Although they were pretty sure the wounded man was inside getting treated, Felix and the others couldn't just kick the door in. Even if the guy had a record and probably an illegal gun, this was a private residence. They needed a search warrant—signed by a judge.
Their grounds were weak. Strictly speaking, the men inside were victims. A judge could easily decide a search of a victim's location wasn't necessary to solve the case and deny the warrant. And it was the middle of the night; even if a judge would get out of bed and sign, they didn't have the time—by the time the paperwork cleared, the clinic would be empty.
There was another way. Felix found a pay phone and dialed 911, reporting a possible homicide inside the dental office: several men had gone in at once, some appeared armed, and there were blood-curdling screams. He requested a welfare check.
Dispatch promptly assigned the call to one of Carles's units—hard not to, with multiple cruisers already nearby.
Carles sent officers to cover the rear. Once set, he and Felix went to the front door and pounded. "Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department! Anyone inside? Open up!"
The answer was a clatter of metal and hurried footfalls.
"I hear something—possible exigent circumstances. Preparing to force entry!" he said for show, drew his sidearm, and nodded at Felix to breach.
Felix wasn't trained on tools, so he just kicked. The wooden door wasn't much—two kicks and the latch gave.
Guns up, they moved in. Blood drops led across the living room in a dark bloom, then tracked into a bedroom.
Shouting erupted out back."Police! Don't move! Hands up!""Let me see your hands!"Bang bang bang!Pop pop!
Carles and Felix exchanged a look and quickened toward the blood-trailed room—trusting their people to handle the rear.
Felix took the left, stacked on the hinge side, gave a nod.
Carles booted the door and slipped off-line. "Police! Hands—"
"Officer, my hands have been up," a voice said.
Inside: a surgical table with a bleeding man sprawled on it; two more on the floor waiting their turn. A white male in house clothes stood there, both hands high.
Carles put him down and cuffed him. "You licensed to practice medicine?"
"Of course. I'm a proper med-school grad."
"And this is what you do with it?" Felix checked the patients—bled out, barely any fight left.
The doctor shrugged. "Residency takes years. Pay's low. You barely get to touch a case. Here I've got my own clinic, plenty of procedures, clients aren't picky, they pay well. Perfect job."
Hard to argue the logic.
Carles sat him against the wall. "You're under arrest for unlawful practice, unlawful use of controlled substances, and patient abuse, among other things. Save it for the judge."
The doc didn't fuss—just started calculating.
Felix moved toward a drawer; Carles stopped him. "No warrant—don't touch. Even with one, you can't open containers outside scope. Civil rights."
Felix grimaced. Too many rules.
Officers from the rear dragged one man in and carried another. "These two jumped out a window. Both in custody. One fired at us; we returned fire and hit him."
"Good. Call for more units and medics."
Carles faced the uninjured man. "Were you at the Deodar Road grow tonight when the shooting started? Was it Lomas 13 that hit you?"
Silence.
Carles didn't push it. He headed out.
Felix followed. "You're done asking?"
"If he won't talk, I'm probably right."
"That won't hold up."
"It doesn't need to. Their boss will send someone to post bail. I just need a face-to-face with the bail man. That's as far as I can take it."
At least he knew the limits. Felix let out the breath he'd been holding.
Backup and EMS rolled in fast, but the three on the bedroom floor—including the one on the table—died on scene from delayed care. The runner who'd been shot would live.
The real value wasn't these men—it was the doctor. He had money. Fines would stick. The department was bleeding overtime; the coffers were thin.
By dawn they were back at the station. Felix stretched on a cot and failed to sleep, listening to war stories.
One officer: a domestic, a fruit knife, he fired a rubber round that hit the suspect in the groin—nearly sterilized him.Another: a guy crashed on meth, mistook his visiting girlfriend from Hawaii for a demon, killed her, then tried "magic first aid": cutting, bloodletting, even shoving a golf ball into the stomach. No resurrection; when he sobered up, he collapsed and ran.A third: a rape case; the victim ID'd the suspect by his hallmark—years of herbal tonics had ruined his breath. He jumped bail and was still gone.
