Felix pulled out his phone to call someone, then stopped—he didn't know who to call.
Carles was still in the hospital. Frank and Mark were just rank-and-file officers; there wasn't much they could do.
The deputy chief and the chief had surely seen the news and were already working on it—no need for him to add to the noise.
After thinking it over, Felix sent a mass text to Rachel, Peter, and a few others, telling them to be extra careful over the next few days.
No sooner had he hit send than noise swelled outside, growing louder and louder.
Felix stepped onto the balcony. Dozens of protesters—Black, white, even a few Chinese—were marching, hats low and masks on, probably not wanting the police to recognize them. They held signs: "Stop police brutality," "Black Lives Matter," "AR-15s protect my family."
The Chinese group's signs were almost comical: "Workers of the world, unite," and "Water can carry a boat, and it can capsize it."
"NBC Los Angeles live," the TV blared. "Protesting the police entry into a residence and the killing of unarmed Black youth Larry Money, hundreds have gathered outside the L.A. Hall of Justice. LAPD has deployed dozens in riot gear to secure the area. Let's go live."
Felix hurried back to the living room. Onscreen, several hundred people milled before the courthouse, hoisting placards—"No justice, no peace," "Cops are murderers." They weren't shouting or charging; they were simply blocking the road. Passing drivers stopped, U-turned, and fled, terrified the crowd might erupt.
They hadn't—yet—because dozens of officers in helmets stood ready with batons, tasers, and pepper spray.
An NBC reporter held a mic to a white woman: "As a white resident, why are you marching over a Black man's death?"
"I may be white, but I'm also a resident," she said. "If cops can storm into a Black man's home and kill Larry Money today, can't they storm into mine tomorrow? I have to speak out."
The reporter turned to a Black man: "What are your demands?"
"Plenty. Jail the officers who fired. Disband the police. Abolish no-knock warrants."
While Felix watched, a guard's angry shouting echoed from below. He ran back to the balcony. A few Black teens had spray paint and were about to tag the apartment wall; the guard chased them off.
"Protest all you want," Felix thought, "but not on my building. I get docked if it gets vandalized."
Security in America isn't to be trifled with. They can be armed, and most apartment complexes enforce castle doctrine. If you force your way in or destroy property, they really can shoot you. There'd been cases of high homeless addicts charging a lobby and getting a round to the head.
The teens cursed and left, then, unwilling to lose face, turned back to flip the guard off and hurl insults.
The guard fumed but couldn't just open fire.
They laughed and ran off to tag another wall. Felix squinted—"F—k the Police."
He had no better option than to keep watching TV. Every channel had latched onto Larry Money's shooting; protests were bubbling in Chicago, Minneapolis, New York, San Francisco.
Commentators flooded on with hot takes—"curb police power," "tighten gun control," "defund the police"—all position, no nuance. Hot takes got ratings.
Felix wanted to do something, but he was on administrative leave. Without orders to return, he had to sit tight at home.
As time passed, the crowds on TV swelled. The group below his building grew too. Even food delivery stopped; couriers messaged that they were suspending service.
Rachel called to say her campus was organizing a march. The school announced demonstrations must move off campus; students who didn't join should remain in dorms, and the school wouldn't be responsible if they left—so she wouldn't come over that night.
Felix told her to deadbolt the door, wedge something against it, and keep the windows locked. Campuses weren't exactly safe.
After the call, Felix had to cook for himself. He could—people with east asian lineage usually can. At least the basics.
From the building's market he grabbed eggs, chiles, potatoes, and some beef. He made scrambled eggs with peppers and beef-and-potato stew. He'd only ever done chicken with potatoes, but beef couldn't be that different.
He ate in front of the news. NBC had gone full live coverage.
At the courthouse, people rotated in and out—some left to eat, some went home, diehards stayed. The longer they stayed, the edgier they got.
Someone led them off the courthouse steps and into the streets.
Soon the crowd split. One group surged onto the 101, blocked both directions, and forced traffic to a halt, thrusting signs in drivers' faces. Refusal was not an option.
Drivers gave thumbs-up to their faces, then phoned 911 the second they pulled away.
Two CHP cruisers arrived quickly. The sight of police sent the demonstrators into a frenzy. They swarmed the cars and shouted over each other until the officers couldn't hear themselves think.
"You can protest," the officers yelled back, "but you must leave the freeway! It's dangerous—for your safety!"
"More dangerous than you?" someone yelled.
"Your guns are the danger!"
Dozens shouting, bodies pressing—dangerous in any country. Even without America's guns, a mob can flip a cruiser.
"Leave now, or we'll take action!"
A few young men stepped nose-to-nose. "What action? Shoot me? Go on—kill me too!"
"We're marching and you threaten us?"
"Planning to 'use force,' huh?"
The officers were bluffing; they weren't about to shoot. Shoved backward, they retreated.
Seeing that, a few jumped on a cruiser, whooping and pounding on the roof. One even sat cross-legged on the hood—idiotic, given a patrol car is usually kept idling; the hood is scorching.
Sensing it slipping away, the officers called it in, dove into their cars, and tried to leave.
The crowd pounded doors and windows, shrieking.
Panicked now, the officers floored it and pushed through. The mass parted.
The guy on the roof panicked, tried to jump, and didn't make it. He rode the hood ten yards before tumbling off and smacking the asphalt, twitching where he fell.
The cruisers sped away.
With the freeway blocked, the ambulance took ages. By the time they loaded him, he'd gone stiff—bound for the crematory.
Reinforcements poured in—LAPD and CHP, dozens of units, lights everywhere. This time they came ready: riot gear, shotguns, batons, gas masks.
