Frank didn't even look up. "By the time we get there, there won't be any soup left. CHP probably has the guy in cuffs already."
Felix said nothing. He leaned back in the seat, one hand resting on his knee, eyes still on the intersection ahead. The cruiser rolled steadily out of the neighborhood, merging back into the sluggish afternoon traffic.
They drove in silence.
Only the occasional static from the police radio and the low hum of tires on asphalt filled the space between them.
Roughly ten minutes later, Dispatch crackled through.
"Be advised, suspect on I-10 has been apprehended. All units cancel response and resume normal patrol."
Frank reached out and switched off the lights. His lips twitched into something between a smirk and a sigh.
They continued their patrol.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. A noise complaint turned out to be a backyard barbecue. A homeless man dozing in front of a bank was nudged along after a polite warning. Someone claimed a driver at a red light was acting suspicious, but by the time they arrived, the car was gone.
No surprises. No action.
Just a long, uneventful stretch of routine.
By now, Felix was getting a feel for the rhythm of patrol. He returned to the station, parked the cruiser, and ran into Mark coming out the front door.
"I heard from Frank. You did good yesterday," Mark said with a nod. "Wanna ride with me today?"
Felix scratched his head. "I'd love to, and tell Frank thanks for me. But I didn't get a shift notice, and my uniform's at the cleaner."
"No problem. I'll let Linda know and get you on the schedule. Just head home, grab your gear, and come back. We've got spare uniforms—you can pick up another set."
Linda, the civilian clerk at the front desk, ran scheduling. Felix mentally noted: part-time quartermaster, part-time retail sales rep. Got it.
Jokes aside, patrol wasn't something to mess with.
Felix headed home, dropped his uniform at the dry cleaner downstairs, and returned to the station with his duty belt and holster. Cops could either store their firearms and gear in department lockers or take them home—just like assigned cruisers. Most preferred the locker. Nobody had just one gun anyway. Besides the issued sidearm, many carried a concealed personal pistol and kept a home defense weapon, shotgun or otherwise.
Felix only had the issued sidearm. He hadn't brought it today, not expecting to get called in. But he did keep a "dirty gun" stashed in the car's hidden compartment. Risky, sure—if someone searched the vehicle, it could land him in trouble.
He needed a system-compatible weapon that could be stored safely. Hopefully, that wouldn't be far off.
He picked up a new uniform at the station's supply room and set off with Mark.
"You're off route," Felix said as they drove.
The San Gabriel Valley Station's patrol area was broad, divided among different units. Felix was familiar with Mark's sector, and it didn't take long to realize they were headed somewhere else.
"We're not patrolling today. City sanitation's doing a sweep, clearing out encampments. We're just support."
Mark kept driving. "You know how it is—most of them don't exactly keep things clean. Trash piles up. We move them temporarily, sanitation clears it out, and when they come back, at least it's a little more livable."
Felix nodded. "We've got no beef with them, long as they're not breaking the law."
Of course, there were two sides to it. The upside—an opportunity to restore order, even if briefly. The downside—for the homeless, it meant being uprooted. They'd need to find new sleeping spots, new places to collect aid. No one knew how far the sweep would stretch. It might take hours just to find a new corner.
And if their old spot was taken? That meant competition. Fights. Risk.
The cruiser made its way into Rosemead—a local favorite among visiting Chinese tourists. Famous for Cantonese cuisine, seafood, and bargain shopping, it was a magnet for shoppers and foodies alike. Which meant the city cared about appearances. Garbage, tents, and human waste didn't pair well with tourism revenue.
The city had sent a solid team today. Seven or eight officers, plus municipal workers.
"We're just here in case something goes sideways," Mark said. "Let the city folks handle the rest. Don't get involved."
Fine by Felix. Less work.
They walked behind the workers, shades on, watching as they called out to tents, handing out notices if anyone responded. If not, they taped them to the flap. Cleanup crews would return tomorrow. By then, people had better be gone. If not, the tents were going too.
Felix hadn't realized how many homeless lived here. The parks and sidewalks were lined with tents.
And frankly, their standard of living wasn't that low. Some of these tents weren't cheap—camping-grade gear that would cost good money back home.
"Still gotta be careful," Mark said, stepping over a puddle. "A lot of these folks have drug histories, mental illness. They're unpredictable. Plus, it's America. Too many guns out there. Some of them are armed."
Are you talking about me? Felix thought. My first gun came out of a trash can.
If he ever tried to purchase one legally, the trail would be too easy to trace. Too easy for the wrong people to connect the dots.
They moved on. Just as Felix turned back, he saw Mark and the others start running.
Something had happened.
Felix jogged over. A tall Black man was on top of another homeless guy, beating him into the pavement.
The officers rushed in to separate them. Fighting in front of the police? That was bold, bordering on stupid.
A middle-aged white officer stepped up, notebook in hand, asking for ID.
The big guy didn't like that. He gestured wildly, acting like the victim. Meanwhile, the man he'd pummeled lay bloodied and motionless on the sidewalk.
Then, without warning, the big guy slapped the notebook out of the officer's hand.
That crossed the line.
The officer didn't hesitate. He pulled his side-handle baton and swung.
The strike landed, but the man blocked it with surprising strength, sending the baton flying.
For a moment, both froze.
Then the homeless man grabbed the officer, and the two collapsed, grappling like kids on a playground.
The chaos was unexpected. Everyone hesitated, stunned.
Then they rushed to intervene.
That's when the downed officer shouted: "He's got my gun! He's got my gun!"
All movement stopped. Officers ducked for cover. Tension snapped into panic.
Felix had already started moving. As he closed in, he saw the red marker flash over the suspect's head.
System confirmed: threat identified.
He drew his weapon, leveled it. "LASD! Drop the gun! Now!"
Others joined in.
"Show your hands!"
"Don't move! Get your hands out!"
"What the hell are you doing?! Let it go!"
Felix turned at a shout—some woman had tried to pick up the fallen baton and got tackled, cuffed on the spot.
The scene exploded—shouts, sirens, people yelling over each other.
Felix's eyes never left the two struggling figures.
Then the suspect shifted.
An opening.
He fired five shots in succession.
One body went still.
Officers surged forward, pried them apart. The Black man was dead.
The white officer—bloody, shaken—but alive.
Mark approached slowly, one hand raised.
"It's me, Felix. You're alright. It's over."
Felix turned to him.
Of course it's you. What are you talking about?
Then he realized—Mark was de-escalating.
"I'm fine," he said. "No need to worry."
He ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, and handed over the pistol. Then unbuckled his belt and passed it along.
Standard procedure. Any officer who discharged their weapon had to surrender it for review.
Mark took the gear, exhaled hard. A fresh shooter was always a wild card. Nerves ran hot. He didn't want anyone getting spooked and doing something stupid.
Shooting a homeless man in public was already enough for headlines. Friendly fire would've lit up the nation.
The others eased off. Weapons lowered. Radios clicked to life. Crime scene tape unfurled. One officer checked the downed man.
No need.
Felix already knew the outcome.
[Reward: $100. Glock 19 converted to system item. Added to storage.]
He felt the weight disappear from the hidden compartment in his car.
Finally.
He wouldn't have to worry about stashing black market guns again.
From now on, he could carry invisibly. Draw invisibly. Kill invisibly.
No one cuffed him. Too many witnesses had seen what happened, and Felix was one of their own.
He stood where he was and watched everyone else get to work.