Chapter 1 — First Strike
Los Angeles, California
January 22, 2016 — 6:17 AM
LAPD Police Station — Western Division
The clock on the wall was still ticking away the last few seconds before the 6:30 AM alarm. Sergeant Bill Ortega mopped the reception area of the western section of the station with an almost meditative slowness. The smell of burnt industrial coffee hung in the air. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as if protesting another day that had begun too soon.
Captain Elaine Maynard, a woman with a hard expression and eyes that had seen more than most could handle, walked down the hall with a black briefcase in her hands. Her heels clicked firmly, precisely. There was a new name on the roster. And she knew exactly who he should start his career with the Los Angeles Police Department with.
Captain's Office — 6:35 AM
She set the briefcase on the desk but didn't sit down right away. She glanced at the window covered by crooked blinds and then turned when she heard the knock on the door.
— "Come in."
Sergeant Athena Grant pushed open the door with the same confidence she always had. Impeccable uniform, straight posture, attentive gaze. Elaine smiled slightly.
— "Good morning, Grant. How are things in Sector B?"
— "Quiet. Too quiet. When the radio is silent, something is about to explode."
— "As always, your nose is always on the ball," she said, handing over the folder. — "You'll have a new partner starting today."
Athena raised an eyebrow, without opening the file right away.
— "Wasn't Martinez supposed to stay for another three months?"
— "He was reassigned to narcotics operations. But this one..." — she pointed to the folder. — "This one is special. Mike Edwards. New to the LAPD. But not exactly what we call a rookie."
Athena sat down slowly. She opened the folder with restrained, professional curiosity. The first page was a standard mug shot. Dark brown hair cut close, square face, stubble. But there was something in his eyes they weren't tired, they were trained. Steady. Watchful.
She turned the page. Then his expression began to change.
—"Fourteen years in the CIA?"
—"Counter Terrorism Center. Ground Branch of Special Activities. Station Chief in Brasilia for the last two years."
Athena leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.
—"And now he wants to be a street cop?"
—"According to him, yes. Life-changing. Real life. Solid ground."
—"Or maybe he's running from something."
Elaine nodded, her voice dropping.
— "His record is clean. But full. You'll understand when you talk to him. I want you to be his first contact with the streets. He needs someone who knows the rhythms of Los Angeles. And you know them better than anyone else."
Athena was silent for a moment. She looked at the photo again.
— "I'll do my job. But I'm not a babysitter for a war veteran."
— "And he doesn't need one," Maynard replied firmly. — "He needs someone to keep him human."
Precinct parking lot — 7:02 a.m.
Mike Edwards leaned his hand against the side of a unit SUV. He wore the standard LAPD uniform, but his posture betrayed his past. His eyes scanned the room as if every detail was a variable. The left pocket of his tactical vest had a small folded badge with the name embroidered on it: Edwards, M.
He watched the officers move around the yard, the familiar sounds of the radio, hurried footsteps, curt orders. The tension here was different. This wasn't about predicting a drone strike or infiltrating a war zone. Here, the chaos was spontaneous, unpredictable, and deeply human.
The voice that pulled him out of his reverie was firm and direct.
"Officer Edwards?"
He turned. Athena was ten feet away, hands on her hips, eyes clinical.
"Sergeant Grant," he said, extending his hand.
The grip was quick, firm. He studied her without disguising it. She was unlike any leader he'd ever known she didn't project authority; she was the authority.
"Let's get straight to the point," Athena said. "You may have come from the CIA, but here you don't have an infinite budget or carte blanche to act. These are people. In pain, in addiction, in fear. Can you handle that?"
Mike took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
"That's why I'm here."
Athena nodded. She turned and started walking toward the patrol car. Mike followed her.
— "You were with Ground Branch, right?"
— "Yes."
— "How many times were you injured?"
Mike hesitated before answering.
— "Twice with shrapnel. Once in Kirkuk, once in eastern Colombia. But the worst was in 2010, in Marjah. A twelve-year-old boy with a suicide vest."
Athena said nothing for a few seconds. Then she unlocked the driver's side door.
— "Welcome to the war zone of Los Angeles, Edwards."
Patrol – 08:12
North Venice
The first call came in at 08:17 possible domestic violence. An address in a nearby to the canal. Patrol car 12-A-49, Grant and Edwards on the move.
Mike looked at the tablet attached to the dashboard with the description of the case.
— "Victim called by neighbor. Screams heard since 5 a.m. Male identified with history of assaults. She is 22 years old."
