Two weeks later, Felix was back on duty.
He hadn't expected the news waiting for him.
At the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, the Field Training Program—FTO—was mandatory for every new deputy. It consisted of three phases, each led by a different Field Training Officer, lasting anywhere from sixteen to twenty-four weeks. The structure was strict. No one skipped it.
Almost no one.
But Felix wasn't just anyone.
He had acted without hesitation in a critical moment, taken down a major suspect, and been wounded in the line of duty. So when he returned, Captain Mesa called him into the office, closed the door, and spoke without ceremony.
"Your FTO's over. As of today, you're cleared for solo patrol."
That was it.
No build-up. No preamble.
When he stepped back out, Felix was no longer a rookie under watch.
He was a patrol deputy. Alone. No partner. No trainer.
Just him, his badge, and the street.
Linda updated his personnel file and took him to collect his gear—everything he'd previously turned in. Two handguns, body armor, and now a full kit for solo work: Motorola radio, body cam, Taser X26, baton, hard armor plates. All packed in a department-issued gear bag.
They also gave him a Remington M870 shotgun and fifteen rounds of 12-gauge ammo. Fifteen was standard—if you needed more, SWAT would handle it. He could request a beanbag shotgun if necessary, but otherwise this was it.
The M870 had been around longer than Felix's father. Still a staple in law enforcement. Not mandatory—deputies could buy their own rifles if they had the permit, but most didn't. It was expensive, and not worth it to most.
Felix hauled his gear outside and located his assigned patrol car: Unit 388, a Ford Taurus in black-and-white livery. Mesa hadn't been bluffing—it was nearly brand new. A rarity. Most rookies got hand-me-downs with 200,000 miles on them.
He circled the car for inspection. It was clearly next-gen. Roof-mounted light bar, integrated license plate scanners, dash cams front and rear, a radar unit on the grille, and a digital rearview mirror with live stream—high-tech all around.
He tossed the gear bag in the trunk, slid the baton into the door slot, mounted the Taser on the dashboard charger. The shotgun went into the vehicle's gun rack. If he'd had a patrol rifle permit, he could have checked out an AR-style carbine, but those started at $1,000 and often went over $2,000. Glocks cost a third of that.
Felix didn't have the permit anyway.
With everything set, he called in to dispatch and began his first solo patrol.
He cruised slowly, trying to bait speeders. If anyone drove faster than him, he'd pull them over.
But no one did. Middle of the day—visibility too good. Cars saw him from blocks away and hit the brakes.
Felix was mildly annoyed. No tickets meant he'd have to poach Parking Enforcement's job and start writing citations. There were monthly quotas, after all—rumor said the county wrote over a million tickets a year.
Cops needed the revenue. If tax funds fell short, they had to make up the difference somehow.
"You won't pay me enough? I'll get it another way." That was the unspoken rule.
Before he could go find a parking violator, the radio crackled.
"Adam-388, Adam-44. Possible burglary, 300 Rampart Street. Respond immediately."
"Adam-388, copy."
"Adam-44, copy."
Felix followed GPS directions and arrived to find Frank already there, waiting at the curb.
Felix jogged over.
"Fifth floor," Frank said. "Neighbor came home, found the door open and the place torn up. Let's go take a look."
The building was old. No elevator.
They climbed the stairs and reached the unit. It was a shared apartment—basically a dorm crammed with mattresses and personal belongings. The kind of setup where six or seven people split a two-bedroom.
With so many people living together, and a burglar having rifled through the place, it looked like a bomb had gone off.
Frank stood in the doorway, uncertain.
"Call the station. Have them pull landlord records. Get the landlord to contact the tenants—they'll need to check what's missing."
Felix nodded and phoned Linda. All rentals were on file with the department, so it didn't take long to identify the landlord and tenants.
Judging by the chaos inside, it was obvious the landlord had underreported how many people were staying there.
Linda said she'd call the landlord. He'd notify the residents.
Felix put his phone away and looked over at Frank.
"Aren't you gonna investigate who did it?"
Frank shrugged. "I wouldn't know how. You?"
"You trained me. What do you think?"
They stood in silence, guarding the door like bouncers, until the sound of footsteps came from below.
Two Asian-looking men, panting and sweating, scrambled up the stairs. They saw the uniforms—and froze.
Then turned to bolt.
Felix shouted, "Stop! One more step and I shoot!"
The two froze. American cops weren't bluffing.
"We're with LASD," Felix said in Mandarin. "We're here for a burglary, not immigration."
"You're Chinese?"
"Half. I don't lie. Go see what's missing."
One of them muttered, "That's what the Fujian guys said last time, too."
Felix narrowed his eyes. "You've got jokes, huh? Go join a crosstalk troupe."
The man grinned sheepishly. His buddy dragged him inside before he could mouth off again.
"I told them we're not ICE," Felix said to Frank.
Frank nodded. He'd seen the look Felix gave—dead serious.
More people trickled in, one after another. In the end, over a dozen crammed into the tiny apartment.
Felix waited until things settled, then took statements. Each person reported hundreds or thousands of dollars missing, plus electronics—cameras, laptops. The total loss was over $40,000.
One guy even lost an unscratched lottery ticket. The thief had scanned the QR code and claimed the prize.
Felix was stunned. That took attention to detail.
"Why don't you keep money in the bank?" he asked—then realized how stupid that sounded. These people were undocumented. No papers, no bank accounts. No accounts, no taxes. All their pay came in cash.
