"Gangs exist to make money, not because anyone's a born fighter. Shootouts mean bodies on the ground."
"Then why go at it this time—and shoot to kill?"
"A while back there was a shooting in Monterey Park. Two Mexicans were killed. Investigation turned up ties to Barlette Street—they specialised in stealing cars. Barlette Street would sell them off or use them in other crimes.
Monterey Park is Lomas 13 territory. So when Barlette Street's people died there, it sparked a dispute. Looks like they couldn't work it out, so it turned into action."
Felix felt a prickle of recognition.
Those two Mexicans wouldn't happen to be the ones I shot, would they?
Most likely. He'd thought the matter had been dropped; now it seemed it had only been biding its time.
He gave a dry chuckle. "Straightforward of them—no agreement, pull guns. Very American."
"They're sworn enemies. Add this to the pile, and if they didn't respond, they'd lose face."
Carles laid it out: this was Los Angeles, the city of vice, where every street belonged to someone—whether the wealthy or the gangs. You didn't trespass without paying for it. Fail to respond to an incursion and others would take liberties; the next price would be higher.
Lomas 13 and Barlette Street had always been at war. In Lomas's view, Barlette sending men into their turf to steal cars was a calculated provocation. Whether or not the dead were killed by their own hands didn't matter—publicly, they'd claim the kills, and at the table they'd demand concessions. That was face.
Barlette Street, for its part, probably sent those men deliberately—slip in, grab a car, cause some trouble. Theft was easy enough to get away with in the dead of night. But they'd run into Felix instead, and two ended up dead.
From Barlette's perspective, their guys had been caught by a sworn enemy and killed outright. Then the enemy came to the negotiating table all swagger and demands. With their own turf already eroded, to swallow that humiliation would be to invite collapse. Never mind that they'd started it.
The talks collapsed.
As the stronger side, Lomas 13 had to retaliate. Even if you lost people, I'm still going to make you bleed—otherwise everyone will come steal from me. Cars on my turf can only be stolen by me; you try it, I break your hands.
The gas station attack was Lomas's answer. Carles's reasoning was so plausible even Felix almost believed it himself.
See? Nothing to do with me. I'm just an honest patrolman doing my job. What fault is mine?
If that was true, the SUV that had run cops in circles might have been a deliberate diversion. They'd just been a little too committed to the act—burning Felix's gas tank dry—before he stumbled into the real hit.
"So what's our move? They've got the nerve to open fire in public, rack up a body count—shouldn't we hit them back hard?" Felix was itching to get moving.
"Hit nothing. We're police. We want order. Gunfire on the street every day? What will taxpayers think? We'll warn them—this ends here." Carles corrected him. "And when I say we, I mean us. Not you. You're on admin leave."
Felix blinked. Right. That. "How long? Don't tell me a month."
"You're asking me? Who do I ask? I'm just a sergeant. But your last psych eval came back solid. If you pull another good one this time, it'll help get you back sooner. Figure out a way to deal with Mary."
"What, bribe her?"
Carles slapped him hard on the shoulder. "Did I say bribe her? I said seduce her. You're a good-looking man—win her over. Mary's young and easy on the eyes; you wouldn't be losing out. Then your reports will write themselves. Money, money, money—how long have I been your sergeant? You ever offer me money?"
"What do you want? I'll get it for you."
"I want nothing! Get out." Carles barked.
Felix made for the door, muttering just loud enough for Carles to hear, "People ask for all sorts of things. Even nothing."
He left at a brisk pace, leaving Carles shouting in the conference room—hardly the picture of a steady-handed sergeant.
Felix changed clothes, jogged out of the station, and pulled out his phone to call a ride.
"Hey!" someone yelled right behind him.
"Shit!" Felix spun and threw a punch.
"Ah! What the hell?" The figure went down.
He stared—then crouched to push back her hair. "Rachel? What the hell are you doing here?"
"I came to bring you a car—thought I'd surprise you—and you hit me!" Rachel's eyes welled, her voice breaking.
Great. Punch a cute girl, and she'll probably cry forever.
Rachel wept in full, nose and tears running, until she finally stopped. She looked up at him like an abandoned puppy.
Felix felt the guilt settle in. He'd have to make it up to her—with dinner.
Rachel sniffled. "What are we eating?"
"Where are you from?"
"Texas."
"Then barbecue?"
"Texas steak?"
"Asian-style steak."
Before she could process it, Felix had her up and moving.
He found a skewer place—MeetPG. Name alone screamed Asia: 708 E Las Tunas Dr #D, San Gabriel, CA 91776.