Ryan and Henry's ride was a beat-up 2012 Ford Crown Victoria, callsign: 6-Adam-19.(6 = Hollywood Division, Adam = two-man patrol unit, 19 = unit number.)
The Hollywood Division covered a high-profile district—studios, celebrities, billionaires. Naturally, it had one of the heaviest patrol presences in the city.
The LAPD, after all, wasn't so much a police force as a private security service hired by the city government, serving the people who paid the taxes.
Which meant: the richer the neighborhood, the more cops.The poorer the hood? Fewer officers. Less presence. More chaos.
That's why in so many movies, the ghettos look like warzones—gangbangers flaunting pistols on their waistbands like it's nothing—because unless someone calls it in?No one cares.
Hollywood's patrol beat, by comparison, was fairly chill.Plenty of cops. Decent safety.
Henry drove. Ryan rode shotgun.
Then the radio crackled.
"Code 2, address 337 Bruce Street. Caller reports a strong odor coming from neighbor's residence..."
Henry glanced at the GPS. Nearby.
He grabbed the radio.
"6-Adam-19 responding. En route to location."
—
They arrived within minutes.
Henry took the lead. Ryan stayed behind, his hand resting casually on his holstered sidearm.
This was America, after all—where anyone and everyone might be packing heat. Even grandma.
The complainant was a white woman in her seventies, who'd said the smell was coming from next door.
They knocked.
The door opened to reveal a towering Black man, shirtless except for a pair of sagging boxers, his chest a forest of thick hair.
Ryan's gut tensed the moment he saw him.
Something felt… off.
The man's eyes narrowed when he saw they were cops.
"What?" he grunted, clearly annoyed.
"There's been a report," Henry said calmly. "Strong odor from your unit. We'd like to take a look inside."
He didn't look armed, but Henry knew better than to assume. Still, his tone remained even.
The man frowned, shifting to fully block the doorway.
"I don't smell anything."
"There's nothing wrong in my place."
"You got a warrant?"
Henry's eyes tightened. Americans hated letting cops into their homes.
"Sir," Henry said, voice cooling. "I'm going to need you to cooperate."
Ryan's gaze flicked past the man's body, surveying the room beyond.
Unlike Chinese homes, there was no foyer. The front door opened straight into the living room—giving him a full view.
The place was trashed. Clothes scattered everywhere.
What caught his eye, though, was a red bra lying on the floor.
Clearly, someone else was inside.
Then he looked again—at the man's sagging boxers.
Not because he was a perv.
Because something about the way they hung in the back was wrong. Weighted.
Something heavy… tucked behind his waistband.
A gun.
No doubt about it.
Ryan's hand slid silently to the grip of his TTI Viper, easing it halfway from the holster.
"We're authorized by law to conduct a welfare check," Henry said, his tone sharpening. "Please step aside."
The man's expression changed—nervous now. Eyes darting.There was definitely something in that apartment he didn't want them seeing.
"If you resist," Henry warned, "we are within our rights to detain you."
Ryan stayed silent, tension rising.
The man glanced behind him—into the apartment—hesitating.
That's when it hit them.
The stench.
A sharp, acrid smell wafted through the open door.
Henry's eyes narrowed.
He knew that smell.
Burned powder.
Crack cooking.
Ryan recognized it too. He'd seen plenty of this in his former life, digging through drug dens during intelligence missions.
Henry's hand twitched toward his Glock.
But it was too late.
"SH*T!"
The man snarled—and reached behind him.
He was going for the gun.
He thought he could draw first.
And Henry wasn't ready.
He'd let his guard down, assuming the boxers couldn't possibly conceal a weapon.Now he was in danger.
Just as the suspect's hand closed around his Beretta 92F—
SWOOSH!Ryan yanked Henry backward, spinning them around.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Ryan fired.
And immediately noticed the difference.
This was no regular sidearm.The TTI Viper purred in his grip.
Zero muzzle climb.Smooth, silk-like recoil.The two-pound competition trigger was crisp and satisfying.
He didn't hesitate.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
21 rounds. All spent.CLACK! – empty mag.
Goddamn, Ryan thought. This thing's worth every penny.
He slapped in a new mag—lightning-fast thanks to the flared magwell—and raised the gun again.
"Someone else is inside!" he warned. "Stay sharp!"
Henry, now safely behind him, nodded and raised his Glock 17.
He glanced down at the suspect's weapon.
Beretta 92F.Fully loaded.
If Ryan hadn't yanked him away and opened fire… he'd be bleeding out right now.
"Got it," Henry said, voice tight.
No time for gratitude. Situation wasn't over.
"Dispatch, this is 6-Adam-19!" Henry barked into his shoulder mic. "Suspect resisted arrest. Shots fired. Requesting backup!"
They should've waited.
But just as the last word left his mouth, they heard it—
FOOTSTEPS.
Barefoot, pounding toward them from deeper inside the apartment.
And then—
A second suspect burst out of the hallway.
A naked man—dark-skinned, top and bottom—sprinting full-speed with a Glock 19 in hand.
"YOU KILLED DANNY!" he screamed. "F**K YOU PIGS! I'LL KILL YOU!"
Ryan didn't flinch.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG—!
CLACK! – another mag, empty.