"I contributed way more than you—I was the first to spot it and call it in."
"Yeah, that's a big contribution."
Mark kept needling him; Felix lost interest. "What actually happened? When I saw it, that officer had zero guard up."
"I don't know much either," Mark said, lowering his voice after a glance around. "Heard Homeland Security was running something. They'd flagged the car and the guy. For some reason they didn't tail him themselves—just called CHP to stop and check. But they didn't flag him as extremely dangerous or armed. So the officer… wasn't ready."
"Bullshit. Where's Homeland? We're just letting that slide?"
"Of course not. That's why there are so many badges here—everybody's furious. We show unity, pressure them, give our brass leverage for the talks."
"And the talks get us what?"
"How would I know? I'm a beat cop. If a deal gets cut, it'll leak, and then we'll know."
"So do I get administrative leave?"
"Not sure. Call Carles."
"You don't know anything—what good are you?"
Getting nothing more from Mark, Felix got back in the car, leaving Mark rolling his eyes.
He eased off the freeway. He hadn't fired a shot, just followed; he wasn't on duty and had no enforcement authority—just a civic-minded witness. He could simply go. Time wasted, nothing else.
He drove home without further drama. Rachel went to wash up; Felix called Carles to ask whether he should report in or if he was on leave.
Carles was clear: on leave, duration TBD.
A dozen-plus dead in a gang clash is a big deal. Every officer who fired is benched while they sort who killed whom. The public won't buy that police only killed four. Twenty-some officers on scene and only four fatalities by police? Only a fool believes that.
The coroner's office had to weigh in. Preliminary reports showed Felix hadn't killed anyone—he'd hit some, but none were lethal. Which tracked; he'd never intended to use his duty gun for kills.
No fatalities credited to him meant he could return, but they'd wait for the full coroner report to be safe. Unless something urgent popped up, in which case he might be recalled early.
There was plenty urgent: over two hundred firearms seized on scene, each needing to be tied to a person and a case; who knew how many investigations would spin out.
Felix hung up, a spark in his eye. Maybe he could make something of this. He glanced at the bathroom—then decided to make something of someone first.
"Hey! What are you doing in here?"
"Turn around—I'll scrub your back. You can't reach."
"Scrub, fine. Why are your hands lower?"
"Two birds, one stone."
Time burned sweetly away. Rachel, legs jelly, fell asleep the second she hit the pillow.
Lesson learned, Felix pulled on gloves and topped off every spare mag for the unregistered pistol. Hooded black sweatshirt over a T-shirt, matching pants and shoes, a black sheet mask stuck to his face. He slipped out the window, edged down the ledge to the first floor.
A few blocks on foot, he boosted a bike from the curb and pedaled toward Ricci Crest.
He'd heard it earlier from chatter—Lomas 13's daytime negotiator, Carmen Hernandez, lived there. Not the boss, maybe number three, handling external business—good enough.
Felix planned to put him down. One, some people deserve it. Two, kick the hornet's nest—get Bloods and Crips tearing at each other again. The messier it got, the more chances to legally shoot; in chaos, maybe no "administrative leave" at all. Win-win.
Monterey Park wasn't far, but the bike still burned his legs. This was impulse, no prep—he didn't have a burner car prepped, could hotwire but preferred not to waste time. The unlocked bike was a gift.
Twenty minutes later, he rolled into a mixed immigrant neighborhood—cramped houses, noise close enough to hear your neighbor scold a kid word for word. Why a number three would live here, he didn't know. Money couldn't be the issue.
He stashed the bike, whispered in his head, Carmen Hernandez. A tug pointed him toward a particular house.
Felix slipped through backyard shadows—Silent Step earning its keep—threading past junk that would've betrayed him. At the fence he crouched and found simple traps set low. He eased around them and slipped into the yard.
Maybe I do have the makings of a hitter. Shame about no suppressor.
Two seconds into the thought, a shrill alarm screamed: Intruder! Intruder!
He spotted the infrared sensor on the fence and swore. A gang capo with a yard alarm? Embarrassing.
Lights flared inside; voices barked in Spanish and English. Felix gritted his teeth—he was here already. He drew the black pistol and dumped rounds through the wooden wall, moving off-line as he fired.
Shouts turned to return fire; holes punched the siding around him.
Crowded house. Comfortable, are we? Felix walked the muzzle toward the loudest voices and emptied two magazines. The system chime in his head ticked off two kills. Good enough. He ran.
People poured from nearby homes to gawk—some with guns. Felix obliged: anyone close and armed, he dropped. By the time he cleared the neighborhood, the tally was five.
