What began as a solemn sit-down got scrambled—first by Felix, then by a biker crowd showing up for the spectacle.
Both bosses—Lomas 13 and Barrett Street—figured the talks were probably dead.
They wanted to leave, but not in front of their soldiers.
They stood close, staring, saying nothing. Their crews grew impatient; with no order to start anything, many drifted inside to hit the bathrooms—fair, they'd been standing forever.
Felix, hand on his pistol, waited for the spark, getting antsy himself.
Command had barred him from firing the shotgun—too many bodies on scene, too much risk of stray pellets. Felix didn't care; the department did.
Watching the crowd trickle into the restrooms, he felt the disappointment settle.
Then shouting blew out from inside the restaurant.
"You pissed on my shoes! Look what you did!"
"Yeah, I did. So what?"
"Lick it clean."
"You're sick. I'm not doing that."
"Come out if you've got guts."
"You want to die? I'll help."
A Mexican came storming out, threw a look over his shoulder. A Black banger strutted after him, chin high, hands signaling.
The Mexican didn't indulge him—he shoved. The other shoved back.
Two-man scuffle turned into a circle of fists in seconds.
Felix shouted, excited, "It's on! We going in?"
"For what? Let 'em. No guns, no bodies—stay out of it."
The fight swelled—ten, fifteen men piling in. One kid got stomped and crawled, then slipped on a set of brass knuckles. He bear-hugged the Mexican's leg and smashed a punch home.
The Mexican screamed. The kid grinned and rained blows, painting him red.
A second Mexican ripped off a heavy chain and whipped it across the kid's back, tearing his shirt.
The kid rolled, howling. The chain man kept kicking, then looped the chain around the kid's neck and pulled.
Another banger ditched his own opponent, jump-kicked the chain man flat, yanked a pair of nunchucks from his waistband, and went to work.
It was chaos—and the spectators loved it. The cops watched; the Hells Angels, closer than anyone, were delighted—standing, sipping colas, chewing burgers, hooting and egging it on.
One of the younger bangers snapped. "Shut the hell up!"
The bikers paused—then charged, swearing. They weren't saints. A fight was an invitation.
Biker trick: big metal rings across the knuckles. Saves time reaching for tools.
One punch left a four-ring stamp on the kid's cheek; a tooth flew.
That did it.
The kid drew a pistol and fired at the charging Angel.
Bang.
Credit to America: trained reflexes. At the first shot, heads ducked, legs ran. The Twin Peaks servers, all long legs, sprinted like ghosts—gone in a heartbeat.
A fistfight doesn't scare bosses; people rarely die from punches.
Gunfire changes the math. If one side shoots, the other won't stay holstered. The bosses wanted to shout "no guns," but the stampede had started. They ran too—bullets don't check rank.
For all their swagger, most gangsters run fast when guns talk. Big men sprinted like sprinters.
Not everyone ran. Seeing the first shot, others drew. Gunfire stitched the air. Bodies fell.
They'd come prepared—this was a "talk," after all. A Mexican popped the Cadillac's trunk, pulled out an AK, and swept the lot.
Answering him, a rival lifted an AR-15. Two lines traded fire.
Bad day for the bikers. No long guns on them; you don't ride freeways with rifles unless you want the highway patrol to tear your life apart. With nowhere to hide a rifle on a bike, they stuck to pistols.
"What now?"
"What do you think? Put them down."
Sergeant Anderson snarled, "Gas and bangs! Break them up! Target anyone with a rifle!"
Felix relaxed. He picked a covered angle, fired a few token shots, then palmed the suppressed pistols from his stash and went to work on every red-tag target he could see. Same model on both pistols—no one could sort it by sound.
Other deputies only wondered who was running that fast a cadence with that much accuracy.
He wasn't even the harshest—some deputies locked onto their ARs and wouldn't let go. In moments the asphalt was littered with bodies—some hit, some wisely prone.
As the return fire thinned out—
"Cease fire! Cease!" Anderson ordered.
Felix cut it, stooped when no one was watching, and policed his own brass into the pocket dimension—then checked his "rewards."
[Mission complete. Rewards: (1) +1 free attribute point; (2) Passive: Tireless; (3) Passive: Low-Light Vision.