And you couldn't carry thousands around all day. The only place to keep it was home.
And home wasn't safe. Evidently.
Whether the theft had been by insiders, Chinatown gangs, or a professional crew, Felix didn't know. That was for detectives to figure out.
But getting the money back? Not likely.
Once the detectives, special task force, and wage-theft division arrived, Felix handed over the notes and cleared out.
Frank was right—it was just procedure. These guys weren't getting their stuff back.
Professional thieves had efficient resale channels. Once the gear was sold and the money split, there was no tracing it. Even if they caught the suspect, how would you prove that one dollar was part of the stolen stash?
Judging by the tenants' faces, this wasn't their first time getting robbed.
Felix left Frank and resumed patrol. Honestly, driving around all day in a taxpayer-funded car wasn't a bad gig.
Then the radio again: "Adam-388, knife threat reported on Brock Avenue. Caller says his son is threatening to harm him and his wife with a knife. Please respond."
"Adam-388, en route."
Threatening your parents with a knife? Seriously? That couldn't stand.
Felix sped over. Even before he entered the house, he heard a storm of shouting inside. Profanities. Rage.
"Sheriff's Department!" he called. "Open up!"
"Oh God, you're here!" A white man in his sixties opened the door. "My son's lost it—cursing, screaming, said he'd kill me and my wife!"
"Understood, sir. I'll speak to him."
"Of course."
That was consent—legally useful if anyone decided to nitpick later.
Inside stood a pale, twenty-something man, gray crime marker floating over his head. Kitchen knife in hand. Eyes flat and cold.
Felix's hand found the grip of his Glock. "Sir..."
"Go look in the mirror, you stupid c**t."
"Wanna die today, a**hole?"
"Get the f**k out of my house."
"Waste of taxpayer money!"
Felix blinked. He wanted to snap back, but the body cam was rolling. Besides, his English insult skills were still level 1.
"Calm down. Let's talk—"
"Talk my a**! You motherf—!"
"Put the knife down."
"No! I won't, you son of a—"
The guy took a step forward—knife low, body tense.
Felix didn't flinch.
Gray meant he was bluffing. If it turned red, that would've been different.
Sure enough, the man pulled back, feint over. Didn't even raise the blade.
Coward.
Felix sighed. If the guy had charged, he'd have legal cause to shoot. But this half-measure crap made it tricky. No clean justification.
He turned to the father. "Sir, can you calm him down? If not, I'll need to use force."
"Will you kill him, officer?"
"No. Just subdue him."
"Then go ahead."
How touching. Father-son bonding.
Felix nodded, pulled the Taser from behind his back, and edged forward.
"Sir, please. Just calm down—"
"F**k calm, you—!"
ZAP!
Screw this. Felix fired the Taser.
The wires flew. The man seized up, collapsed, frothing slightly.
Weak constitution. Felix had heard some people could tank multiple hits. Not this guy.
Training had covered how to fire a Taser. No volunteers had offered to demonstrate.
He kicked the knife aside, rolled the man over, and knelt on his back—just a little harder than necessary. Revenge, sure. But careful. First time pinning someone like this—he didn't want a dead body.
He frisked the man. No other weapons. Then cuffed him.
"We'll take him in. He'll likely be charged with threats, verbal abuse, and threatening an officer. If you want to help him get a lawyer, now's the time."
The father hesitated. "Let him sit in jail a while. Might do him some good."
Felix didn't argue. He shoved the man into the back of the cruiser, appreciating the design—bare plastic seats, slippery, cramped. Perfectly uncomfortable.
He dropped him at the station. Submitted the bodycam footage. From there, it wasn't his problem. Once processed, the guy would be sent to LA County's east holding facility.
It was already past noon. Two cases in one morning. Felix considered getting a burger. Not like he had time to enjoy it—patrol waited.
No wonder so many cops got fat. Living on fast food.
Then the radio again.
"Emergency call. Four-year-old child abducted from Panda Express, intersection of Pico and Lincoln in Temple City. All nearby units respond."
So much for lunch.
Felix hit the gas.
More units joined en route. By the time they arrived, there were twenty-plus patrol cars and thirty officers on-site—deputies from multiple stations, even a few LAPD units.
A sergeant from Temple City took charge—sergeants typically led patrol teams and acted as front-line supervisors, just below management rank.
Felix stood with the others as the sergeant took the report. The caller was a seventy-year-old Chinese woman who had taken her grandson out for lunch. While they were eating, a large Black woman—around thirty—grabbed the child and ran.
They chased her out the door, but she had already driven off.
Felix clenched his fists. Kidnapping a child? That was beyond the pale.
The sergeant nodded.
"Pull the surrounding security footage. Check for plate recognition."
An officer left to check. A few minutes later, the radio buzzed. They had the suspect's plate number.
The sergeant keyed his radio.
"Dispatch, this is Sergeant Cooper. Request tech support from Data Services to trace vehicle G43495, involved in the child abduction from Panda Express."
Felix expected it to take a while.
It didn't.
Less than ten minutes later, dispatch called back with a location.
"Move in!" the sergeant ordered.
Felix joined the convoy as they sped toward a motel. The place was quickly surrounded, and the panicked owner hit the floor in terror.
The sergeant led his team up to Room 203.
Moments later, they emerged—suspect in cuffs, child in his arms.
Felix checked his watch.
From the call to the rescue, it had taken exactly twenty-six minutes.