"How've I never seen cases like this?" Felix asked.
"Work long enough, you'll see everything."
Felix scratched his head. "I'd prefer normal criminals. Less psychic damage."
Laughter. After that, sleep finally came.
He woke to shouting. Out in the hall, Antrim was nose-to-nose with Deputy Chief Robin.
"After all these years with LASD, this is what I get?""Antrim, that's not what we mean. We just need you to go home for a bit. When the heat dies down, you'll be back.""Save it. I followed policy. No issues. You're benching me because of optics. And if the optics get worse later—then what? Do I still 'come back'?""We'll do everything we can. Trust the department.""I don't."
It ended as fast as it started. Antrim slammed out, gone.
Felix found Frank. "What happened?"
Frank sighed. "That night with Green—remember the guy firing from the house? He surrendered, refused cuffs, and Antrim tapped him with the baton."
"I remember. So?"
"Bystanders filmed it. The upload is cut—only the takedown, not the lead-up. It's getting traction. Cybercrime flagged it to the chief. They benched Antrim to cool things off."
"Why's he so mad?"
"He's afraid he's the fall guy."
Fair point.
"What can we do?"
Frank gave him a look. "We're grunts. We can't do anything."
Before Felix could answer, Frank added, "Mark and I are going to see Rick at the hospital. You coming?"
"Of course. They allow visits?"
"His mom says yes. He's got a long way to go."
They picked up some supplies on the way. When they arrived, Rick's mom was washing his face while he squirmed like a kid. She smiled and went for a walk to give them the room.
"How are you feeling?"
Rick sighed. "Okay, except Mom treating me like I'm five."
"Then get better fast so she can stop."
"I'm trying."
"What do the doctors say?"
Rick's face dimmed. "I'll live. But the damage is bad. Lung injury—no strenuous work. Leg's broken. It's chair or crutches. Once I'm out… I can't be a cop."
The three stared. They hadn't expected that.
Frank forced a grin. "Being a cop isn't much—four twelves, three tens, no real time off, constant risk. If not for the job, you'd have met the right girl already."
Rick managed a small smile. "Yeah. Now I've finally got time to do what I want. Finance already came by. Top-tier disability. I'll have money. I can buy whatever I—"
He rolled over, face down, and broke.
They traded looks—helpless. Days ago everything was different. Now this.
When his mother returned, they left.
The others went home. Felix headed back to the station. Rachel texted she was with Lily and wouldn't be back that night. He stretched out and caught another nap.
Night fell. Time for another shift.
No sooner had he suited up than a call hit: a gun shop on E. Battilo had been hit; units needed.
They rolled. From a distance he saw an old pickup at the door, a heavy tow strap from its hitch tied to the reinforced entrance. The crew had just yanked the door clean off. No store can build a vault like a bank.
Lights flashed inside—suspects still there.
As the cruisers closed, the crew bolted, sprinting out loaded with rifles, slings, and bandoliers. Six or seven of them scattered into the dark in seconds.
The driver floored the pickup to flee, but not this time. One cruiser blocked him nose-to-nose, two more pinned the sides. Nowhere to go.
He panicked, leaned out the window, and fired at the car in front.
Felix didn't have time to bail. He dropped back in the seat and shot through his own windshield—two rounds, and the driver slumped.
He slid out, sprinted to cover behind a neighboring unit, and only then had time to mourn the fourth cruiser he'd seen shot up this month. Brutal.
"Inside! Sheriff's Department! Drop the guns and show your hands!"
Answer: a burst of gunfire. Felix ducked, moved wide, popped a quick peek—several men poured out draped in stolen weapons, firing as they ran.
Felix took the closest one, dropped him in a few shots, swung to the next. That one wore so many slings and belts it was like soft armor; hits rocked him but didn't drop him, and he vanished into the dark.
Other officers dropped two more. Four down total—that was it.
Felix edged up, quick-peeked—store empty now, a wreck inside. Every glass case smashed. Long guns, handguns, ammo—taken in piles, more spilled across the floor. Who knew how much was ruined.
When the owner saw this, he'd cry on the spot.