Tireless: Some people work brutally long hours and bounce back after two or three hours' sleep—iron men. Sadly, more common among winners than wage earners; maybe doing it for yourself keeps the soul happy.
Low-Light Vision: Under starlight, moonlight, torchlight, or similar dim light, you can still distinguish color and fine detail as if it were daytime (inspired by D&D elves).]
With Tireless, Felix's fatigue vanished. Mind sharp, body light. He dropped the free point into Constitution and felt a subtle lift everywhere.
Anderson scanned the battlefield and blinked. Since when were his people this effective? So many down in so little time.
He let the mystery go and called for more units, then pushed forward.
"Nobody move! Prone, hands on your head!"
"Hands where I can see them!"
Teams of two worked the edges inward, kicking guns away into piles for CSI to sort later—angry as they'd be.
The unwounded were cuffed where they lay—no searches yet; better to keep them down and avoid chain-of-custody chaos. Suffer on the asphalt.
The wounded got cuffs too. Old rule: hold pressure if you can. If not, fate decides.
While the line cuffed, Felix scattered "his" spent brass from storage back across the lot—seeded like dandelion fluff. If ballistics matched these with the Boyle Heights warehouse case, it would point the earlier shooting at gang actors, not him.
When everyone on the ground was secured, Felix did a rough count: about fifteen dead, nearly twenty wounded. Another big scene. He could already picture Mesa's pained expression.
Backup, birds, and ambulances poured in.
Medics grinned grimly and started loading—business had been good lately.
With guns collected under guard, three stragglers crept out of nearby buildings, hands high, and surrendered. Their weapons soon piled up into a small hill.
Big talkers turned meek—line them up, and two officers could handle a dozen at a time.
Seeing the cavalry fully on scene, Felix cleared his weapon and headed out. He'd been bone-tired, now he wasn't. Time to go home and let the rain pound the banana leaves.
He burst into the apartment. Rachel was on the sofa, crying. Tears everywhere.
"What happened? Hey—talk to me." He wiped at the tears. They fell faster. His gut tightened. "Say something."
"You sat on my iPad…"
He looked down. Bent aluminum. That explained the weird pinch he'd felt.
"I'll buy you another."
"With whose money? I give you money. You buying me one is me buying one."
Okay—so it's ledger season.
He swerved. "Were you crying before I got back? Homesick? Did you fight with Lily? Groceries too expensive? Burned dinner again? Broke the toilet seat cleaning the ceiling and fell in?"
She'd almost stopped at "money." Now the tears returned.
"You think I'm dumb…"
"You look smart. Reality says otherwise. College shouldn't rely only on test scores."
"You—!"
She leapt to claw him. He caught her easily, lifted her, tossed her onto the bed. The storm passed, the leaves were washed.
After, Rachel lay against his chest. "Your back okay now?"
Felix laughed. "From now on, I stand tall."
"Right, right—you stand tall."
"You still haven't said why you were crying."
"Do you know Stranger Things?"
"Heard of it."
"So you cried at TV?"
"Yeah."
He exhaled hard. "Good. I thought the family curse of infertility had kicked in early."
Her brows knotted. "You don't want kids with me?"
"Not before marriage."
"Fine. You have a conscience." She huffed and went to get dressed.
Felix wiped sweat from his brow. Close call—talked his way out.
"Are you working tonight, or catching up on sleep?"
"I napped at the station. Not tired. I'll see about the shift."
He still wasn't sure about admin leave. He'd fired openly, but hadn't killed anyone with the visible gun; and no one had said otherwise when he drew his ammo. Hard to say.
Rachel darted back in, bright-eyed. "Let's go out! Do you know how long it's been since we went out?"
"We just went out—on the bed."
She wacked him with a pillow. "Not that!"
"Okay! Okay! Out-out. Now."
"Where?"
He blinked. "It was your idea."
"I'm asking you. Pick."
He gave in, pulled up a Chinese forum for ideas. "Orange County fairs… it's all fairs. Let's see… Ah. Director Ni Dahong's stage play Seven Radishes, One Hole. I've heard my dad mention it. At the Arcadia Performing Arts Center—not far. You study art; we can soak in some culture."
Rachel wrinkled her nose, then nodded. "Better than nowhere."
"Exactly. Let's move."