Chapter 5: Echoes of the Past
January 25, 2016 — 10:15 AM
Mid-Wilshire Neighborhood, Los Angeles
The morning light reflected off the cars parked on Beverly Avenue as if the day wanted to force an air of normality over the city. But Athena's eyes had already learned not to trust beautiful days.
Patrol car 12-A-49 drove slowly, circling the corner of Fairfax with an attentive gaze. Mike, next to it, was typing information on the on-board tablet about a report of a possible robbery at a convenience store that, minutes later, turned out to be just a drunk customer trying to "buy" a bottle with a subway card.
"At least he tried to be modern," Mike commented, looking at the guy's file, a 72-year-old man with a history of minor infractions.
Athena didn't answer right away. Her gaze fixed on another patrol car further ahead, parked in front of a laundromat closed with a metal fence. Two police officers stood outside: a tall man in a dark uniform with a rigid posture; and a Latina woman, her hair pulled back into a neat bun, poring over a small notebook.
She smiled.
— "Look who it is."
Mike looked up.
— "Friends of yours?"
— "Tim Bradford. And Angela Lopez. Mid-Wilshire Precinct. It's a small world, Edwards."
She parked carefully and got out of the squad car. Mike followed her, adjusting his belt.
— "Bradford!" Athena called, walking confidently down the sidewalk.
The man turned. His serious face softened when he saw her, and he removed his sunglasses.
— "Grant. It's been a while."
— "Almost a decade. How's your knee? Still creaking like an old door?"
Tim laughed briefly. His tone was still serious, but there was affection in it.
— "Do you remember that?"
— "You were my rookie, Tim. I remember everything. Including that chase where you almost ran over a fire hydrant and a 90-year-old lady."
— "It was a tactical diversion, I swear."
Athena lightly slapped him on the shoulder and turned to Mike.
— "This is my current partner, Mike Edwards. New to the LAPD. But far from a rookie. Mike, this is Officer Tim Bradford. And this..." — she indicated the woman next to her, who was already watching the scene curiously — "is Officer Angela Lopez."
Angela extended her hand first.
— "Nice to meet you. You look more like a federal agent than a cop."
— "He was." — Athena added, smiling. — "Fourteen years in the CIA. Now, thrown on the concrete with me."
Tim was watching Mike more closely now, one professional assessing another.
— "There are looks that never go away, even outside the field."
— "And yours have become more rigid since the last time I saw you." — Athena said, crossing her arms. — "Has anyone become a sergeant?"
— "Not yet. But almost. Lopez here has already surpassed me in the ranking, as always."
Angela shook her head, smiling.
— "The day I pass you at the shooting range, you can complain."
Mike watched everything carefully. This was different a meeting between generations of professionals. But there was a real fluidity, a bond created in the action, in the shared pain of those who have been through night calls that will never leave the memory.
— "What do you have here?" — Athena asked, looking at the scene in front of the laundry.
— "Call about strange movement on the roof during the early hours of the morning. Cameras didn't catch any faces. Owner says nothing was stolen, but the lock was forced. We found tool marks, professional standard."
Mike walked over, bending down to look at the latch on the metal side door.
— "Halligan-type lever or curved crowbar. Whoever did this knew what they wanted. But if they didn't take anything, maybe it was reconnaissance. Field study."
Angela nodded, interested.
— "You have a good eye for this."
— "Old habit. I always start from the rust."
Tim looked at Athena.
— "You chose your new partner well."
She sighed.
— "Actually, I think he chose me. Or fate. Or some cynical simulation programmer upstairs."
Angela glanced at Mike with a sideways smile.
— "And what's it like working with Athena Grant? Have you ever been scolded?"
Mike laughed lightly.
— "Not with yelling yet. But she has a look that should register as a bladed weapon."
Athena feigned indignation.
— "I'm a sweetie."
Tim laughed.
— "A sweetie that tastes like black coffee and pomegranate."
11:25 a.m. — Corner Deli | Mid-Wilshire
They all agreed to have lunch together. The conversation went from old stories to recent ones.
Michael, via text, asked if Athena would bring Mike over for dinner again. May sent an emoji of sunglasses saying, "Tell him to bring new stories."
While they waited for their sandwiches, Mike went to the counter to get napkins. Tim approached, his voice low:
— "You look like a man who's seen things he can't forget."
Mike looked at him. He didn't answer right away.
— "You too."
Tim nodded. They both knew that some silences are worth more than explanations.
— "Athena... she changes us." Tim said. — "Even without trying."
Mike turned around, napkins in hand.
— "I get it."
They returned to the table. Four professionals, from different departments, different ages, lives marked by other types of war — but united, for one afternoon, by work and by the silent need to share the burden.
1:37 p.m. — Return to the police car
Back in the western district, Athena looked at Mike, who was typing the patrol report on the tablet.
— "What did you think of them?"
— "Professionals. Intelligent. Wounded, but on the move."
She nodded.
— "Exactly like you."
Mike didn't answer. But he smiled brief, genuine.
Athena started the police car.
— "Now all that's left is for you to tell Harry that you've already met another of my former partners. He'll want to know if Tim was a spy, too."
Mike laughed.
"I'll say Tim was a cross between James Bond and Rambo."
"He'll be dreaming about that for a week."
And the police car disappeared down Wilshire Avenue, toward the next call, the next shadow. But with each step, Mike stopped being the man of the past and became part of the present more human, more real.
Chapter 6: Race for Life
January 26, 2016 – 2:02 p.m.
