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A few sharp knocks on the window of an old Ford startled the two detectives inside — one young, one older — both of whom had been staring blankly at the mouth of a grimy alley for hours.
The senior detective reacted calmly, turning just enough to see who it was.
The younger one, on the other hand, nearly jumped. When he recognized the face outside, he exhaled in relief. "Who—oh! Agent James, sir. Didn't expect you."
The LAPD detectives shifted as the veteran FBI agent slid into the back seat. Someone handed him a coffee and a donut — field staples — and everyone took one without ceremony.
"Been on surveillance for a full day and night?" James asked. "Any sign of our target?"
"White male, black-and-white hair, scar on his face?" the younger detective replied, mid-chew. "No one matching that entered or left."
The older detective added, "These alleyways are a maze. He could've gone in or out from another direction."
"So," James said, frowning slightly, "we can't actually confirm whether he's inside or not?"
"Well…" the younger detective perked up. "We did notice one thing."
"Oh?" James leaned forward. "What's that?"
"Yesterday, around noon and again in the evening, food delivery showed up," the younger man said. "This neighborhood's so rough, most restaurants won't deliver here. So whoever ordered must've tipped heavy. That kind of spending—someone's sitting on fresh cash."
"Can you confirm that?" James asked.
"I checked the alley yesterday myself," the young detective explained. "The Tinkerer Clinic looks just like the intel described — metal shutter half down, means someone's inside.
"Throughout the day, I saw a few injured-looking people go in. Probably seeking treatment. But I didn't see them come back out. Maybe they exited another way."
"Think they're still in there?" James pressed.
"Unlikely. The clinic's known for patch-and-go service. The doc doesn't keep patients overnight. Once they're conscious, they crawl out if they have to."
James sank back into his seat, thinking. Up front, the two LAPD men took the pause as a cue to wolf down the rest of their food — a skill honed by long stakeouts.
When they finished, James asked again, "You're sure this is the right spot? That someone's definitely inside?"
"Can't mistake it," the young detective said confidently. "The shutter's got street art spelling out Tinkerer in big letters — easy to spot. The front looks like an old butcher shop, even has a transparent fridge display."
"Can you double-check?"
"I'll go take a quick look," said the younger detective, hopping out and strolling casually toward the alley — practiced enough to look like a man with nothing to hide.
Watching him go, the older detective asked quietly, "You in such a hurry because headquarters gave the go-ahead?"
James sighed. "According to statements from those illegal medics we caught, the Tinkerer took a full one hundred grand in cash for that surgery.
"We only recovered thirty-eight. The rest — roughly sixty grand — is supposedly in a matching second duffel bag. Who wouldn't be tempted?"
"So HQ's already figured out how to split the pot?" the older detective asked bluntly.
A flash of disappointment crossed James's eyes. If his superior had let him lead the raid, this would've been over already. But orders were orders.
He said flatly, "As far as I know, it'll be a fifty-fifty split — evidence held jointly." Between the FBI and LAPD, of course.
"Figures," the old detective muttered. "So they've made the deal. Now they just need the Tinkerer caught before he hides the money — or at least catch him red-handed."
"Exactly," James replied. "The longer we wait, the smaller the chance."
Moments later, the young detective returned. His movements were smooth, confident — too practiced to draw attention. Sliding back into the front seat, he reported, "Confirmed. Clinic still looks the same — shutter halfway down. I think I heard noise inside, but I didn't get close enough to eavesdrop. Didn't wanna spook anyone."
"Good work, kid," James said approvingly. "I'll make the call. You two get ready." With that, he stepped out of the Ford and disappeared into the shadows.
The younger detective blinked. "Uh… ready for what exactly?" he asked his senior.
"Means they're about to move," the older man replied. "They'll lock down the neighborhood, call in SWAT, and get ready to close the net. Our job's to keep watch — make sure the target doesn't slip away."
Understanding what was coming, both men straightened in their seats and fixed their gaze on the alley. Hardly anyone came or went in this rundown block, but they weren't about to risk missing the one man they were after.
After a few quiet minutes, the younger detective asked suddenly, "You really think it's right? To grab that doctor like this?"
"What's wrong with it?" the old cop asked.
"Well… we've heard of him before. There were reports about an unlicensed doctor treating the poor, but no one ever pushed to investigate. I figured as long as he didn't cause trouble, everyone just turned a blind eye. Now we're hauling him in?"
"Because he did cause trouble," the older man replied. "He operated on Andrew Saxon — kidnapper, racketeer, killer, human trafficker. We need every shred of evidence we can get. The doc who helped him goes on that list."
The younger detective gave a humorless laugh. "Yeah, sure. If it weren't for that missing sixty grand, I might've believed you."
"Heh," the veteran smirked. "Without a little 'incentive,' how many cops do you think could live on their paycheck — with a wife and kids still smiling at them? Just think of it as overtime pay."
The younger one didn't argue, but his expression tightened. He knew better than to believe in clean motives. Experience had shown him enough: every "good reason" someone gave for doing wrong usually turned out to be crap.
Good people justified evil as kindness; bad people disguised evil as virtue. So he wasn't naive enough to think a "doctor for the poor" was necessarily a saint. Who knew what else the man was doing behind closed doors?
To him, it didn't really matter whether they arrested the guy or not. Once someone entered the system, the truth always came out — nobody walked away spotless.
The older detective, though, had deeper concerns. He knew exactly what that sword-and-shield graffiti on the clinic's shutter really meant. And everyone else who knew… had quietly agreed to forget it.
It wasn't that they dared challenge what that symbol represented — it was just that chances like this didn't come twice.
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