Whether the gun shop owner cried didn't really matter. After the report went up the chain, Deputy Chief Robin showed up and watched the staff tally the losses.
The final count turned his face to stone: more than twenty rifles, over fifty handguns, and tens of thousands of rounds gone.
"What are they planning?" Robin roared.
Everyone knows gangs have guns, but a lot of those are technically bought over the counter—new if they can afford it, used if they can't. Truly unregistered "ghosts" aren't the majority. A raid this large meant a plan, and if something big happened, that missing inventory would land squarely on the station commander.
"Get every unit on the street. Have Data pull every camera on the route. We will find them!"
The room traded looks and filed out. Truth was, chances were slim. There aren't many city cameras, and anyone bold enough to yank a gun shop door with a truck has a getaway mapped. Stash a few cars nearby, load up, switch rides, and they're ghosts. What, stop every car driven by a young guy?
And anyway—this is a paycheck. You do your best in a sudden gunfight, sure. But volunteering to hunt a van full of guns all night? That's another level of risk.
"Felix, don't turn your weapon in yet. Ride patrol with them and hand it over with your report in the morning."
He scratched his head. Fine. Administrative leave was getting harder to "earn." Given how chaotic things had gotten, he got it.
…Unless he was the jinx. No way. Absolutely not.
His fourth cruiser had been shot up again and needed the shop. Night shift meant no spare pool cars, so he climbed into Mark's unit for a two-man patrol.
Felix settled into the passenger seat and directed Mark in lazy loops. That's patrol: roll through, be visible, make would-be offenders think twice. Spend extra time in the wealthy tracts; skip the rough ones if you can—taxes and donations run the budget, and donors expect service.
Dispatch cut in: "Adam 29, officers on Jenny Street have a suspect vehicle and request backup. Respond."
Mark acknowledged and rolled.
It was a service‐bar's back lot off a narrow alley. One car had caught an officer's eye. No streetlights. Pocket flashlights and the bar's glow weren't enough to clear the risk. Better to call friends.
Felix and Mark linked up with the two first officers. Two cruisers boxed the suspect car front and rear; four officers fanned out.
Since the other two had the stop, they handled the approach; Felix and Mark covered.
The driver was still seated—looked calm, not jumpy. If he were dirty, he'd have bolted already.
"Turn your interior light on, roll down your window, and put your hands on the wheel where I can see them—slowly, please."
"Okay, officer. I don't have a gun in the car, so please don't be nervous."
He complied—twenties, white, nervous but polite.
"Good. Now slowly grab your license, insurance, and registration. I need to run them."
"Do I have to?"
"You don't. But I won't let you leave. I have reasonable suspicion about your vehicle. If you refuse, I'll apply for a warrant. Until that arrives, you're detained to prevent further violations. It's late; a judge may not sign until morning. You want to sit here till dawn?"
The kid blinked, thought it over, and surrendered his rights—opened the console, handed over the papers.
The officer shrugged. Gotcha. Complain if you want—on a nothingburger like this, a complaint goes nowhere.
He ran the info on the MDT, came back: "You're clear, but your tag sticker's expired. I'm citing you. Get it renewed."
"Come on, officer, cut me a break. I'm a good citizen—no record."
"Exactly why you're still in the car. But the ticket stands."
Five hundred bucks isn't getting waived. If it did, we'd all starve.
Bored with the back-and-forth, Felix scanned the lot. A man walking near the wall by the bar caught his eye—hood up, both hands buried in the sweatshirt, bulges at the waist. Red halo in Felix's inner sense.
"Mark—look by the bar—"
Mark had just turned when the man moved—pulled a rifle from under the hoodie and raked the restaurant.
BRRRRRT—
Full-auto. Glass exploded; inside turned to screaming.
Felix drew, sprinted a few steps to tighten the angle near the fence, shouted, "Police!" and fired. Too far—two clean misses. The shooter snapped toward them and returned fire.
Felix dove behind a car; rounds hammered metal and glass.
"Shots fired! Shots fired!"
The ticketing officer flung the citation into the driver's lap—money never sleeps—and the kid peeled out.
Mark ducked behind a dumpster, popped two rounds, ducked back. The original officers were pinned by the volume.
"I thought civilians can't buy full auto!"
"Yeah, and campaign slogans make countries great by themselves!"
Felix rolled his eyes. Point taken.
Suddenly the firing stopped. The shooter was running, fumbling at his pockets.
"He's dry!"
"Engage!"
All four pushed muzzle out and lit him up. The man staggered and disappeared behind a wall.
"Vests!"