Catholic Unit 12-A-49 | Crenshaw Boulevard, Los Angeles
Traffic on Crenshaw was moving at its usual pace heavy, impatient, and loud. The patrol car radio was silent for a rare moment. The gray sky gave the city a muted tone, as if the atmosphere were holding its breath.
Athena drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console. Mike fiddled with the tablet on the dashboard, reviewing reports from the previous shift. Neither of them spoke not out of discomfort, but because they had learned to value quiet when it presented itself.
Until the radio crackled.
"12-A-49, we have an unusual call near 54th Street and Crenshaw. Male experiencing possible anxiety, identified as a veteran. A call for help came in via phone from a local gas station attendant. Send unit to investigate."
Athena responded quickly:
— "12-A-49, we're two minutes away. On the move."
She glanced briefly at Mike.
— "Let's see if your experience with soldiers still applies here."
Mike nodded, already aware of the environment.
— "Anxiety attacks in veterans usually have discreet triggers. Sound, smell, a tone of voice. Let's take it slow."
2:07 p.m. – Gas Station | Crenshaw and 54th Street
When they arrived, the scene was more tense than they expected. A black man, around 35 years old, wearing worn jeans, a camouflage military jacket, and boots with dried mud on the soles, was kneeling next to gas pump number 3. He was breathing heavily, holding his head with both hands. At his side, a ripped and open military backpack.
A young female station employee, visibly nervous, watched from afar with her phone still in her hand.
Athena and Mike got out of the police car calmly. No running, no shouting.
Athena stepped forward, her voice firm and soft:
— "Sir, this is the Los Angeles Police Department. We're not here to hurt you. Can we talk?"
The man was breathing heavily, his eyes wide, sweating despite the cold weather. He was shaking. He was in the middle of a flashback, that was obvious to Mike.
Mike stepped a little closer and took off his uniform cap.
— "My name is Mike. Mike Edwards. I served, too."
The man looked up, his eyes red and lost.
— "You... are you active duty?"
— "I was. But I understand what you're going through. Can you tell me your name?"
— "Malcolm." — the voice came out choked. — "Malcolm T. Owens. 3rd Regiment. Helmand, Afghanistan. 2009."
Mike crouched down, keeping a respectful distance.
— "I was Ground Branch, CIA. I've been to Kandahar, Lashkar Gah… And I know what it's like when the outside world doesn't fit with the inside."
Malcolm closed his eyes, breathing faster.
— "She... my wife... she's in labor. I... I was going to the hospital. But I started sweating, remembering the road... the bombs... The sound of tires... I collapsed."
Mike exchanged a look with Athena. She was already on the radio:
— "12-A-49, requesting ambulance to the 54th and Crenshaw station. But we're transporting a person with a history of PTSD to Cedars-Sinai. His wife is in labor."
Mike looked at Malcolm:
— "Here's what we'll do. You get in the squad car with us. You'll get there in time. I promise."
Malcolm hesitated.
— "I don't... I don't know if I can get into an enclosed space."
Mike took a faded cloth bracelet from his left wrist embroidered with "KAF 10" and handed it to the man.
— "Here. This helped me when I started to lose my way. Hold this. Focus on her. On your wife. On your son."
Malcolm clutched the bracelet in shaking hands. He closed his eyes. A minute passed in silence.
Then he nodded. — "Let's go."
2:22 p.m. — Police en route, code 3 | Heading to Cedars-Sinai Hospital
The siren cut through the traffic. Mike, in the backseat with Malcolm, calmly narrated the route:
— "Three more blocks. You're doing fine. You're breathing, you're focused."
Malcolm was shaking, but he was starting to regain control. His hands were still clutching the bracelet.
— "I never thought I would lose control like this. Over myself. Over my body. Over reality."
Mike spoke softly:
— "It happens to all of us. I've been inside an embassy, watching my life fall apart inside, without a single shot being fired. The war will continue in here for a long time, Malcolm. But seeing your son born... it will remind you that you're still alive."
Athena spoke loudly from the front seat:
— "Two more minutes. Cedars-Sinai has been notified. Your wife is in room 3 on the maternity floor. Her name is Keisha, right?" Malcolm nodded.
— "Yes. Keisha." His voice broke at the name. It was as if that was all he was at that moment.
2:29 p.m. — Cedars-Sinai Medical Center
The police car stopped at the emergency entrance. Mike calmly helped Malcolm out. He walked as if he were carrying invisible pounds on his back, but each step was firm.
A nurse was already waiting for them. Malcolm was taken straight to the indicated floor, and Athena watched as he disappeared into the hallways.
Mike stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath.
— "He'll remember this for the rest of his life. Not the collapse. But the fact that he managed to get there."
Athena looked at him, serious but tender.
— "And you too. Because today, you were more than a police officer. You were a mirror. A bridge."
Mike didn't say anything. But at that moment, he felt something different. A lightness, still shy, but real. As if, in that hospital hallway, he had left behind another grain of the weight he was carrying.
5:42 p.m. – In front of Athena's house
Athena turned off the car and turned to Mike.
— "Michael made lasagna. You're more than welcome."
Mike hesitated, as he always did.
— "I…"
— "There's dessert. And Harry's prepared a list of questions for you. It starts with: 'Have you ever jumped out of a burning helicopter?'"
Mike laughed. The kind of laugh that comes from your stomach, that takes you by surprise.
— "In that case… I can't let my audience down."
Advanced chapters on my Patreon
[email protected]/SHADOWGHOST07
DO NOT subscribe to my Patreon through the iOS/Apple Store. Not only will they charge you 30% more, but they will also hold the funds for 75 days before releasing them to me, which is very detrimental to me. If you're reading this on an iPhone, please contribute via browser/PC