They formed up, shields out, and drove the crowd off the freeway—no debate, just push.
The field commander shouted, "You're free to protest, but not on the freeway. That violates others' freedom to travel. If you step back onto the freeway, we will arrest you!"
Gestures flew back in answer. Numbers embolden.
"You don't scare us!"
"We won't stop!"
"Who do you think you are? Who do you think we are?"
"Let's go somewhere else—let more people see!"
They peeled away and marched half an hour to the IRS building. There, the tax agents handled their own security, and they had plenty of bodies—other cops don't love the IRS anyway.
By then the protesters were hungry. Many drifted off; after all, it wasn't their own family who'd died. The diehards—maybe a hundred—stayed, singing and dancing in the street.
One clown doused an American flag with lighter fluid and a camping canister, torched it, and waved it around. Burning globs fell onto his hair; he slapped frantically to avoid going bald.
Livestreamers and selfie-shooters clogged the scene, striking poses for short videos.
Below Felix's building the crowd finally thinned. Residents who'd delayed coming home trickled back, lights off and curtains drawn, afraid some idiot might hurl a brick at a lit window.
Felix watched the street. Seeing it quiet, he pulled on a hoodie, gloves, a mask, and a cap, and climbed down from the balcony.
He pinged Lopo Weber's location in his head, jogged a bit, then blended into a wave of protesters heading home while he angled toward Weber's direction.
The pace was too slow. He wanted wheels.
Up ahead, six guys were prying open a red GMC full-size pickup; two motorcycles lay tossed beside it. Pros, by the look of it—door popped in seconds, and they piled in and roared off.
"Not taking your bikes? Then I will."
Felix grinned. The keys were still in the ignitions—probably a getaway plan if the truck job failed or the owner showed up.
Perfect. He fired one up and, after a few clumsy stabs at the clutch, wobbled into motion.
He'd barely gone a block when two cruisers boxed the red pickup.
The driver didn't hesitate—he floored it.
Crash!
The pickup smashed a cruiser, climbing onto its hood. Airbags saved the two officers from concussions.
If you're going to be reckless, be reckless all the way—reverse and hit them again. A GMC full-size is 5.8 meters long, two wide, 1.9 high, 2.5 tons. Pedal down, it's a baby tank.
But the thieves bolted instead, flinging doors open and sprinting. Officers recovered and gave chase.
One headed straight for Felix, eyes locked on the bike under him—recognition dawning. He pointed, mouth opening.
Felix kicked him in the chest and dropped him. "Officer! Over here!"
The man scrambled up and ran but didn't get far before an officer tackled him. They wrestled on the pavement.
"Neighborhood watch, at your service," Felix thought, and cracked the throttle.
Weber had holed up deep. Though his family had an apartment in Baldwin Park, Felix rode ten kilometers east on the 40 before he felt close, with his sense of target ability.
He exited, looped through back roads, and finally spotted a wood-framed house. Remote, few neighbors, big gaps, no cameras—without intel, cops would never find it.
He killed the engine, laid the bike in tall grass, and eased in on foot.
The house faced west, a simple fence around it, an SUV in the yard. He didn't underestimate that fence; last time he'd tripped a hidden sensor.
Circling, he checked carefully—no alarms—then slipped in at the northeast corner, a dead zone with no doors or windows.
He moved silently, crouched beneath a window, and crept up. Inside, music thumped and feet pounded—people dancing.
"Lopo, any more booze?"
"Damn it, are you beer kegs? We're out."
"Why so little? Buzzkill."
"We don't live here anymore. Those bottles were old."
"Expired and you still made us drink it?"
"Please. You shoot heroin—worried about beer? Worst case, the runs."
"Good enough for me."
Felix risked a peek. The living room held four Black men, dancing and drinking. Weed and pistols lay on the table, smoke hazing the room. Hard to tell which one was Lopo Weber.
Didn't matter. Three had "red" markers, one "black." He could kill them all without losing sleep.
After more stomping, one groaned, "I'm dying of thirst. Beer run."
"Bring food—tomato bacon pizza."
"Two hot dogs."
"Mac and cheese."
"Eat my damn penis! Greedy pigs."
One stormed out toward the SUV.
Felix cocked his head, drew the black pistol, and put two rounds in the man's back. Then he stitched the SUV's engine bay and blew the front tire.
He rolled away as screams erupted inside. Bullets punched through the thin walls a heartbeat later.
Felix raked the house with fire—accuracy secondary, pressure primary—until the mag clicked empty.
"He hit me! I'm shot!"
He didn't wait to confirm. He swapped mags on the move, rounded the corner to the southeast. A quick glance in an open window showed a bedroom—the place had been unoccupied long enough that windows were propped for air.
He chose not to go in. With lights on inside, entry would flip the fight into CQB on their terms. Outside, he was the ghost.
At the southwest corner, he spotted someone in the SUV, feverishly cranking the ignition.
Felix's earlier rounds had hurt it, but after a few tries it coughed to life. The driver whooped and stomped the gas.
Felix was already there.
"Running? Not that easy."
He walked a burst into the cabin. The SUV lurched, smashed through the fence, scraped forward, and died. The driver tumbled out and lay still.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
A burst answered from the house, rounds thudding into the dirt.
"Who the hell are you? Why are you attacking us? Are you a cop?"
Felix didn't bother to reply. You don't chat with dead men. He shifted aim toward the voice and dumped the mag. The wooden siding shredded, splinters spraying.
Screams burst inside, followed by stumbling footsteps as they fled the living room.