"You'll get complaints for this, I guarantee it!"
The middle-aged Black woman slammed the door shut with a bang.
The team exchanged glances, but no one cared much. If a cop hasn't faced a complaint, has he even worked the job? Besides, the woman didn't even know which station they belonged to. She never had the chance to ask, and none of them volunteered the information. Let her call HQ and ask the long way around.
"Where to next?"
The wasted effort with no results left a sour taste.
Greene clapped his hands, telling everyone to stay sharp.
"One last room. The suspect's brother lives there. I think he's here. Don't drop your guard. Felix, go get the key. We're going in hard."
"Yes, sir."
Felix rode the elevator down for the key. By the time he returned, the others were stacked at the door.
He slid the key in, turned it gently, then shoved the door open. Officers poured in, shouting: "Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department!"
The first two, rifles up, cleared the front. The third peeled off to the bathroom. Felix followed as the fifth man in line.
They pushed into the living room. On the couch sat a bulky blanket, heaped suspiciously.
One officer didn't hesitate—he kicked it hard. Sure enough, someone jolted awake underneath, tossing the blanket aside in shock.
"Sheriff's Department! Don't move!"
With three officers already in the living room, Felix swung toward the bedroom on the left. He kicked the door open.
"Sheriff's Department! Don't move!"
Inside, a man had already snapped awake. Seeing Felix, he threw both hands high in surrender.
Then a shout erupted outside:
"He's got a gun!"
Bang, bang, bang!
"Cuff him!"
The gunfire froze Felix for a split second. He lunged at the man on the bed—if this one had a weapon hidden in the sheets, things could spiral fast. He slammed him down, another deputy rushing in to help pin his arms.
"No! Don't! We don't have a gun!" came a woman's scream from under the blanket.
They cuffed the man first, then turned their attention to her.
"Ma'am, do you have clothes on?"
"No..."
Felix exchanged a look with his partner. Tricky. Couldn't risk even a glimpse—one accusation of harassment could bury them.
He dragged the cuffed man up.
"Any weapons in this bed? Tell the truth."
"No weapons."
"Good. Then the lady can put clothes on under the blanket. But listen—if she pulls a gun in there, you'll answer for it."
The man swallowed hard. "I swear to God, we have no weapons!"
"Fine. Then tell me which are hers. Pass them into the blanket. She gets dressed, but your cuffs stay on."
He fumbled clothes into the sheets. The woman dressed beneath, then got cuffed too.
Only then did Felix step back out to see what the shooting was about.
A young Black male lay on the floor, groaning in pain. Three wounds bled freely—two in the chest, one at the wrist.
"What happened? Who fired?"
"He got up with a Glock in his hand. Mark shot him three times."
Felix didn't argue that. But when he looked closer at the kid's face, something nagged. He pulled Greene aside, switched off his bodycam.
"Doesn't look like the guy in the file photo to me. And the ones in the bedroom don't match either."
Greene's face drained. He rushed to check them himself. When he came back, his expression was bile-green.
"Shit. You're right. None of them are Lopo Weber."
Felix thought quickly.
"Then first we confirm who they are—what ties, if any, to Weber. If they're connected, our process holds. The suspect just wasn't here. Next, we review the cams. If the kid really had a gun in hand, then he asked for it."
Greene blinked, then cracked a grin.
"Didn't think you had that kind of brain, Felix. Nice work."
Felix shot him a look. "I graduated from a proper university, you know. Unlike you, Mr. High School."
"I went to college too! Community college adult ed still counts!"
Greene fumed, but pressed on, separating the man and woman for questioning. Soon he returned, looking lighter.
"The man is Weber's brother. The woman, his girlfriend. The wounded kid—his cousin, crashing here for a while. And after replaying the cams, yes, he had a gun when he stood up. Mark was justified."
"So they know where Weber is? Let's go put him down."
Greene rolled his eyes.
"Put him down? You want more trouble? Enough for today."
Felix shrugged. Fine. If Greene wouldn't, he could always handle it later.
He glanced at Mark, who sat silent, brooding.
"What's wrong? Regretting shooting an 'innocent'?"
Mark shook his head.
"I'm no rookie. He had a gun, I fired. No guilt. I just wish I'd put the bullet into the one who shot Carles. That's all."
Felix stifled a curse. That explained his aim—three shots, three hits, two to the chest. Not luck. Deliberate.
The ambulance arrived, hauling the cousin away. The couple went downtown for background checks. Upstairs neighbors leaned off balconies, gawking.
The Black lady from earlier was among them. At first smiling, then suddenly screaming. She recognized the man being hauled away—and bolted downstairs.
By the time she hit the street, the wounded cousin was gone in the ambulance. Her son was about to be shoved into a squad car.
"You can't take my boy!"
The woman fought like a wildcat. It took three officers to restrain her.
"Ma'am, do not obstruct law enforcement. Any questions, take them to the station."
She screamed after the departing patrol car:
"I'll sue you! I swear I'll sue you!"
Back at the station, Mark's weapon was seized. He was placed on administrative leave.
Felix frowned.
"Why's Mark getting leave and I'm not? I'd like a break too."
"Mark fired during a no-knock raid. DA will scrutinize that hard. That's why he's pulled. You'll get rest once this blows over. For now, go ride patrol."
"I just finished night shift, now patrol too?"
"You're here already. I'll mark it as overtime. Sleep in the car if you want." Greene clapped his shoulder and walked off.
Felix could only gape. If not for the overtime pay, he'd have gone straight home.
