Felix closed the apartment door behind him, phone already in hand before his steps had steadied.
A single line lit the screen:
— Come by the station. Need to talk.
From: Sgt. Carles.
He didn't overthink it. Called Uber, and watched the morning streets slide past the window. The sun had yet to clear the high-rises, and the shadows at each intersection cut the asphalt into sharp, moving segments the wheels rolled over with practiced indifference.
The station's hallway was quiet, only the low, wet gurgle of the coffee machine breaking the stillness. Felix pushed open the office door. Carles sat behind his desk, his expression unchanged from the day they met — calm, as though the subject at hand were just another memo to be signed.
"The psych eval's in," Carles said, straight to the point. "Nothing wrong."
Felix gave a brief nod.
"If you want to keep working the street, that's your call." Carles paused, voice low but steady. "We don't stop warriors from fighting."
No swelling rhetoric. No ceremonial praise. Just a statement — an unspoken contract between two men who understood each other's ground.
Felix smiled, faintly, the kind of smile that carried weight. "Then I'll keep going."
They traded a few more words — routine scheduling, nothing that needed more than a minute — and both stood to leave.
At the stairwell, Felix tightened his duty belt in one motion. Outside, the sun had crept over the skyline. He stepped into the light and headed for his patrol car.
He rolled out of the station lot and into the day's circuit. Speeders and red-light runners flashed by in numbers, but he let them go. Becoming a fully-fledged deputy had put him in a good mood; they could have their reprieve. Besides, reckless driving sorted itself out sooner or later.
A man on foot caught his eye — young, Black, red crime marker glowing above his head. Both hands pointed at his own T-shirt as he hawked to passing pedestrians, rejection doing nothing to blunt his persistence. Now and then, someone actually bought from him.
Felix pulled over to watch.
Up close, the shirt was custom-printed: Who needs good shit I really have them.
He could only shake his head.
"Hey," Felix called, "your shirt says you've got leaf. Mind showing me the goods?"
The man was buzzing hard, oblivious to who stood in front of him. "Of course, man. All top-shelf. Good price, too. You want more, I'll even throw in some extras."
He lifted his shirt. A sharp, familiar scent rolled out, along with the sight of plastic baggies strapped to his stomach — dried flower, lollipops, caramels, pre-rolls, vape pens. Underneath it all, the smell of a body that hadn't seen soap in too long still pushed through.
Street product this varied? Felix was almost impressed.
"This all real? No fakes?"
The man's face tightened with offense. "Real as it gets, man. You try it once, you're hooked."
Felix kept his tone easy. "Where'd you get it? I buy big — this stash isn't enough."
"You trying to make a play for my plug? Take my spot? You're dreaming." His hand went to his waistband.
Seriously?
Felix moved faster — one kick, the dealer hit the pavement. Gun stripped, tossed aside. Cuffs on.
He radioed dispatch: one dealer in custody, en route to station. Retrieved the gun, hauled the man upright.
The dealer fought like a child refusing a car seat, thrashing hard. "I'm not getting in there! It's too dark! Seats are uncomfortable! I'm not going!"
Ancient truth: even saints can't handle a dog rolling in the dirt. A small crowd gathered. Felix couldn't start swinging. Sweat ran down his back and the man was still planted on the sidewalk.
Hands on his hips, breath sharp, Felix thought for a beat.
"Listen," he said. "I'm taking you to a place where people love leaf. Big spenders. They'll clear you out, you'll make a fortune."
The dealer sprang up. "For real? Let's go get rich!"
He slid into the backseat himself, urging Felix to drive.
Felix took him straight to the station.
Whether the dealer's mood held was unknown, but Carles and his people were in good spirits — ready to pry out the supplier's name.
Stats mattered. Arrest counts, clearance rates, year-over-year crime drops — without those, no city council would sign off on a budget. And without a budget, paychecks got thin. Nobody here worked for charity.
And as for how much seized product actually made it to incineration? That was a subject no one discussed openly.
Felix left them to it and went back on patrol. Wrote one speeding ticket, collared a homeless man who had shoved an elderly woman to the ground hard enough to cut her head and bruise her back.
The man had nothing — no money, no way to make restitution. The woman would have to pay her own medical bills and chalk it up to bad luck.
People talked about discrimination against the homeless; plenty of it was earned. The man wasn't sick, just volatile. If he claimed illness, he might even dodge charges.
Felix booked him, and Carles found him moments later.
"Perfect timing, Felix. My office."
Inside, Carles looked faintly pleased.
"You got the dealer talking this fast?" Felix asked.
A thin smile. "We have our methods. We got what we needed."
Unlawful interrogation was officially off the books everywhere. In reality, compliance was… flexible. And in the U.S., the "fruit of the poisonous tree" rule barred illegally obtained evidence from court — but getting a conviction wasn't always a cop's concern. Arrest made, case 'cleared,' job done. If the DA couldn't nail the suspect, they could always arrest him again later for something else. Two bites at the apple.
Carles laid out the details. Background check: local street dealer, no gang ties, product not claimed by any gang. That didn't fit. The quantity and variety on him were far beyond his means.
Leaf wasn't cheap — 3.5 grams ran $35 to $50 retail. In California, it was closer to $35, sometimes less, especially with freebies thrown in. Profit margins practically begged to be exploited.
The product on him was fresh, recently processed. That meant there was a local operation — a processing site churning out retail-ready goods. New player, off-grid. Carles smelled a bigger catch.
They pressed him harder. The man finally admitted he'd met someone called Night Angel on Snapchat. Negotiations were quick — Night Angel undercut the market, asked for a photo of the buyer's cash to prove legitimacy, then named a time and place. Upon arrival, he'd send a photo of the exact spot to signal the deal.
Tempted by the low price, the dealer had tried to flip it for profit. No experience, no customers. High, he'd made a T-shirt and hit the street — and Felix had walked right into him.
Felix's pulse quickened. "Send me in. I'll pose as a buyer, meet Night Angel. You close in, bag him with the goods."
Carles nearly rolled his eyes. "We've got our best working him on Snapchat. When we have something, we'll plan it. You just do your job and be ready when called."
"Of course," Felix said. "All in, no holding back."
Carles liked the answer. Told him to keep things normal — the op was tight, no leaks.
Felix could live with that. Trust, even partial, had its own satisfaction.
"One question," he added. "We're not telling Narcotics or DEA?"
"Why would we hand over our lead?" Carles clapped him on the shoulder. "We tip them, they get the credit, and our names vanish from the report. You good with that?"
Message received — inter-department politics was a knife fight. Share a lead, lose the kill.
A knock on the door. A deputy leaned in, voice low: "Sheriff Carles — deal's set with Night Angel."
That fast?
Carles and Felix exchanged a look. Dealers usually took their time — suspicion, games, the slow build of trust. This one was playing it different.