He still had to buy an entire new set of gear.
Duty belt. Quick-draw holster. Mag pouch. Flashlight. A new optic for the pistol.
His old setup had been taken into evidence. If he wanted to stay on duty, he needed replacements.
He also picked up a soft under-armor vest. The department didn't issue them—if you wanted to wear one, you paid for it yourself.
Felix returned to his car with a heavy box in his arms. The gun store didn't allow assembly inside. But once you were out the door, no one cared.
He loaded the magazine, chambered a round, and sat in silence for a moment.
Then he decided to go have a drink.
He'd prepared himself for the job—but two shootings in as many days? The blood was still on him, metaphorically if not literally. He needed to decompress.
He found a quiet bar, kept to himself, drank alone.
A long while passed.
Eventually, tipsy and numb, he stumbled back to his car and collapsed in the seat. Drifted off.
No telling how long he'd been out when the pressure in his bladder woke him.
He opened the door, stepped out—and gunshots rang out in the distance.
The haze cleared in an instant.
He strapped the vest to his chest, buckled his belt, and took off toward the sound.
Around the corner, he spotted a man dressed head-to-toe in black, a jet-black mark of "Evil" glowing above his head. The man was rifling through something. Nearby, another man—Black, bleeding—lay motionless on the ground.
Felix froze. He'd never seen a black mark before.
The man heard him, spun around, and fired.
Bang.
Felix ducked. The shot missed. He drew his weapon, safety off, returned fire—five shots in one smooth, reactive burst.
No time to confirm a hit.
He dove to the side, shoulder slamming against a wall, the jolt rattling his ribs. Heart hammering, he dropped the mag, reloaded with shaking fingers.
One deep breath.
Slide released.
Gun hot. Hands cold.
He peeked out from cover. The man in black was down. Blood pooling beneath his body, seeping into the concrete.
[Target neutralized. +$150 reward. Police Procedures skill +1.]
Felix rose slowly. His shoulder and chest burned. He didn't check the wounds—just walked over and kicked the suspect's pistol away.
One look told him the man was dead. Riddled with bullets. No need to double-check.
He turned to the other man. Checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
"Jesus Christ," Felix muttered. "What the hell is going on?"
A cruiser screeched to a stop nearby.
"Drop the gun!" someone yelled. "Hands up! Now!"
"Down on the ground! Let me see your hands!"
They were likely from the San Gabriel Valley station, but Felix didn't have the energy to explain. He tossed the gun aside and slowly lay flat on the pavement.
"Slower! Keep your hands where I can see them!"
Footsteps rushed in. One officer kicked the gun further away; another slapped cuffs on his wrists.
"I've been shot," Felix said. "I need a medic."
"You'll get one—if you've got insurance."
More units rolled in.
Felix turned his head and saw two familiar faces step out of a car.
"Mark! Frank!"
Mark and Frank were mid-conversation with the first responders. They paused, looked toward the voice, and froze.
"Jesus, Felix," Mark said as they walked up. "What the hell did you do? You realize you already shot someone this morning? And now you're cuffed again?"
Felix rolled his eyes. "I wasn't cuffed this morning."
Frank waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. Tell us what happened."
Felix explained it in short, clipped sentences.
Mark lifted his shirt to check the wounds. "Shoulder and chest. Vest caught the rounds. You'll be sore, but you're lucky."
"If this plays out the way you said, you acted in defense. You'll be fine," Frank added.
"Get in the ambulance. We've got the scene."
Felix was lifted onto a stretcher. Taken to the hospital. The doctor's conclusion matched Mark's—minor trauma, nothing life-threatening. He'd be discharged in two weeks.
Later, Felix found out the man he killed was named Joseph Powell.
A name tied to three other homeless murders—his car had been spotted near every scene. The pistol in his hand was linked to a home invasion shooting.
Ballistics and forensics confirmed it. Powell had murdered three homeless men and the fourth victim tonight. His weapon was the murder weapon.
Even the surviving victim from the robbery ID'd him.
In killing him, Felix had unknowingly solved multiple cases.
He was cleared. No charges. The department ruled it justifiable self-defense and a lawful use of force.
The news came directly from Captain Mesa, the division commander at the San Gabriel Valley station.
Felix met him for the first time—a plain, unremarkable white man in his fifties, except for the intensity in his eyes.
Mesa didn't say much. Just told him to rest up and get back to duty soon.
But something didn't sit right with Felix. He'd killed two people in two days. Normally that made you a problem. A liability. A cop too hot to handle.
Why would a captain support that?
Mark pulled him aside.
"You know how many people cops shoot in this country each year?" he asked.
"According to civilian data, about 1,100 in 2018. Some died from gunshots, others from tasers or restraints."
"Over 70% were criminals. Less than 30% were questionable cases. There are about 700,000 cops nationwide. That means most cops go their whole career without killing anyone."
"Cops aren't paid to kill people. They're paid to arrest them."
"But you? You already shot two. You just bumped the national kill average by half a percent in 2020."
He wasn't done.
"In 2018, the FBI recorded nearly 59,000 assaults on officers. 18,000 injuries. Over 100 killed in the line of duty."
"And every time we fire a shot, Internal Affairs comes knocking. Lawyers circle like vultures, waiting for a mistake they can turn into a lawsuit."
"Even if the shooting's justified, it wrecks you. Therapy. Paperwork. Suspension. Some officers quit. Some don't make it back."
"One life is lost. But sometimes, another is ruined."
Felix listened. No interruptions. No jokes.
The weight sank in.
"So what—you're saying the captain wants me to be the bad guy?"
Mark grinned and clapped him on the back.
"Damn right. Every station needs a hammer. Looks like you're ours."