closing on the point.
Felix raised his light. A boot. A few steps more—a man in uniform on the ground.
"Green!" A friend recognized him and dropped to his knees.
"Multiple gunshots," the deputy said through his teeth. "They took his sidearm and his duty belt."
"Keep moving. We don't stop. I'll call it in."
"Copy!"
Thirty minutes later, the radio cracked again:
"Shots fired! Shots fired!"
"Suspect down! Suspect down!"
"All units inside the park be advised: interrogation and camera pulls confirm two remaining suspects fled the park. SEB is pursuing. Mark Deputy Green's remains with chem-lights and move to a safe location. Air Support will bring CSI and evacuate the body."
The K9 handler ringed the body with glowing sticks and led the column out.
Felix grabbed a breath and checked the arrested suspect: early twenties, Black, hands cuffed behind him, bleeding from a few places, face bruised—interrogation had been…energetic. A knot of deputies waited for the lead interviewer to pull more.
He wasn't a hard case. He cracked fast: member of Denver Lane Bloods, a Bloods subset around the San Gabriel Valley. That day, a shot-caller told him to ride with a partner and hit two targets—the men on the motorcycle at the gas station—who were Rollin 60's Crips.
He recited lore: Crips rooted in Compton; Bloods formed later as payback. The two loose federations feud endlessly—street gunfights like weather, kids armed by grade school.
Loose coalitions meant loose rules. Even beefs not your own pulled you in if the colors matched.
After the hit, he said, he and his partner went to collect from the boss—only to have Green catch up. They were "smart," didn't want to kill a cop, so they took Green to the boss instead. The boss, he claimed, put Green down and finished him.
Felix didn't buy the clean division of guilt. A boss who sees two idiots drag a cop to his door… and doesn't kill them too? Why not just run and stiff them their fee? And who actually fired the fatal shots—was the kid really clean?
Didn't matter yet. The priority was grabbing the other two.