These concrete houses are hateful. The side walls have no windows—privacy at the cost of everything else.
The front has only a door, and the suspect was holding it like a shield.
Felix had no choice. He wasn't Superman. He circled to the back to see if the rear door offered a chance.
The back was usable. There had been an opportunity because the suspect, trying to flee by car earlier, had opened the garage door. After the vehicle was intercepted by police, the door wouldn't close.
Greene hadn't used that entrance because the garage opening was too tight. The suspect's SUV was large; a fully armed entry team squeezing through would make noise—noise enough for the suspect to sprint over and intercept them.
Even if the suspect didn't come, Greene still refused to send men in for CQB. Same reason: he could not accept more casualties.
Felix had fewer qualms. At 185 cm he was a big man, but nimble as a ferret. In two moves he was inside the garage. He pretended to sweep the beam of his flashlight quickly.
Rounding the corner, he stowed the light in his pocket. The house, cut off from power, wasn't pitch black—the glare from patrol lights outside lent it a dim wash. To most people it would be hard to read a room.
Felix had night vision. Not cartoon-bright, but enough. He'd used it to good effect when he'd taken revenge for Carles in the field—those four, dead. Night sight had mattered.
He looked down. The floor was wood. He took off his shoes and walked barefoot, careful to make no sound, moving along the wall.
A few paces in he saw a woman slumped on the sofa, blood all over her. She looked gone.
He tuned for malice. The sense of it came from a little right and behind him.
This skill was useful.
Felix backed, then moved right, following the wall to the stairs. He glanced up. A dark shape lay at the stairhead on the second floor, rifle in hand, aiming outward. A pistol sat nearby.
The man lay there, muttering to himself, oblivious that the muzzle had slowly trained on him.
Bang.
The sudden shot made Greene flinch. After Felix moved in, Greene had set men up—if Felix were found, they would rush in and extract him.
"It's me. Felix. The suspect's down. You can come in."
"Power on. Lights up."
The house lit instantly. A few of the braver officers advanced behind their shields. Felix raised a hand to show it was over.
Greene came up, checked the stairwell. A single round had found the suspect's head. He was dead on the spot.
"You're something else, Felix. Incredible." Greene ordered officers to process the scene and call medics, to see if the woman could be saved, then slapped Felix on the shoulder so hard Felix rolled his eyes.
"Here's your gun. I fired again—time to take leave." Felix said.
"No leave for you. Just come to work." Greene shrugged. "What you think this is? The protests. County, LAPD, state troopers—all declared emergency. All leave canceled. Every cop back on duty. For shootings, if the facts check out and there's no gross misconduct, Internal Affairs clears it. They're making sure we have manpower.
"Even if I didn't call you tonight, you'd be back tomorrow."
"You sure the DA won't make trouble?" Felix asked.
"The bureau promised to double the security at the DA's office and for families. They won't let it become a circus."
Felix whistled. "They know what they're doing."
"Of course—because they're the bosses."
"They aren't here now. Flattery won't get you anything."
"What if somebody spreads the word? Besides, I don't train much—don't expect me to talk big in front of others." Greene gave a half-grin.
Felix gave him a thumbs-up and decided not to go home. He rode back with Greene's men to the station to sleep there.
"Don't sleep," Greene said. "Since you're here, go patrol."
"I have no car. Find me one."
"Nope. Go downtown. They're calling for reinforcements there." Greene winked.
Felix froze. "It's still going on?"
"Yeah. Go see."
Fine. He'd see a real American protest.
He swapped into riot kit: blast visor, gas mask, Taser, baton, pepper spray, plastic cuffs, and a green-marked less-lethal shotgun loaded with nonlethal rounds—flashbangs, tear gas, sponge rounds, rubber bullets—everything messy but not meant to kill. He still strapped on his pistol with an extended base plate and a spare magazine.
They climbed into a transport and rolled to the center city. The scene was a hundred times more intense than TV.
A solid wall of police stood shoulder to shoulder. No one crossed that line. Beyond them, the crowd stretched, a torrent with no visible end.
Because of his height he was put on the frontline. A few protesters rushed to the barrier and screamed in his face, trying to intimidate.
"All cops are pigs!"
"Kill the cops!"
"I'm gonna kill Trump!"
Felix stared at a Chinese woman who hollered at him with a red bandana stained like gang paint over her face, flexing her arm as she shouted.
"Does saying that count as intent?" he asked on the open channel.
"No," came the reply. "Saying you'll kill the president is not intent to murder."
"They say they'll kill cops too."
"Remember who they are. If there's an order to disperse, you can hit them hard. For now, don't act. If they aren't a direct threat, treat them as nonexistent."
So he ignored them and looked past to watch the rest.
Cameras—reporters or vloggers—clustered around a few people trying to set fire to a flag. Some bored guys flipped over a car and began kicking it until the cabin caved in. Others stripped tires from cars, stacked them, and set them ablaze; smoke clawed into the sky.
Then an odd scene: a white man showed up at night holding a sign chanting "Black Lives Matter." A black youth punched him. Others joined in and beat the man until he fled headlong, pleading he'd come to help. The attackers pursued and beat him wherever he ran until he escaped.
A man who'd burned a flag was stopped by a reporter and grabbed a megaphone. He spat: "Cops break into homes and commit violence. They expect to get away with it because they don't care about Black lives. If we don't stand together, the police can harm anyone—white, black, Chinese, brown. Who knows who's next?"
As he was shouting, a white SUV tried to thread through the crowd. At first it crawled forward, then the driver hit the gas. He slammed into a young black man and fled.
"Somebody call it in! Hit-and-run!" someone shouted.
"Sir, please report it to dispatch," an officer said.
"But you're the police! Go catch him!" the protester retorted.
"Sorry, sir—this is our assignment. We're holding the line here."
"You'd rather stand here than help?" the man sputtered. He was furious and bewildered.
The chaos dragged into the night. Finally, one by one people tired and left. Only trash remained. Whoever cleaned up, it wasn't Felix. He and his colleagues packed up and returned.
Felix felt a small, ugly satisfaction. The scene was rare and bracing. But the commute back to San Gabriel was a pain. Most of the cops stayed at the station and slept. No wonder many of them had rough marriages.
Morning came at the station with a generous breakfast laid out: donuts, hot dogs, pizza, fried chicken, and strong black coffee—the kind of spread that could make you gain three pounds in one sitting. People helped themselves.
Felix grabbed a hot dog and a bowl of cereal—okay with sugar, fine enough. They ate in silence until someone turned on the TV. It replayed last night's protests, and the mood soured.
"NBC interrupting with breaking news. The Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office has released body-cam footage of the officer involved in the search of Laremone's residence. The bureau says the footage will clear public misunderstanding and shows the officers' actions were lawful and justified.
"However, Laremone's family, after viewing the footage, disputes the county's account. They claim Laremone was asleep when officers burst in without knocking. Awake and startled, he assumed intruders had entered—he reached for his gun. With multiple officers in the room, the family says the officers could have restrained or explained, not shot him dead.
"After careful consideration, they have retained several attorneys and will sue the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Office and the San-Gabriel City Police Department, seeking $70 million in damages."