His new partner was a familiar face: Adam-91, Jim Collins. They greeted, then Felix crashed in the passenger seat, half-asleep.
He was jolted awake when Jim called out.
"Factory called. Homeless guy won't leave, tried climbing the fence. We're asked to move him along."
Felix rubbed his eyes. "Fine. Let's go."
Jim drove, reassuring him.
"Should be nothing. I'll talk to him. You keep napping."
"Alright. Call if it goes sideways."
They arrived. Felix spotted a white male sitting by a shed outside the plant. Alone. His marker was gray. Harmless.
He watched Jim walk over, start talking. Distance a bit close, but otherwise routine. Felix shut his eyes again.
Then the shout tore the air.
"Shit! Help!"
Felix's eyes snapped open. The homeless man had Jim pinned, stabbing wildly with a knife.
"Fuck!"
He couldn't even get out of the car. He drew, fired through the windshield—several shots, dropping the attacker dead.
"Jim! You okay?"
Felix rushed over, kicked the knife aside. Blood sprayed from a massive slash across Jim's neck.
"Hold on! I'll get the kit!" He sprinted back, yanked out the trauma bag, pressed dressings against the wound. Too many others—abdomen, arms. He couldn't cover them all.
"Hey! You! Help me press here!" Felix shouted to a bystander frozen nearby.
The man hesitated, then rushed in, clamping down on Jim's throat wound.
"Officer down, stabbed! Critical! Send EMS—send a helicopter if needed!" Felix screamed into his radio.
Jim gasped, eyes wide. "It hurts, Felix... it hurts..."
"Stay with me. Think of your kids. You've got two, right? Picture them waiting at home. You'll see them again."
"Yes... yes... I want to see them..."
"You will. Just stay calm. Breathe. They'll be here soon."
"I'm cold... so cold..."
Felix whipped out a thermal blanket, wrapped him tight.
"Not cold now. Not cold anymore. Hang on."
Minutes later, the helicopter arrived. Medics lifted Jim onto a stretcher, blood soaking everything.
Felix, drenched red, shook the bystander's hand. "Thank you. Couldn't have held him together without you."
The man nodded. "I just hope he makes it."
"So do I."
Greene came up, clapping Felix's shoulder.
"Doctors say he'll make it. He'll be alright."
Felix's face twisted.
"Why didn't I get out sooner? If I had, maybe this wouldn't have happened."
"Not on you. No one saw this coming."
"I need days off, Greene. My head's not right. Not after this."
Watching a brother bleed out in your arms was different from trading shots in the field. Different from Carles, from Rick. This was guilt.
"I get it. Mark'll drive you home."
In the car, Mark muttered:
"Cry if you need to. No one's judging."
"I don't want to cry. I just... feel like hell."
"I know. When I saw Carles shot this morning, it was the same. When Frank watched Greene die, the same. Good men, family men, always giving, never reckless. And now—"
Felix cut him off. "Are you taking a jab at me right now?"
Mark froze, then chuckled.
"No. I mean—you've changed fast, Felix. I barely recognize you. Didn't know if bringing you into this was right. Now I do. You're a cop. Not just fighting evil, but carrying the weight of mistakes, the value of brothers. That's growth."
"You make me sound like some cold-blooded killer. That what you mean?"
Mark winced. "You ever been told you're terrible at conversation?"
"Never. Everyone says I'm charming. People lov—"
The car braked hard. Felix braced against the dash.
"You're home. Go shower."
Felix glanced at himself, soaked in blood. Looked like a butcher.
"These clothes are ruined."
"Plenty more uniforms. Buy another."
"You buy it. You still owe me ten meals."
"Yeah, yeah. Get out."
Felix stepped out. Mark floored it away.
In the lobby, neighbors stared like they'd seen a ghost. The guards didn't dare stop him, though. He slipped past, feeling almost invisible.
Back home, Rachel was gone to class. He dumped the filthy uniform, stomped it down in the tub, called it "washed," and hit the shower.
But sleep wouldn't come. Close his eyes—Jim's face. Then Greene's, Rick's, Carles's. Haunting him.
He grabbed the remote, switched on the TV.
"NBC Los Angeles Daily Brief: Today, a shocking shooting occurred in Baldwin Park. Police, executing a no-knock warrant, entered a residence and fired, fatally wounding Black male Larry Money. Two others were detained.
Officials state the raid was tied to this morning's shooting of a sheriff's captain outside headquarters. The warrant, they claim, was lawful.
They add that Money displayed a firearm when shot.
His parents dispute this. They describe their son as hardworking, no record, a food courier. He kept a gun only for self-defense. Awakened by what he thought were intruders, he grabbed it—never knowing it was police.
Outrage is mounting. Protest groups cite this and prior baton-beating incidents as proof of systemic bias. Calls to abolish no-knock warrants grow louder. Some activists demand the LAPD be dissolved entirely.
The station has also compiled civilian-shot footage:
—Officers firing at a crouched Black man in a yard.
—Two deputies tasing another into convulsions.
—Police opening fire on a crowd, people dropping like wheat.
—Dozens of cruisers shredding a pickup and its driver.
—SWAT leaving a house with multiple Black bodies hauled away.
—Officers blasting a suspect outside a store.
—A parking lot shootout where a Black man dances under bullets before collapsing.
Felix stared. In clips alone, the cops looked like butchers. Ruthless, indiscriminate.
And yet—he'd been there. He knew every shot had its reason.
But on screen? No one would believe it.