Just when they thought the van might be empty, the white van suddenly lurched forward and sped off.
That settled it—something was wrong.
Damon and Felix traded a look. Damon stomped the gas and gave chase.
Felix grabbed the radio, called it in, and requested backup.
The van ran for a bit with the cruiser on its tail, then, maybe deciding it was pointless, pulled over by a curb in a residential block.
Felix and Damon drew their pistols, stepped out, and split left and right, closing from the rear.
"L.A. County Sheriff! Roll the window down! Hands on the wheel—don't move!"
"You hear me? Window down! I said window down!"
They edged forward. A cold spike of terror hit Felix's gut. He fell back for cover and shouted, "Run! Danger!"
Damon froze—too late. Something dark flew out of the cargo area.
BOOM.
The blast lifted Damon and tumbled him across the pavement. Shrapnel tore him up; blood everywhere. All he had left was pain and breath.
Felix had moved early on instinct and took no hit. "Damon! You good?"
No answer. Felix rolled from his spot—good timing; a rifle muzzle poked from the window and stitched his last position.
Felix ran, slid behind the cruiser, and fired at the van. The gunman twisted and shot back through the sheet metal.
In seconds the van looked like a sieve.
A rifle inside a vehicle is awkward. After a few more bursts, the shooter shoved the door and jumped out.
Felix finally saw him: Black male, not tall, blue T-shirt, gray pants, backpack, AR in hand. He stepped out and casually finished Damon, then swung on Felix and the cruiser.
Rifle fire chewed the car. With a pistol Felix couldn't win the angle; he hugged steel and felt the vehicle shudder under impact.
"LAPD! Drop the gun!" someone yelled.
Tat-tat-tat.
Bang, bang, bang.
Backup—one unit—arrived. The shooter pivoted, raking the new cruiser while sprinting for cover.
Felix popped the trunk, yanked the shotgun, and leaned out—one round at the runner.
Longer than ideal. Not a full hit, but a scatter of pellets bit his leg and made him stagger.
Felix advanced, using parked cars as cover.
The gunman steadied, cracked a few rounds, pinning Felix, then saw the other officers closing.
He reached into his pack, pulled something, clicked it, and threw.
BOOM.
The blast threw the responding officer back. Status unknown.
With the officer down, the gunman turned his full fire on Felix again.
Felix bared his teeth and blind-fired toward where he'd last seen him. If nothing else, make him duck.
Civilians, residents, cars—this stretch turned into a kill box. People didn't scream; they crouched, covered mouths, and ran bent double.
The rifle mag ran dry. The shooter ducked to reload.
Felix shoved shells into the shotgun.
Sirens swelled from blocks away. Units were coming.
Fresh mag in, the shooter popped out, cracked a burst to pin Felix, then hobbled to a still-running sedan left by a fleeing driver. Keys in, engine live.
He dropped into the seat—Felix leaned out and punched a round into the rear quarter.
The shooter swore, wrenched the wheel, and gunned it straight at Felix.
Felix squared up and poured fire.
Twelve-gauge, round after round into the advancing hood. Three meters out, the front tire skated, the car slewed, smashed into a parked vehicle, and died.
The driver was blood-slick, staring in disbelief. How much do you make a month to pull this kind of stunt?
Felix tried to sidestep to check him but his legs wouldn't answer. He swayed, caught himself, forced movement, nearly fell again, then steadied and worked around to the passenger side.
"Hands! Show me your hands! Now!"
The gunman reached toward the bag.
Bang bang bang.
Felix cut him down in the seat. You think I won't shoot? I said hands. You went for the bag.
Backup flooded in—dozen officers, an armored truck, then FBI and ATF.
They had to come. Gunfire was one thing; blasts were another. Explosives smelled like terrorism, and that was everyone's biggest political emergency.
On the body: a rifle, a handgun; three improvised explosives in the pack. In the van: another rifle, two handguns, and a bench with parts for building more devices.
Given time, the man could've mounted a small terror campaign.
K-9 worked the block, noses down, trying to trail the route and sniff for any planted charges. Everything had to be cleared.
FBI checked databases and ID'd him: Steven Carrillo, thirty-two, active-duty Air Force sergeant. Why he'd shot up the federal building and killed an officer, why he was rolling with bombs today—no answers yet.
Units moved on his residence, fully kitted.
Of the officers who'd engaged him, Damon was pronounced at scene. The responding officer from the blast was gravely wounded.
