Felix was driving Rachel to the play. They'd barely cleared the neighborhood when a motorcycle blew past—then another, then a whole column, loud and showy.
"Why so many bikes?" she asked.
"Turn on the radio."
*"KTLA reports a major shootout this morning at Twin Peaks. The clash began as a negotiation between the Black gang 'Barrett Street' and the Latino gang 'Lomas 13.' A verbal dispute became a fistfight, then escalated to gunfire, pulling in nearby Hells Angels members. Police who had pre-staged the area deployed smoke and fired on armed participants. Officially, officers discharged twelve rounds, killing four, but more than sixty casings were recovered; sixteen dead, eighteen wounded in total.
It's the second large-scale gunfight in short order after the Boyle Heights warehouse incident. Ballistics at Twin Peaks matched casings from Boyle Heights—police call it a major break.
One hundred seventeen alleged gang members were arrested. A Hells Angels spokesperson claimed their people were innocent diners. In response, the club has organized citywide rides to pressure police to release those detained."*
Felix snorted. Innocent bystanders? They swung harder than the other side.
He slid past the bike line and headed north. Arcadia was close to San Gabriel—ten minutes, tops. He realized he'd never really strolled this area with Rachel. No wonder she'd been a little sour—everybody wants time together. Well, everybody except kidneys.
The play—by "Su Daqiang"—followed seven ordinary Chinese immigrants—students or stowaways—sharing a roof and the bitter-sweet grind of survival. Felix was out cold within minutes; he'd basically paid for a nap. He cracked an eye for the curtain call: offstage, the lead looked like a worn-out old man with heavy eye-bags, shy and withdrawn. Fang Fang beside him looked much livelier.
Ni Dahong, though, was gracious—never refused a photo, even humored fans with heart hands, and asked Felix if he'd slept because the acting was bad.
After the show they ate at Sichuan Impression: Jincheng, a perennial on Eater LA's lists. Décor screamed Chengdu—white pleated lamps, oak tables, moon-gate partitions, matching bowls and chopsticks. The cat-rabbit condiment jars held peppercorn, Sichuan pepper, and salt.
For $69 they "ordered" spicy finger-licking crab, bo-bo chicken, chili-fried chicken, mapo tofu, two rices, two house wines—really a family combo for three, but who's counting. They ate till they were glowing.
Rachel still wouldn't go home. She hooked his arm and wanted to wander. Felix figured he should actually date his girlfriend sometimes; a man can't always be pounding banana leaves.
They were happily walk-and-snacking when shouting flared ahead.
Felix's eyes lit. He tugged Rachel toward the noise. Great, he thought. I'm turning into the locals.
Two women were going at it—one in tight black athleisure, one in a white tee—words flying too fast for Felix to parse. Two foot patrol officers arrived almost instantly, each grabbed one woman and shoved them apart: "Move along. Not on the street."
Each woman had a couple of male friends who hustled them away. The one in black wriggled free, lunged back, the officer yanked harder, and she hit the pavement. She sprang up blazing. The woman in white smirked; the athlete exploded, slapped her, then yanked her T-shirt down. Mosaic followed.
Out in public with no bra? Classy.
Say this much: the mosaic impressed.
Felix leaned in for a better angle—then hands covered his eyes.
"Enjoying the view?" Rachel said.
"Ahem. Viewing critically."
He peeled her hand away. The white-shirt woman had covered up—disappointing. He shot Rachel a look that said, Explain that.
Two shots cracked not far behind them.
Felix grabbed Rachel's head and dragged her behind a car.
The patrol cops dumped the fight and sprinted toward the gunfire, drawing as they ran and calling it in. They fired on the move, dropped a suspect behind a car—right guy or not, who knew. Before they could check, more shots up the block.
Forget checking—live one first. They bolted toward the second scene. Felix looked up—7-Eleven. A gunman burst out with something in hand, froze at the sight of the cops, then fired and ran. The officers already had sights up and emptied their mags. Administrative leave, guaranteed.
Even Felix felt the rush. No room to cut in, though—frustrating to just watch. He turned— the two fighters had vanished. At least he didn't have to spin a story.
Back in the Cadillac XT4, Rachel was quiet. Felix wondered if he'd stepped on a landmine. He couldn't place it. Best to let it cool.
"Am I too small?" she asked suddenly.
"Too small? You're twenty."
"My chest."
He glanced. A-cup—no denying.
"It's fine. Small can be cute."
Instead of comfort, she flared. "I knew it! You stared at that woman. Just admit you like big ones!"
"I don't like her type. I like you."
"Really?"
"Really. Fair skin, pretty face, long legs—you've got all three. I'm into you."
(And you're loaded, he didn't add.)
She brightened. "Sweet talker. Ten extra dollars of allowance this month."
Felix went silent.
Up ahead, a cruiser had a silver sedan stopped. An officer was at the passenger window. The driver suddenly stepped out with a rifle, swung around the trunk, and shot the cop twice, then finished him and sprinted back to the car.
"Call it in!"
Felix told Rachel while he stomped the gas. The silver sedan jumped to 140 kph and climbing.
"Nine-one-one? Foothill and Route 66 westbound! A man just executed an officer! Silver sedan, we're following in a white Cadillac—send units!"
When she hung up, Felix said, "Want me to drop you somewhere safe?"
"No. Just drive." She clutched the grab handle as Felix knifed through traffic.
The suspect noticed the tail and started weaving. Useless on open freeway; without teleportation, he could only drag out the gap.
A CHP unit roared up, lights and siren. The trooper looked over; Felix flashed his badge and pointed ahead. The trooper nodded and surged.
He tried a PIT, clipped the sedan's right rear, made it fishtail and tear the bumper, but the driver saved it. The CHP car slammed the center divider.
Great work, Felix muttered, and shot past to keep contact. Two more units joined; he yielded the lane.
The cruisers tried for another PIT; the suspect started blocking—side to side, no opening.
Up ahead, two units staged on the shoulder. A trooper pulled a spike strip across, but with civilian traffic still flowing he couldn't throw it far enough in. The sedan threaded past it and kept screaming. The trooper cursed, yanked the strip, and jumped back in.
Soon there were eight patrol cars behind the silver sedan, with more joining from ramps. Civilians yielded or exited; the highway became a parade of one suspect and a river of blue-and-red.
With traffic clear, another spike deployment worked—tires shredded. The driver didn't brake—just rode the rims, sparks showering. He knew stopping meant death.
Then the Sheriff's tactical truck muscled through, siren bullying cruisers aside. It took point, hammered the sedan's tail, and shoved it up onto the dirt berm.
The driver still wasn't done—he clawed out a handgun and fired at the armor. SWAT returned fire through the ports. Units piled out behind and poured rounds in.
By the time they stopped, the sedan looked like a strainer. Felix even saw one officer run up and add a couple more—someone wanted time off.
Felix stayed put. No uniform, no marked unit, badge on his chest or not—no need to gift himself problems. Besides, the man was dead. No "reward" left.
"Why are you here?"
Felix turned. Mark.
"You're here. Why can't I be?"
"I responded to the call. You responded in a personal car?"