Athena drove the patrol car with an almost automatic familiarity. Her eyes never left the mirrors. She spoke with the experience of someone who has seen enough blood to know that most of these calls have an invisible clock—and it runs too fast.
— "If he's in the apartment, don't talk. Follow me and watch. I'll lead the approach."
Mike nodded. He wasn't arrogant. And he knew exactly the value of learning the rhythm before trying to drive.
Location of occurrence – 8:26 a.m.
The entrance to the building was narrow, with walls marked by graffiti and fake security cameras. Apartment 3B was on the second floor.
Athena went up first, her hand close to her holster but not pulling it. Mike was two steps behind, eyes trained on the half-open doors. The muffled sound of an argument could be heard from inside.
She knocked firmly.
— "LAPD! Ma'am, can you open the door?"
Silence fell on the other side. Mike watched the doorknob with surgical attention. There was a slight movement a shadow. He lightly touched Athena's forearm and pointed with his eyes. She understood. She took the radio off her shoulder.
— "12-A-49, requesting support unit at 97th and Washington. Possible active situation."
Before she could finish, the door was thrown open by a woman—barefoot, face swollen, left eye completely black.
— "Please... he's still here."
Athena pulled her back. Mike entered without hesitation, his gun held low. The man came out of the bathroom with a broken bottle in his hand. He was barefoot, sweaty, and his shirt was torn.
— "Put that shit down NOW!" — Athena roared.
The man hesitated, but took a step forward. Mike took two steps to the side, diverting his attention. He spoke in a calm, trained tone.
— "If you lift that bottle another inch, you'll wake up in a cell with three broken ribs. Not by me. By the guys who don't like bullies."
The tension cut through the air like a razor. The man looked at them both, confused, upset but he lowered the bottle. Mike handcuffed him without resistance.
Police Station – 9:14 AM
While Athena typed the preliminary report on the tablet, Mike looked at the street.
— "First day and it's already this kind of thing. Nothing's easy around here, right?"
— "Did you think you were going to patrol for lost dogs in Beverly Hills?"
They looked at each other. For the first time, a faint smile crossed Mike's face.
— "I just find it interesting what kind of enemy we're facing now."
— "The most unpredictable of all: the common human being."
Chapter 2 — Heat and Code 3
January 23, 2016 — 10:47 AM
City Car 12-A-49 | Pico-Union Neighborhood | Los Angeles
The LAPD radio crackled with the hoarse voice of a dispatcher who sounded more tired than alert.
"All units in the Wilshire and Alvarado radius. Structure fire confirmed. Possible victim trapped on the second floor. Fire support vehicles, respond code 3. Station 118 en route."
Athena glanced at Mike from the driver's seat. The cruiser's blue and red lights had been flashing for a few seconds now, cutting through the heavy traffic like a hot knife through butter. She kept one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the radio.
"This is 12-A-49, en route. We are four minutes from scene."
Mike kept his eyes ahead, but his heart was racing. He knew adrenaline not as a street cop, but as a clandestine soldier. But the danger here was different. It wasn't insurgents or ambushes. It was urban chaos, unpredictable, fueled by desperation and urgency.
"Is this the first time we're going to meet the guys from 118?" he asked, trying to keep his tone calm.
Athena answered without taking her eyes off the street:
"Yes. And you'll see that they're different. They're the reason why so many people still have faith in this city."
10:51 a.m.—Fire scene
Three-story apartment building, corner of Wilshire and Alvarado
The scene was controlled pandemonium. A column of black smoke rose into the Los Angeles sky like a distress signal. Neighbors crowded together, cell phones filming. Children crying. A woman kneeling on the curb begged in Spanish for someone named "Sofia."
Athena's vehicle stopped to the side, far from the hoses, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from the burning building.
"Let's go." — Athena said, already leaving with the flashlight and radio attached to her belt.
Mike followed her, eyes alert, noticing how the firefighters from Station 118 worked in almost military synchrony: each movement timed to the millimeter.
A tall man, with gray hair and a firm expression, coordinated the efforts in a deep voice.
"Hen, take the secondary staircase! Chim, with me on the ground floor. The structure could give way at any moment. I want five minutes at most!"
Athena approached and touched the man's arm.
"Bobby."
He turned around, eyes alert even in the heat of the moment. Upon seeing Athena, a brief, almost imperceptible smile appeared.
"Athena. I was already missing your precise three-page report."
— "You still owe me dinner for the laundromat fire last summer."
They both laughed quickly. Mike took it all in—the respect between them, the trust of those who have shared tragedies and survived together.
