When Felix's team dismounted, the brawl looked exactly like this—lines crashing, lines breaking.
The sergeant in charge had a military past. He started to form ranks, then saw the scale and gave up on ceremony—seven or eight men meant nothing here."Move in. Don't drift. Form a ring.""Yes, sir."
Felix was itching to go—too much adrenaline to hold. He followed a few steps, then peeled off on his own. In this chaos, the sergeant couldn't micromanage anyway.
He worked the less-lethal shotgun, firing wherever he saw a red guilt-marker above a head—cop or protester, it didn't matter. Nonlethal or not, pain sent messages. In disorder like this, nobody could tell who pulled what trigger; even if they saw, so what.
He popped a flashbang round into a cluster of young men and sent them scattering. Then he spotted a cameraman shouldering a rig, filming a female reporter in a gas mask.
Felix eased closer and heard her: "Los Angeles police are using brutal tactics on citizens, causing widespread injury. The department must be rebuilt. Every current officer should be terminated and forced to reapply, retrained, and only rehired if they pass. Policing must shift to de-escalation and negotiation. Every police shooting should be re-reviewed, and the guilty must face heavy sentences…"
Not entirely wrong, he thought. But the stereotypes hardened by years of contact between cops and certain groups weren't going away, and the conflict rarely softened—it escalated.Hence the cop mentality: don't like policy, talk to a mayor or governor; think a cop erred, sue—there are lawyers who'll pry millions from a department. No one on the street weeps; it's "the department's money."But smash windows, loot, demand disbandment? That's the cops' rice bowl. Cut off a man's income and you become his mortal enemy.And budgets are local. LAPD's money comes from the City of LA. County folks aren't funding LAPD—then they show up to riot in the city? Expect no mercy. Raise hell on your own turf; don't bring it here.
Felix didn't care about most of that. He cared about "re-review every police shooting." That put him at risk.
He slid a flash round into the tube, ducked outside the camera's frame, and fired to foul the shot—only the cameraman folded instead. Riot guns weren't precision tools; where a round landed was half fate.
Before Felix could reload, the reporter herself caught a flash round and shrieked, dropping cold. News segment: canceled.
Felix traced the trajectory, spotted a cop downrange, and threw him a thumbs-up.Crack.The officer shrugged, lifted a hand to return it—and a bullet dropped him.
A blast of danger hit Felix. He rolled aside.Whap.A round punched a crater where he'd been.
Felix lived. Others didn't. Officers began dropping in quick succession."I'm hit! I'm hit! Active gunfire!""Gunman! Gunman!""Officer down! Officer down!""Take cover!""Find him—now!"
Even the protesters panicked. For all the fighting, neither side had escalated to live fire. A real bullet changed the board. Lose control, lose the city.Cops fell; runners screamed; two protesters in flight took rounds and crumpled.
Ao XZ—behind a cruiser—watched the angles: shots from multiple points. The shooters had pre-staged in surrounding buildings and fired on cue.
The cops' discipline held. They triangulated and formed assault teams. Riot guns down; ARs and Glocks up.
Felix was already inside one building with an active shooter. He climbed the stairs—thank L.A. for its five- and six-story cores; no movie-tower climbs tonight.On the third floor he heard fire in the corridor. He pushed the fire door and peeked.
A gunman crouched in the hallway, firing downward. The rifle looked like an AK variant—maybe a Type 56 semi.North America had long bought Chinese guns—beyond 1911 clones, the 56, the "81," all beloved for ruggedness and easy maintenance. Early imports were mil-spec; later, bans pushed semi-auto; the 56's receiver made conversions tempting. Then the market swung hard to ARs—until Chinese CQ-A clones showed up too…
Felix measured the distance and sent tear-gas rounds down the hall—effective to ninety meters when launched.The sudden gas made the shooter jerk and hack.
Felix closed fast. Smoke blocked the man's eyes, not Felix's dim-vision.Seconds later he sprinted into reach and drew the Glock—five shots, the man dropped.White male, twenties. Didn't matter. Cop-haters came in every color.
He checked the body—no optics. So much for the "dead-accurate" mystique.
"Hands up!""LAPD!"
"I'm L.A. County Sheriff! Shooter's down—by me! Friendly—don't shoot!" Felix yelled.
They checked his creds and the body. Two officers stayed for forensics; the rest rushed to other buildings.
As they descended, bursts rattled from two more rooftops, then went quiet—other teams were making progress.Even so, more shots elsewhere; more officers hit. The street was packed with police tangled up with demonstrators—no clean retreat. Some protesters, seeing officers fall, leaned into the chaos, tying up more cops to give the snipers better targets.
Felix ran for the last building still firing. A team was already stacked; he slid in with them.They climbed to six. The point man edged the threshold and ate a burst, stumbling back behind the stair wall.
"Smoke!"
Canisters arced into the hall. The shield man surged—and a string of rounds hammered his plate, knocking him over. The second dragged him back by the collar.
The corridor was narrow; a small sweep of muzzle sealed it off.They tried again, and again they were beaten back.
Command called a negotiator to stall. The shooter actually talked: his goal was to kill as many cops as possible—because cops were evil. He demanded safe passage, claiming he'd planted bombs around downtown and would turn L.A. into a firestorm if they didn't let him walk.
The threat had teeth. No chief wanted that on his ledger. They paused to confer.
County HQ and LAPD brass huddled. Whatever they said, the conclusion came back simple: bomb or no bomb, end the gunman—now.