Felix geared up and rolled out with another squad headed downtown.Eight or nine of them sat in the van, silent. Exhausted in body, and in spirit.
The driver, uneasy with the quiet, flicked on the radio for the latest news:"ABC reports: Minneapolis police shot and killed a Black male while maintaining protest order. Police say the man was tearing a white woman's clothing with intent to assault. Other Black witnesses say the two were conducting a consensual transaction on the street—within their freedom—and police had no right to interfere. The killing has further inflamed tensions. An MPD cruiser was smashed by angry crowds; over a dozen arrests were made."
"Chicago Tribune: Today in Washington Park on the city's North Side, a racially motivated killing occurred. A Black gunman opened fire on customers inside a shop, leaving two dead and four wounded. Police exchanged fire with the suspect in the street; the suspect was killed. Chicago's high crime has mostly plagued the South Side; the North Side, wealthier and more middle-class, is usually safer. Whether this signals a bad trend remains to be seen."
"New York Daily: Yesterday in Queens, during a traffic stop, a driver refused to exit his vehicle. After a struggle, the driver suddenly opened fire, killing one officer. A second officer returned fire and wounded the driver, who fled and was later cornered in a small structure. Fearing casualties in a forced entry, officers allegedly set a fire outside to smoke the Black suspect out, igniting the building. He burned to death inside. Black organizations announced mass anti-police-violence protests and will sue the NYPD and City of New York. Rumors spread that Black gangs plan targeted killings of police."
Felix felt his blood rise. The bad mood eased. It felt like standing in the middle of history.
Bang bang bang!Before he could decide how to feel about that, shots cracked. The van swerved, braked hard, shuddered, and rattled to a stop.
"Open the door!"The men shouted; the driver did nothing.An officer checked, went pale. "He's hit!"A grunt—and that officer collapsed, shot.
Felix jumped up, grabbed the rescue hammer, smashed the window, and bailed.Others broke glass and jumped after him. Some spotted the shooter and fired from inside the van.
"Where is he?""In the roadside grass! I hit him!"
Brave, huh? Leave him to me.Felix sprinted along the rear, rounded the tail, and found a Black male already down in the brush. He checked—dead.
"Alone?"An officer raised a hand from atop a cruiser. "Just him. He was prone in the grass firing on us. I hit him in the back."
They stared at each other. Since when did a lone kid ambush a police transport and actually land hits?
Riot support could wait. First, call it in.After a long while, only one ambulance came, took the driver and the wounded officer, and left.
New task dropped in: divert to Route 66 to back up nearby units. A Black male was firing randomly at the roadside—multiple injuries.
No fresh cars, no extra bodies. The department was stretched thin. Their transport had bullet holes but still ran—good enough.
With onlookers watching, they swept glass out of the cabin, then drove the battered van—with no windshield and missing side glass—to the next fight.
At the scene there were only three cruisers. No more help to spare.The suspect had appeared on the freeway and fired at a four-story hotel by the off-ramp, hitting guests. The front desk called it in.Then the shooter turned on cars, causing a wreck that killed a female driver on impact. Several cars were hit; multiple injuries. Inside the hotel—unknown.
Early responding units had traded shots but parked far for safety. No hits. With such low numbers no one dared a push.
As the new van arrived, the suspect opened up again from behind a car.Police fired back—lots of noise, not much effect. Cars on the road pinged with rounds; people didn't. Felix squeezed off a few shots and missed like the rest.
"We can't keep doing this. We've got numbers now—gear up and push!"
On the commander's word, officers kitted up, split into two teams, and advanced.A nameless officer shouldered the ballistic shield, soaking the risk. Behind him, men popped smoke and hugged his back.
The suspect knew it was bad. He leaned and dumped rounds, hoping to shove them back. But smoke cut his vision; he shot wild.Strays hammered the shield—thunk, thunk.
The shield man crouched and kept coming, ducking behind bumpers when needed.His plate was the new FDP 6-S, rated Level 6—tested to eat ten 7.62 ball rounds. In a real fight, with smoke and cover, eating ten wasn't easy.No one tested higher; pointless. If you're taking that many hits, rethink your angle. And no vendor makes Captain America shields—if the gear never dies, departments never buy again.
They moved behind the smoke, tossing more as they went—plenty on the truck; riot runs carry deep belts of less-lethal. Not their money—use it.
At the right distance, the line fanned, took cover behind cars, and poured fire into the raging shooter. Ten-plus muzzles tearing in chorus. The suspect fell silent.
When the smoke cleared, he was punched through like a colander.Felix felt a twinge of regret—no clean takedown to claim. With that much lead, there was nothing to tag as his.
No rest. With no tow or fire crews to spare, cops became city workers, dragging wrecked cars off the freeway with patrol units, clearing the scene to reopen traffic.
Then back into the shot-up van to reinforce riot lines. The workload was maxed.
By the time Felix was rolling downtown again, news cycles were already blasting "police keep shooting Black men" across LA and elsewhere.Protesters raged—we're out here marching and you treat us like nothing?What had been relatively "peaceful" started ratcheting up.
Looting and arson—"zero-dollar purchases"—no longer counted as escalation.When Felix arrived, the scene looked like a battlefield.Before, it had been a subset—the hard cases in the crowd. Now it was everyone.
Cars and tires burned everywhere; the smoke was intentional, meant to blind helicopters. Veterans at this.Crowds boiled like ants. Windows shattered, people scavenged for anything to make into weapons and throwables.Some linked arms, chanting as they pressed a human wall against the police line.From the rear, others hurled their makes—rain from the sky.Every second an officer went down under debris, then got dragged back by the next row.
"Tear gas—fire!"From the rear, the commander judged the range and barked.
Forty-millimeter launchers thumped. The rounds were the new hybrid—rubber with a tear agent—shattering on bodies or hard surfaces to combine impact with gas.Supposed to replace beanbags' single function. Supposedly more humane.Reality: "less-lethal" can still break bones, leave people bleeding, cripple them forever—and it kills, too, like blanks at close range.
The gas blossomed, a white wall that stung like claws.Weaker lungs buckled; people clutched masks and hacked.
The crowd had prep of its own. Bottle rockets arced into the police line, bursting at head height and rattling nerves. Then homemade smoke rolled in.Cops masked up. They were ready for this part.
But the protesters weren't done. Using the smoke screen, they lobbed Molotovs.Fire splashed—officers lit up, shrieking and stumbling.Extinguishers hissed; flames died, but those men were hospital cases now.
The commander saw enough. Holding the line wouldn't hold. If they had fire now, what came next?"Advance! Full assault!"
The rear echelons dumped smoke, flashbangs, tear gas—anything to buy space.The shield line tightened, shoulder to shoulder, and pushed.A few front-row protesters charged and thumped off the shields—bodies everywhere.Standing officers hammered with shield-strikes—heavy, bone-deep pain.Batons followed, chopping down. In minutes, the fierce front unraveled.