SEB reported in fast: they'd boxed in a car that matched the head suspect from the park cameras. He was confirmed and already dead.
He tried to run; SEB PITed him sideways. He fired from the seat; they turned the car into a strainer.
Then LAPD pushed an intel hit through the database: the last suspect was holed up in a Black neighborhood in Pasadena.
Mesa ordered a roll-out. Felix went with the stack—another sleepless sprint.
With local units leading, a dozen cruisers punched into the neighborhood.
Residents poured out, blinking at the lights. Perimeter deputies pushed them back from the target house—a typical two-story with a tiny yard and barely a meter between homes.
Units fanned front and rear. As doors cracked—
Pop-pop-pop.
Muzzle flashes ripped from the yard. Rounds smacked the cruiser at the gate.
Deputies ducked and sprinted for the neighbor's wall.
Felix sent a few faith shots into the yard, peeked—and saw no shooter, only a guilt-mark shimmering atop the fence line.
That was enough. He dropped the muzzle, sent three low shots.
[Host eliminated target. Progress 4/10.]
"I hit him! I hit him!" a deputy yowled nearby.
Felix glanced over—catcalling hero. Sure, you did. He let it go.
The yowler stepped out, started for the yard to check the body—
A head popped in an upstairs window. Two shots cracked.
"I'm hit!"
He crab-walked back behind a car. Medics went to work.
Felix took the window, but the shooter ducked.
Boom-boom-boom.
Tat-tat-tat.
He turned—half the line was already hosing the second floor. In seconds, the façade looked like a beehive.
Even after this long in uniform, it still made him wince. No warning, just woodchips. Appropriate?
"Don't shoot! I surrender!" a voice yelled from above.
"Throw the gun out!"
A pistol clattered from the window.
"Hands up! Out of the house!"
A man came down, hands high. Deputies slow-walked, then swarmed and cuffed him—dogpile style.
All he had to do was stay limp and cooperate. Instead he thrashed. "Why are you arresting me? What did I do?"
You tell us.
Other units cleared the yard. The body by the fence was Perry Kellerman—the one who jumped Green. DOA.
The surrendering male was a stranger—reason unknown for shooting at cops. Maybe no reason at all.
Inside, someone found a duty belt with a Glock 17—Green's.
With gunfire over, the crowd crept back, whispering and pointing.
The arrestee still fought the cuffs. Antrim had enough, drew his baton—Taser model—and drove it into the suspect. The man locked up, hit the ground, and was cuffed and stuffed.
Under a hundred wary eyes, they pulled out of the neighborhood.
Once clear, Felix exhaled. Nighttime in a packed community, two to three dozen deputies, and a crowd inches away—one stupid spark and you get a citywide riot. He wasn't afraid. He just didn't want that chapter. If it came to a street fight with a whole neighborhood, there'd be no half-measures. Headline nation-wide.
Tonight, luck held.
Back at the station, Felix headed for a cot and found Frank already there, scrolling his phone.
"Why aren't you home?" Felix asked.
"I'm not right. Don't want to bring it into the house."
"Talk to me."
Frank wet his lips, breathed out. "You know Green—the one killed. Thirty-plus years on. Four kids. Everybody called him Old Green. He mentored anyone who asked. Never chased rank—still a Deputy II. Said wearing the badge and keeping folks safe was enough. He trained me on my first day. He's my son Philip's godfather.
"Rick's in a hospital bed. Green's gone. The others—you may not know them. I do. I know every one. And I can't do a damn thing about it."
Felix sat with it. "It's not on you. We've already put bodies in the ground for them. There'll be benefits for the families. It will steady."
"I know. Doesn't make it sit right. They didn't do anything wrong."
"You want a drink?"
"No. I still have to drive home."
At least he kept to the book.
They went quiet and drifted off until a shout hit the room.
"Up! Suits on—big one. We need bodies!"
Felix rubbed gritty eyes. "What now?"
"Lomas 13 and Barrett Street are meeting at Twin Peaks. Word is one to two hundred showing. Anyone in-house is rolling—stand over them so they don't turn it into a war."
"My shift's almost over."
"It isn't yet. So you're going."
"Twin Peaks? Sounds… odd."
A deputy grinned and bumped him. "Exactly what you think."
Felix rolled with two dozen to Twin Peaks. One look inside and the name made sense. The peaks were big and white.
The place was a known chain—waitresses as the draw: curls, low-cut tanks, denim shorts, thigh-highs. Food optional.
Crowds lined up daily, some hands got bold, and most paid for it.
Tonight Felix saw only staff and a few civilians—not gang.
"Thought there was a sit-down," he said.
Frank scratched his head. "We're early for the net. They're not even awake. Settle in."
"So we're standing post?"
Frank tilted, shrugged, palms up.
Felix sighed. "I'll nap in the unit. Wake me."
He didn't know how long before Frank shook him. Felix took a water and glanced out: a Mexican crew was approaching.
A likely boss rolled a classic Cadillac; the others walked beside it like an honor guard.
Felix stepped out and studied the look—oversized jerseys, work pants, plaid, chains; some in shades. Hard eyes. Ink crawling to the jawlines; a few bare-chested, tattoos running face to waist.
From the other side, the Black crew arrived—similarly dressed, equally inked, moving with that practiced swagger.
Ink marked set, status, and job. Their bodies were their paperwork.
They closed the distance, stared, and said nothing. Pressure built.
Felix felt the itch, grabbed a shotgun, climbed onto Frank's hood, and shouted, "Nothing on the street! Or I put a round through somebody's ass. You hear me, trash?"
Heads snapped his way.
"What? Eat, go to jail, or get out!" Two hundred stares didn't move him.
A Mexican stepped from the Cadillac and headed for the doors; his people fell in.
A few hotheads cut throat signs at Felix. He tried to memorize faces for later. Impossible—same builds, same ink, nothing to hold.
Frank wiped sweat. "Why my car? What if they rush you?"
Felix lifted the shotgun. "That's why this. I drew ten boxes of twelve gauge on the way—hundred shells."
Frank rolled his eyes. "Genius."
Inside, the two sides split to opposite walls. The waitresses went to work: sit down, you order, you pay.
Tension bled off as they fluttered table to table. Eyes followed them instead of each other.
But nobody ordered. Not even a soda.
So the two hundred drifted back outside and squared off in the lot.
Foot soldiers were broke; drug money went up the chain. Skimming was a death wish.
With the women watching, some felt their pride crack.
The bosses kept cool—never short of company—but they saw the wobble. Better talk fast or lose the crowd.
The Lomas 13 boss took off his shades and opened his mouth—
The roar of engines drowned him.
A wave of bikers rolled in, hands high on ape-hangers—classic outlaw look, straight out of a movie.
In the States, "motorcycle clubs" often meant criminal outfits: Hells Angels, The Psychos, Wheels of Soul, Mongols. Leathers looked alike; the back patch told you who.
They roamed in packs, the whole city their turf. Miles together welded them tight—ride, eat, sleep rough, repeat.
Joining wasn't casual. Angels prospects needed a license and 750cc—buy or steal. A year's watch, then prospect purgatory: errand boy, driver, cleaner, eighteen-hour days. Rumor had it an FBI plant nearly burned out on pills just to keep pace. Only after a blooded deed did you make the cut.
The newcomers were Angels—maybe a hundred deep. They thundered to a stop at the doors, flipping both gangs out. Each side thought the other had cheated—calling in a third party.
A jumpy kid's hand sank into his waistband.
The Angels didn't care. They laughed, dragged chairs under the awning, and settled in—ready to watch if it all went loud.