More rubberneckers dead than the intended target's household. Don't chase the spectacle. The spectacle bites.
He cut into an alley, stowed the pistol, burned the mask, gloves, and hoodie in a trash can, ditched the bike, looped through a few back lanes, and stepped out as just another pedestrian.
Distant shouting followed him. He was mildly annoyed—should've expected a modern house to have alarms. Assassins had it rough these days.
Still, the point was to add fuel. Fire added.
An hour on foot got him home—no decent transport was a pain. Starving, he bought oden at a stand and headed back. He climbed the ledge, tossed clothes in the wash, showered.
Rachel was already eating oden when he walked out.
"Where'd you go? I opened my eyes and you were gone."
"Hungry. Grabbed food."
"Took that long?" She sniffed him lightly. "And you showered."
"Worked up a sweat. Needed it." He tapped her forehead. "My kidneys aren't great. I don't have the energy to chase anyone else."
"That's true," she said, mollified.
Felix smacked her backside a few times and dug into the oden.
She curled into his lap. "Only oden? Don't want… something else?"
He looked from the bowl to Rachel, torn. She whispered in his ear.
Felix dropped the skewer. "To hell with food. Let's go."
Curtains fell again; only kidneys paid the price.
If I meet you while you're young, I'll trade my truest heart for your deepest love…
Half-asleep, Felix pawed for his phone. 2 a.m. Carles. What now?
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?" Carles sounded urgent.
"Home. Sleeping. Why?"
"Gear up at the station, then get to my location."
"I'm on administrative leave."
"Cut it out. It's big. Move. I'll clear it with the chief."
The line went dead. Felix swore. Do I belong to you? Even foremen pretend roosters crow.
No choice. He dressed, geared up at the station, and drove to the pin Carles sent.
A small farm off Deodar Road—isolated, one driveway, one house. A private car out front, seven or eight cruisers, a dozen officers moving fast.
Felix stepped out and smelled it—thick iron in the air. Blood.
Carles waved him over.
Inside, the entry and living room were a sprawl of bodies—seven or eight men and women, all Black, all dead, riddled through. Party remnants everywhere—food, bottles, weed. Then someone turned the place into a killing floor.
"No survivors?"
"A few—hospital," Carles said, taking a tablet from an officer. "Watch this."
Felix played the exterior cam: road view with a slice of the front door. The place had been full, voices spilling outside. Two cars entered frame from the left, idled, then rolled off into the dark. Normal—until it wasn't.
Far down, both cars stopped. Figures climbed out—too dark to see faces. Inside the house, people started screaming. Bodies jerked; blood sprayed. Anyone who ran for the door fell before making it through.
One young man made it outside, drew a pistol, fired blind down the road. He took a round, stumbled back inside.
The cars U-turned, rolled back, and hosed the house again. Wood popped and spat splinters. When they ran dry, they left.
Two unhit survivors dragged a couple of wounded to a car and fled.
Felix handed the tablet back. "Bold. Didn't think L.A. still had shooters this brazen."
"Oh, plenty. Everyone's brazen except the public."
"Why am I here? Everyone's dead. What's the angle?"
"Early in the night," Carles said, "Lomas 13's number three took fire at home. He lived; two bodyguards died. Some nearby members too. Word is the shooter was Black. No prior on this farm, but the victims here tie to Barrett Street. And the crop out back is cannabis."
Felix blinked—Lomas moved fast. No waiting till morning.
He feigned shock. "So it's dog-eat-dog. Let them go at it—fewer problems for us."
Carles shook his head. "If they want to kill each other, I won't cry. But not at the expense of public safety. I want you with me to talk to their leadership."
Felix stared. He's serious? Walk in and 'warn' a gang boss? And walk out? Not a chance. He pivoted. "Even if that's the play, you're not the guy. You don't know them—they won't take a meeting. And not at night. Daylight or nothing."
Carles nodded, about to answer, when an officer jogged up. "Data Unit got IDs on the fleeing vehicles. Do we move?"
"We move now. Leave a few for Gangs and CSU. Everyone else with me."
Felix fell in with the convoy. They wound back into San Gabriel and cut down a side street toward… a dental clinic.
Dentists are magnets for crews: actual medical training, gear outside a hospital, easy street access. Micromills and drills aren't ideal, but they'll pull bullets. Stock a few full-size tools and you've got a backroom OR.
Willing or not doesn't matter. Unwilling surgeons get one-way tickets. Someone always says yes—there's money, and crews prefer not to waste a useful black-market doctor.