The G‑Wagon's engine growled low as it left downtown, carrying Felix into the San Gabriel Valley.
Through the windshield, the city shifted.
Glass towers fell away to single‑story homes, strip malls, Chinese restaurants tucked between Mexican taquerías.
Signs in English, Chinese, Spanish overlapped one another, like the cultures pressed into this patch of land.
Temple City.
It looked calm on the surface.
But Felix knew better. Places like this were hunting grounds—quiet streets hiding plenty of "sin value."
The San Gabriel Valley Station sat on Las Tunas Drive, a modest two‑story block with faded beige walls.
Rows of white‑and‑green LASD cruisers lined the lot, sun flashing off their hoods. The American and California flags snapped in the breeze at the entrance, two deputies leaning against the wall, smoking, their eyes tracking the G‑Wagon as it rolled in.
Felix parked in the visitor's area. Stepping out, he felt their stares linger.
A fresh‑faced rookie in a six‑figure Mercedes—hard not to stand out here.
Inside, the air hit him with the familiar blend of coffee, old carpet, and copier toner. Phones rang. A printer hummed in the corner.
Maps on the walls marked patrol sectors and flagged hot spots.
Behind the front desk, a middle‑aged woman in glasses clacked away at a keyboard. She glanced up, giving him a quick once‑over.
"New deputy?" she asked.
"Felix Lee."
She nodded, handed him a stack of forms. "Fill those out. Your FTO will come get you."
Felix moved to a row of worn leather chairs, set the forms on his lap, and let his eyes wander.
Deputies geared up for shift, trading case notes in low voices. Others leaned against desks, swapping crude jokes.
This wasn't the polished order of headquarters.
It was frontline policing—messy, raw, alive.
His battleground.
"Lee?"
The voice came from beside him—low, rough.
Felix looked up at a broad‑shouldered man in a duty uniform. A little soft at the waist. Sleeves casually rolled. Skin darkened by the sun, deep‑set eyes unreadable.
"I'm who you're looking for."
The man jerked his chin toward the hallway. "Donovan. You're with me today."
No handshake. No welcome speech. Just a flat delivery, the voice of a man long used to endless calls and paperwork.
Felix rose, grabbed his files, and followed.
They passed clusters of older deputies lounging against the walls. Nobody paid him a second glance.
"First day?" Donovan asked without looking back.
"Yeah."
"Good. Don't ask too many questions. Don't make trouble. Learn as you go."
Advice tossed out like a cigarette butt—practical, indifferent.
Felix studied the man's back. He felt like a wall—keeping distance, offering nothing.
At the rear door, Donovan shoved it open with his shoulder and nodded at a white‑and‑green Crown Vic in the lot. "Get in, rookie. We've got work."
Felix didn't reply. Just followed.
The afternoon started slow. Donovan parked near a crosswalk, set Felix out as bait.
For half an hour, Felix walked back and forth in the sun, playing the pedestrian while passing cars either braked politely or roared by with angry honks.
By the time he returned to the cruiser, a dozen drivers were lined up in the lot, waiting for their tickets.
They were grumbling until they saw the "pedestrian" climb into a patrol car and start strapping on his duty belt.
An elderly woman raised a trembling hand. "You can't do this!"
Donovan didn't look up from his clipboard. "Take your ticket and move along."
A tattooed white man barked, "You set us up! You're cops—how can you pull this crap?"
Donovan glanced at him, bored. "You failed to yield. You get a ticket. That's how it works."
"This is entrapment!"
"Then go tell the judge."
He handed over the citation.
The man snatched it, snarling. "I'll sue you for this!"
"Good luck," Donovan said flatly.
Felix stepped in, voice steady: "Sir, take your ticket and clear the lane. Others are waiting."
Donovan had already told him—deputies enforce the law. They don't have to coddle feelings.
The man spat a curse and stormed off.
One by one, the rest collected their citations, muttering under their breath. Felix didn't doubt that if he weren't armed, they'd have done more than mutter.
Donovan stacked the last clipboard. "Alright, Felix. In the car."
By the time they pulled out, Felix understood this was just Donovan's way of killing time. The real job was patrol.
Everyone knew deputies ran stings. Even used decoy pedestrians. LAPD had once put a seventy‑year‑old volunteer on crosswalk duty as bait. Nobody seemed to care if someone got hurt doing it.
Felix climbed into the passenger seat. Donovan settled in, buckled up, keyed the radio.
"Adam‑44 to dispatch."
"Go ahead, Adam‑44."
"Starting patrol."
"Copy that. You're on the board. Continue patrol. Over and out."
Donovan set the mic aside and eased the car onto Las Tunas. "Felix, I know what they taught you. But pay attention out here. Stay sharp. Watch me handle calls. Compare it to what you learned."
He glanced over, briefly. "And remember this—our job's to go home alive. Alive in, alive out. Got it?"
Felix nodded. "Got it."
He wasn't here to serve the public. He was here to hunt.
For thirty minutes, the only calls were background noise on the radio.
Felix tapped his fingers against his thigh. "You know, Frank, we could stop some speeders. That BMW just blew past us."
Donovan shook his head. "Quota's done for the month. Leave some for the others."
Felix exhaled, disappointed. One day, he thought, he'd patrol solo. Then he'd decide who to pull over.
But the BMW wasn't finished. It slowed ahead of them, hitting its brakes like it wanted to provoke.
Donovan's mouth tightened. "Alright. Someone wants attention."
He flicked on the lights and siren, stomped the accelerator.
The Crown Vic roared forward, nearly clipping the BMW's bumper.
The BMW swerved, then gunned it. A challenge.
Donovan grinned—a predator waking up.
They tore through Temple City streets, weaving between cars, speedometer climbing past a hundred.
Felix's pulse spiked. He gripped the dash, mind screaming. This isn't the freeway. This is insane.
"You want backup? Box him in up ahead?"
"No," Donovan barked. "I'm taking him myself."
Felix stared at the bald, middle‑aged man beside him and wondered if he'd lost his mind.
The BMW made its play—cut hard into a side street, trying to shake them. Too sharp.
It clipped a tree and flipped, rolling three times before landing in a crumpled heap.
Donovan stomped the brakes. The Crown Vic skidded to a stop, leaving black arcs of rubber on the pavement.
Doors flew open. Both deputies stepped out, moving toward the wreck, weapons low.
Before they got close, the driver's door burst open. A white man bolted.
Felix shouted: "Sheriff's Department! Stop!"
He had to. That one shout made it lawful when force came next.
The man didn't stop.
Felix sprinted, closed the distance, and lunged—tackling him hard onto the asphalt. He pinned the man, wrenched an arm behind his back, snapped a cuff on, then the other.
"You're under arrest for reckless driving," he said, breath ragged.
"I want a lawyer!" the man spat.
Donovan strolled up, grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him to his feet. "You'll see one. After holding."