Compared to them, Felix had only scrapes—practically unhurt—and everyone stared.
You're unreal, aren't you?
Then they pulled camera footage of him standing his ground, shotgun against a charging car, and went speechless.
Animal. In another uniform they might've called him the shooter.
FBI and ATF drifted over to talk; Greene shouldered in and pushed them back. "Not now. Hands off our guy."
He prodded Felix. "You hit anywhere?"
Felix slapped his hands away. "Quit feeling me up. I'll file harassment."
"I'm straight. Three kids," Greene snorted. "I'm asking why you didn't wait for backup. Let him run. Why go head-to-head with a car? You nuts?"
Felix smiled and didn't answer.
Letting him go would be safer—for Felix. But who avenged Damon?
If the man walked, that knot wouldn't loosen. He had to die here.
They worked the scene, not knowing the internet was already boiling.
Phones were everywhere; daytime, open street, a dozen angles. Clips went up with lurid titles, views spiked. Beyond condemnation of the shooter and sympathy for the wounded, most marveled at Felix's ferocity.
Then the currents split: some cheered the dead cop, some swore they were sick of police, some talked about copying the shooter, and private chats started humming.
Back at the station, after questioning, Felix packed to go home—until Robin cut him off. Multiple departments had already ruled his actions fully within policy.
No leave—the city was still under emergency orders. There might be later inquiries, but for now he'd work as usual.
Given the fresh firefight, he could take a desk at Dispatch instead of rolling out again.
Robin didn't linger—he was drowning in work. Felix watched him hustle off, then headed into the dispatch center.
Every station runs its own dispatch. 911 takes the resident's call, routes it to the nearest station by map, and pushes the case.
Each sub-station sees all units in its grid and adjacent ones. Dispatch assigns; units acknowledge.
The oft-quoted "five-minute response" is from dispatch assignment to unit acknowledgment, not from call to arrival.
Driving time is another matter; with thin coverage, it stretches. You queue and wait.
Felix checked in, took a seat, and put on the headset.
It was simple—easier than a food-delivery call desk. He learned it in minutes: take the ticket, mark the map, filter for free units, call them, done.
They called rather than pushing silent pings—too easy for an officer to miss an on-screen task while driving.
Once he was up to speed, the supervisor flipped his permissions so he could officially assign.
First ticket popped: "Adam-155, Steven Street. Resident reports unlawful entry; male suspect still inside. Conduct a welfare check and eject or arrest as needed. Use caution."
"Adam-155 copy."
Next: "Adam-233, stadium security reports a male attempting to force entry; refuses to leave. Remove him."
"Adam-233 copy."
After a handful of assignments, Felix's screen went quiet. He leaned back, nerves from the firefight finally settling.
No wonder people want a desk. One call and someone else moves. Not bad.
A sharp triple-beep cut through—urgent.
Adam-155 had hit the emergency button.
Felix immediately scraped nearby free units and stacked them as support. The yellow button meant crisis; no voice needed. The suspect might hear.
Assignments out, there wasn't much he could do but wait. Then 155's voice bled into the headset.
"He opened fire—I'm hit!"
Bang bang bang.
Pa-pa-pa.
"He's firing again—I'm returning fire! I hit him! We're both down! Need help!"
Felix willed the map to move faster. Icons crawled. The mouse couldn't drag them any quicker.
"Confirm it's one suspect only?" Felix kept him talking—anything to keep him conscious.
"Confirmed—one."
"Can you self-aid? Tourniquet if you can."
"Can't."
"Then pack the wound. Direct pressure. Slow the bleeding."
"I'll try—"
Another triple-beep. Another dispatcher looked up. "Adam-233—the stadium call. He hit the panic."
Support flooded toward 233. Closer coverage there; units arrived fast.
"Dispatch: Adam-233 is down—two rounds. DOA. Suspect fled. Request perimeter."
"Copy," the dispatcher said, carving units into a ring.
Felix's support finally reached 155.
"Dispatch, officer down. Armed suspect refused to comply—suspect neutralized. Send EMS."
"Copy—ambulance en route. Begin aid—"
"Already on it."
Felix listened a beat longer, then killed his console, dropped the headset, and walked out.
He wasn't built for waiting while others bled on the line. Listening and doing nothing twisted the gut.
He found Robin. "Put me back on patrol. I can't sit a desk. I need the street."
Robin thought a moment. "Downtown riot control then. They're short."
"On my way."