Chapter 13: How to Trade Three Bullets for Paid Administrative Leave
The Latino man named Cyril was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown.
He stared at his partner's corpse, a Smith & Wesson M&P Shield—still unfired—clenched in the dead man's hand, while fragments of Blake's brain matter clung to the corner of his own mouth.
From Sean's perspective through his system interface, only one red threat marker remained on the vehicle.
His three shots had just scored a perfect grouping.
Inside the patrol vehicle, Erin flinched at the sudden gunfire despite having mentally prepared herself.
Collecting herself quickly, Erin resumed broadcasting over the PA system, ordering the remaining occupant to slowly extend his hands out of the window.
"Don't move. I repeat: this is LAPD Western Division—"
Right then, the backup unit radioed by dispatch arrived on scene.
No need to see the officer's face—every tactical movement screamed seasoned veteran.
The supporting patrol officer rolled in beside Sean's cruiser, shifted into drive, and let the vehicle coast forward several feet to tighten the containment perimeter on the suspects.
Surrounded by an increasing number of police officers, Cyril's already-frayed nerves completely snapped; he tossed his pistol out the window, shouted his surrender, kicked the door open, and cautiously extended his hands outside.
"I surrender! Hands up! Don't shoot!"
His capitulation was textbook perfect: weapon discarded first, eliminating every hint of threat.
He shuffled toward the patrol cars, executed a slow three-hundred-sixty-degree turn to demonstrate he was unarmed, then dropped prone, spreading himself flat on the asphalt.
Clearly he'd rehearsed this surrender routine before—probably multiple times.
While Cyril performed the ritual submission, Sean's HUD flipped the man's threat level from hostile red to neutral white.
Sean leaned toward Erin still positioned inside the cruiser.
"Call dispatch—we need paramedics rolling Code 3."
He knew the passenger suspect was deader than disco; if that man ever sat up again it would be an insult to Sean's marksmanship credentials.
But an eight-year-old girl lay unconscious and bound in the back seat.
Otherwise, scumbags like these should meet their maker sooner rather than later—alive they were nothing but walking public safety hazards.
Cyril arched his rear end skyward and, using his backside as leverage, inchworm-crawled toward Sean's position.
Sean slung the M14 across his back, grabbed handcuffs from the spotlight's swivel mount, and secured the Latino suspect's wrists behind his back.
As the steel bracelets clicked shut, Sean spotted "MS" and "13" tattooed on the man's forearm—instantly identifying his gang affiliation.
Latino male plus "MS-13" ink: after years of street patrol Sean didn't need to speculate, though the exact clique was still unclear.
Even while handcuffed, Cyril kept talking non-stop.
"Officer, I need medical attention—ambulance—my right leg's been shot."
"Sir, sir—easy, I can't breathe, I can't breathe!"
Sean ran through the required script, reciting the Miranda Warning by rote.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
Finished with the advisement, he ignored the suspect's complaints, handed him off to the nearest backup patrol officer, and advanced on the suspects' Chevrolet Silverado, M14 at the ready.
Had to make it look convincing—how else would anyone watching the body-cam footage know there wasn't a third armed suspect?
After a tactical sweep for the cameras, Sean "confirmed" no additional threats and "discovered" a bound, unconscious young girl.
He carefully untied her restraints—no visible injuries, but clearly drugged into unconsciousness.
Sean carried her back to Erin and radioed for paramedics with priority transport.
Officer Irving Rex, same division, had custody of Cyril. Watching Sean approach still carrying the M14, he couldn't help asking,
"How the hell do you land a major case like this every single shift? I see one of these a year—how'd you even spot them?"
Rex noticed the ligature marks on the girl's wrists and knew the minimum charge here was federal kidnapping.
He had a young daughter himself; if she were ever abducted...
The thought made Rex swing his sizeable fist—two solid strikes to the already-handcuffed Cyril's ribs.
Howling in pain, the thigh-shot Cyril collapsed to the pavement.
No body-cam footage, no problem—claim the suspect was combative, forcing "compliance strikes."
Confronted with Rex's question, Sean offered no elaborate explanation, instead providing a highly plausible answer:
"Must be cop instinct."
Facing that response, Rex could only chuckle and nod in agreement:
"True—your gut's never wrong. Guess that's your superpower."
Rex had even more years on the job than Sean. They'd started as fellow Police Officer IIs together, but thanks to that very "instinct," Sean now significantly outranked him.
"When I heard you were back from admin leave yesterday, I bet a colleague—I said you'd be benched again within two weeks, he said a month."
Rex glanced at the chaotic crime scene developing around them:
"Wasn't today literally your first shift back? Looking at this situation... guess it's administrative leave time again—so thanks to Sergeant Horace for his outstanding police work, and for winning me a hundred bucks."
The implication was crystal clear: Sean was about to be placed on paid administrative leave—again.
The incident was massive; an officer-involved shooting with fatalities always triggers the protocol.
Moments later Captain Winston arrived with Internal Affairs officers, frustration written across his face.
Twelve hours back on active duty and Sean had already delivered a fatal shooting. The man was a walking departmental headache.
Winston's first words to Sean were:
"Anyone on our side injured?"
As a commanding officer, Winston handled it professionally—no immediate reprimand, just concern for Sean and Erin's wellbeing.
Sean answered, "No officer injuries."
Then, under his breath, "Except the suspect."
That single comment made Winston's blood pressure spike visibly; he gestured for the IA officers to collect the dash-cam footage and Sean's service weapon per standard protocol.
An officer-involved shooting with a fatality meant mountains of paperwork—no way around it.
An internal investigation would probably clear him; cops protect their own, after all.
But the case would still land on the District Attorney's desk for criminal review, and once there, even Winston's influence couldn't massage the outcome.
Sean handed over his Glock and body-cam recorder for evidence sealing, familiar with every face in Internal Affairs—he could recite their names and badge numbers without hesitation.
Winston pulled Sean aside, eyeing the busy crime scene technicians, and asked quietly,
"Was the use of deadly force within department policy?"
His promotion to Division Commander was pending; he couldn't afford a misconduct scandal now.
A brutality headline at this critical moment would torpedo his career advancement.
Sean waved off his concerns, telling Winston to stop worrying, and said confidently,
"Textbook justified—cameras captured everything, and my partner will testify the suspect fired first."
Visible relief washed over Winston; he exhaled deeply, patted Sean's shoulder, and tried to sound reassuring:
"Don't stress about it. If the procedure was clean, the department has your back completely. I'll schedule the mandatory psych eval for you."
Translation: the brass would shield him from any political fallout—standard operating procedure.
When your officers catch heat for doing their jobs, you back them unconditionally.
Otherwise morale collapses and the entire division falls apart.
Sean felt absolutely zero guilt—he'd just removed two dangerous predators from the streets of Los Angeles.
Two evidence technicians in latex gloves approached holding a sealed plastic evidence bag; inside, what looked like chunks of black tar heroin. "Captain, recovered from the suspect vehicle. Also recovered two loaded firearms—one still gripped by the deceased suspect Sergeant Horace engaged."
They paused, then clarified, "Two loaded Smith & Wesson pistols, one still clenched in the hand of the suspect Sergeant Horace neutralized."
Another uniformed officer jogged up: "Dispatch confirms the female child recovered from the suspect vehicle was reported missing from San Francisco two days ago—parents filed with SFPD. This appears to be an interstate kidnapping for trafficking purposes."
Winston couldn't hide his satisfaction—classic twist of fate. He glanced at Sean conferring with other officers nearby.
(Officer of the Month nomination practically writing itself...)
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