— "This is Mike Edwards," Athena introduced. — "New to the LAPD. First real day in the field. Ex-CIA, now trying to live among civilians."
Bobby held out his hand.
— "Captain Bobby Nash. Welcome to our everyday hell."
Mike shook his hand firmly.
— "It seems there's no green zone around here."
— "Only if it's the elementary school football field, and even then…" Bobby replied, nodding to the side.
A woman with short hair, a firefighter's uniform, and a determined look in her eyes approached.
— "Captain, the father said his daughter was trapped on the second floor, front bedroom."
— "Hen, this is Edwards."
Hen extended her hand with a friendly but analytical smile.
— "Henrietta Wilson. But everyone calls me Hen. Have you learned how to run through burning buildings?"
— "Only in tear gas training. I've never been in a real fire. But I can move fast."
— "Well, here the difference between fast and alive is knowing when not to be a hero."
Athena watched the exchange with silent attention. She knew Mike wasn't exactly the type to be intimidated, but he wasn't arrogant either. His poise was rare.
Soon, a sweaty-faced Korean paramedic with an alert expression approached with a respirator and a portable stretcher. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing an acupuncture needle tattoo.
— "Hen, I found an old man in the hallway. He was hyperventilating. He's stable now."
— "Mike, this is Chimney," Athena said. — "Chim, this is the new recruit with a history more secret than Area 51."
— "Chimney Han. Badass paramedic since 2005."
— "Mike Edwards. Undercover in countries where even Google doesn't reach."
They shook hands with a smile, and for the first time, Mike relaxed a little. He was among professionals—people who, like him, had learned to move quickly amid chaos, but with one fundamental difference: here the goal was to save lives.
11:07 a.m. — Rescue complete
Hen and Chimney emerged with the girl in their arms a small body, scorched by the heat, but alive. Mike and Athena pushed their way through the crowd, helping to set up a perimeter to the ambulance.
The father fell to his knees when he saw his daughter, tears streaming down his soot-stained face.
Mike took a few steps back, his eyes fixed on the scene. He took a deep breath.
This was different. It wasn't about extracting hostages from a bunker or neutralizing threats. It was more... raw. Real. Hot.
Athena approached him and remained silent for a while.
— "First real fire?"
— "First time I've seen someone saved instead of eliminated." — he said, almost in a whisper.
She nodded. She touched his arm briefly.
— "Get used to it. We deal with the worst in people. But, every now and then, we see the best."
6:45 p.m. — LAPD patrol car, returning to base
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the buildings of Downtown with orange hues. Mike had been silent for a few minutes, his eyes on the reflection of the city in the mirrors.
Athena broke the silence naturally:
— "Do you already have plans for tonight?"
Mike turned his head, slightly surprised.
— "Not exactly. I'm living in a small rented apartment in Westlake. I'm still getting to know the neighborhood. And the cockroaches."
— "Great." — Athena said, looking ahead with a slight smile. — "We're having dinner at my house tonight. Nothing official. Just real food. My husband cooks, and my kids don't let anyone stay silent."
Mike hesitated. It was something new. But there was sincerity in the invitation. And, somehow, it was the kind of mission that required more courage than raiding a Hezbollah hideout.
— "I accept. If May and Harry don't mind a stranger on the couch."
— "They'll love it. And Michael loves talking to ex-CIA agents. He always tries to guess what you guys are hiding."
Mike gave a short, genuine laugh.
— "Then I guess tonight will be more challenging than the fire."
8:03 p.m. — Grant's Residence | Los Angeles
The house was simple but welcoming. It smelled of rosemary, roasting meat, and laughter. Mike entered with careful steps, but was soon disarmed by the small figure who ran up to him.
— "Are you Mommy's new partner?" — said Harry, 8 years old, big eyes, Lakers T-shirt.
— "Yes, I am. Mike."
— "Have you ever used a bazooka?"
Michael, elegant, with a dish towel over his shoulder, appeared in the kitchen laughing.
— "Sorry. He learned that word yesterday and is testing it on adults."
Athena appeared right behind.
— "Mike, this is Michael. My ex-husband and best friend. And there, disguised as a teenager who pretends not to care, is May."
May, 14, was playing with her cell phone, but gave Mike an appraising look.
— "You look more like a history teacher than a cop."
Mike smiled.
— "You're not the first to say that. But I promise I can use both guns and books."
The evening went on with stories, laughter, and full plates. For the first time in many years, Mike felt something stirring inside him. It wasn't alertness. Or paranoia. It was something forgotten.
Humanity.
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