Felix yanked open the trunk, tossed one to Mark, shrugged into his own, then grabbed the shotgun. Close range favors a twelve-gauge.
"Hold here and keep eyes on. We're flanking!"
"Maybe wait for backup!"
"By then he's gone!"
Fine—let him run, Mark thought. But Felix was already moving. He swore and followed.
Felix advanced fast along the fence, then slowed at the corner, hugging the wall. Mark offset to cover from the far angle.
No chime from Felix's "sense." He couldn't be sure. But during that sprint the shooter had hiccuped—a hit, most likely.
Felix nodded to Mark, picked a loose half-brick from the cap course, and chucked it.
Clack.
No response fire.
He risked a snap look. The man lay prone, rifle just out of reach—an AR-pattern.
"He's down. Moving."
Felix bounded into the open. The man didn't move. Mark slid past, booted the rifle farther. They circled, Felix kicked the suspect's hands free, cuffed him tight.
"You good?" one of the original officers called, finally breaking cover.
"Clear. He's hit—don't know who tagged him. He's in cuffs."
Felix checked the wounds—three hits to center mass. No wonder he'd crawled behind cover and quit moving. Barely breathing now.
Felix didn't bother with first aid. "What's he doing mag-dumping a bar?"
The other officer glanced at the building. "Place has gang ties. Which, not sure."
Another gang beef. Los Angeles, meet Los Santos.
They chatted, not eager to step into the bar. If the house carries, you can catch a crossfire. As for casualties—luck and timing. EMS would sort it.
Backup arrived, loaded the shooter, and checked the bar. Plenty of panic, only two gunshot wounds—brick walls, few windows, and the shooter didn't have time to hose more.
"Confirmed: the rifle isn't registered—illicit build. Converted to full-auto with a swapped lower and fire-control group. Shooter's ID'd as a Barrett Street member; the bar's tied to Lomas 13. Looks like payback."
Sergeant Greene, the supervisor, looked at Felix and exhaled. "Felix… head back and write it up. Call it a night."
"Copy." Felix turned in gear and rode back with Mark.
"He looked at me like I enjoy this," Felix grumbled. "We were backing a traffic stop and a guy opens up on a bar. What am I supposed to do—not shoot back?"
Mark glanced over, thought better of whatever he was going to say, and let it go.
Back at the station, four of them started reports. By now, Felix could write these in his sleep—no template needed.
They were halfway through when a roar swept the building. Felix cracked the door. Officers were grabbing gear and sprinting out.
He found Linda. "What happened now?"
"Two officers tried to stop a suspicious car. The driver fired from inside. Both officers hit, unit disabled. Everyone's rolling to the pursuit."
"Want me in it?"
She hesitated. "Better not. Finish your reports."
He pouted. Paperwork is the worst. But two shootings in one night—no skipping the forms.
He finished, crashed in the dorm. He'd gotten used to the smells—socks, bodies—and the chainsaw chorus of snores. After a while, you don't smell or hear a thing. You sleep hard.
Perfect for insomniacs: either knocks you out or cures you.
He woke when he woke. Linda had finally gone to sleep. He swiped two of her donuts. Dry sugar rocks when you're hungry; paired with an iced Americano bitter enough to see God, it wakes you right up.
Carles shuffled in, wrecked. Caught Felix mid-bite and snorted.
"Want one?" Felix lifted a hand.
"Nice to see you've got a heart. Sharing donuts, huh." Carles grabbed one and chomped.
"I'll get you coffee."
Felix stepped off. When he came back with two cups, Linda was reading Carles the riot act. "You ate all my donuts? That was my breakfast—I worked all night too! And my coffee—my diet coffee—you finished it? Really, Carles?"
"I only had one. Felix ate the rest—"
"Felix isn't even here. You did it and won't own it?"
Yeah, I'm not walking into that. Felix drank one cup himself.
Unable to explain, Carles promised to replace her coffee and donuts. He set his duty belt down and headed out to buy them.
"What's with you two?" Felix strolled up, all innocence, and offered the other cup. "Brought you coffee."
"At least you are thoughtful," Linda huffed. "Not like Carles, he—"
POP POP POP POP
Gunfire snapped outside the station.
Felix froze for a beat, then pitched the cup, ripped his sidearm off the belt, and charged the door.
Carles lay on the pavement, clutching a bleeding wound. A man with a handgun was sprinting away.
Felix snapped up, sent five rounds after him—too far, all misses.
"Carles!"
He holstered and dove to his side.
"Just my luck," Carles grimaced. "Went out for donuts, he sees me and opens up. Maniac. Belly and arm—both hit."