Carles was still smiling, but Felix couldn't. The guy had a hole in his gut—how could he laugh?
Felix pressed a hand to the wound and shouted to the officers running out, "Get a trauma kit—now!"
One cop sprinted for the kit; another, who knew his way around first aid, knelt to check Carles's injuries.
One look and he sucked in air. "His intestines are severed. There's contamination. It's bad—he needs the fastest possible transport!"
"Bring the Transit van around—he has to lie flat. We need to move, and notify Carles's wife!"
An officer peeled off to grab the van. It was their people-mover—rarely needed, but indispensable.
"Trauma kit!"
"And get me a clean soup bowl—washed!"
The medic cut open Carles's uniform, cleaned the blood and debris, padded the wound with sterile dressings, then inverted the clean bowl over it and tied it down with a triangular bandage.
The Transit rolled up. They loaded Carles and sped for the hospital.
Felix stood there with his pistol and no one to shoot. First Rick, now Carles—both hit—and he hadn't been able to do much for either.
Linda came over and gently took the gun from his hand. "Go home and rest, Felix. No one wanted this. The doctors will do everything for Carles, and we'll find the guy who shot him."
Felix tugged a corner of his mouth, went home to shower and change, then grabbed a cab back to the apartment.
The driver saw his face and kept quiet, just turned up the radio.
"—Los Angeles Times: a gun shop robbery last night. Multiple African-American suspects tore open the storefront and took dozens of rifles and handguns and a large quantity of ammo. Unknown whether organized or freelance. Citizens urged to stay alert."
"—KTLA: multiple shootings last night, reportedly fallout from the recent Twin Peaks gang mêlée. More violence possible. Viewers are advised to consider purchasing firearms and ammunition for home safety."
"—Chinese Daily: Mr. Song, a delivery worker for a Chinese food app, says his bicycle disappeared while delivering in San Gabriel—the first time he's lost one there. It's his second bike gone in recent days. E-bikes can cost around $1,000; a basic AR-15 about $820; 500 rounds of 5.56mm around $270 (prices vary widely). Many undocumented workers do deliveries but must rent app accounts for $400–$500/month—roughly 20% of income. They face theft, robberies, and assaults; most won't call police for fear of deportation. Some even spot their stolen bikes but won't confront the thief. Mr. Song finally bought a car to keep working."
Felix scratched his head. That stolen bike sounded a lot like the one he'd "borrowed," didn't it?
Had to be a coincidence. What were the odds. Also—rich much? Bike gets stolen, you buy a car?
When he got home, Rachel was in the kitchen.
"Look! I learned to make soup dumplings—xiao long bao!"
He nodded, sank onto the couch.
Rachel came over, touched his face. "You look awful. Something happen?"
He forced a smile and decided not to dump it on her. "Nothing. Night shift. Busy."
She blinked, moved behind him, and massaged his scalp. "If you've got something on your mind, say it. I won't get it all, but it helps. And if you're over being a cop, we can do something else. Whatever you want."
"I like the job. Just tired. Also—are your dumplings burning?"
Rachel yelped and dashed to the stove.
Felix rubbed his head—she'd yanked out a few hairs.
"My dumplings!"
He joined her. She looked crushed.
He peered in the pot: pitch black. Hard to tell what they had been.
"Uh… I'll taste one?"
She meant well; no sense crushing her.
He poked around with chopsticks, lifted something dumpling-like, tried three times to take a bite… couldn't.
"Maybe… cut one?" He forced a grin, took a chef's knife, and sliced.
Magic: charred to coal outside, raw pork inside.
Felix actually laughed. "Wow. Crispy outside, tender within. Chef's kiss."
"Don't make fun of me. I know I wasted the food."
"No big deal. The strays outside might try it."
"What if they die?"
"They'll, uh… go to heaven?"
She swatted him. "Forget it—trash them. We'll order in."
"On it."
He ordered Din Tai Fung: two baskets pork soup dumplings, one crab roe, scallion noodles, a pork chop rice, plus shredded chicken and pickled-chili fish skin.
When the food came, Rachel stared. "This is a lot for breakfast."
"Then watch me eat." He popped a dumpling. "Hot—hot—good!"
She picked up her chopsticks and dug in, mumbling, "After this meal I'll diet. After the next one, definitely diet."
Felix smirked and shoveled.
His phone sang. "Finally saw the light…" He answered. "Mark? What—they found the guy who shot Carles?!"
"I'm taking the car—grab a rideshare if you need to go out!" He barely explained to Rachel, snatched the keys, and bolted.
At the station, Linda sent him to the locker room. Mark and six or seven officers were gearing up—plates, helmets, headsets, go-bags, rifles, pistols.
"Going to war?"
Mark thumbed rounds into mags. "Who knows what's waiting. Better ready than sorry."
"Fair. Can I roll?"
Sergeant Greene stepped in. "Of course, Felix. Suit up."
"Yes, sir."
Felix kitted up. He slung the shotgun—he didn't have the four-day patrol-rifle cert yet, and most city work is CQB anyway; a scattergun rules up close.
Most cops avoid shotguns because close range means pure reaction speed—lose that race and you die. A carbine lets you standoff and tap—safer, more rounds.
Once everyone was set, Greene briefed them: "You've heard—Sergeant Carles was shot this morning. Hospital says he's stable. They resected bowel due to perforation and contamination; he'll need admission for peritonitis risk. Right arm's fractured from a GSW—less serious."
Felix felt the tension leave his shoulders; he caught Mark's small smile.
"As for the shooter—we're all angry. Me too. Per Data and Homicide, suspect is Lopo Weber, Black male, 23, gang ties. Intel puts him holed up at an apartment in Baldwin Park. Due to risk, we have both knock and no-knock warrants. We'll read the scene."
(Quick explainer: A standard warrant requires police to knock and announce—"Sheriff's Department, open up"—before entry, and residents can review scope and basis on scene, record everything, and refuse searches beyond the warrant's limits. A no-knock allows immediate breach to preserve surprise, officer safety, evidence, and hostages. In recent years, judges issue fewer no-knocks due to wrong-address tragedies and civil-rights concerns, with strong opposition especially in Black communities.)
Greene continued, "I'll lead the entry. Clear every room and corner. Weber is armed and dangerous. We don't know if he's alone, or if there are explosives. It's high-risk. Heads on a swivel. I want everyone home safe. Questions?"
"None!"
"Mount up."
They convoyed to Baldwin Park, parked under an apartment block, checked gear. Felix got vetoed on the shotgun—too risky for indoor friendlies—so he went pistol only.
At the lobby, they showed the warrant; security handed over a key.
Outside the target door, Felix glanced at Greene: key in, or knock and talk? Key doesn't force an immediate dynamic entry.
Greene weighed it and chose no-knock. He signaled Felix.
Felix slotted the key, turned, and shoved the door. The stack flowed in yelling, "Sheriff's Department! Hands up!"
They cleared fast. Empty.
"How's it empty? Bad intel?" Greene scratched his head. He'd been sent to this unit.
Bad intel happens. Suspects keep multiple nests. Courts give some slack: if you catch him in the building, a mismatched unit number isn't fatal.
Greene called it in. A minute later: "He's got money. Family owns several units in this building. He may not be in this one. We're hitting the others."
They rode up and stopped at another door—listed as his mother and sister's. Greene knocked. "Sheriff's Department. Warrant. Open up."
A Black teenager cracked it; before she could speak, officers moved her aside and held security.
They swept the rooms.
Nothing.