Chapter 7: Crossfire
January 27, 2016 – 8:43 AM
Police Station – Western Division | Athena Grant's Office
Sunlight streamed through the blinds as an ironic reminder that the day would be anything but peaceful. Athena stood at her desk, reading a notification on her tablet. Mike, already in uniform, leaned against the doorframe with a cup of hot coffee in his hand.
"I have a detour for you today," Athena said, without looking up.
Mike raised his eyebrows.
"Can I borrow it?"
"Station 118 is on a call in Westlake. Residential fire with possible gunshot wound. Things got more complicated than the firefighters expected. And since you already have some rapport with Bobby and the guys…"
"Do you want me to go over and monitor the scene?"
— "I want you to be the liaison between the firefighters and the field investigation until I get there. No one knows better than you when a fire scene is a cover-up for a crime."
Mike nodded calmly. — "On my way."
Athena finally looked up and said, more softly, "I trust you."
Mike turned and left with a slight wave. Her words echoed with a good weight not like a burden, but like a firm step on a road he was beginning to believe was possible.
9:10 AM — Fire Scene | Alvarado and 3rd Street
The two-story building was still smoking, its facade scarred with soot and shattered windows. Hoses snaked across the sidewalk. Sirens flashed blue and red. Mike arrived on foot, having left his patrol car at a previous intersection.
He immediately spotted Bobby Nash, standing by the truck, watching the others work with trained eyes. Beside him, Hen and Chimney were carrying a stretcher with an unconscious man, covered with a thermal blanket and oxygen.
Mike approached firmly, signaling his presence. — "Captain Nash. Grant sent me. He said things got complicated."
Bobby turned, acknowledging him with a slight nod. — "I'm glad you came. We found a man inside the second floor. Unconscious, moderate burns... but the problem is something else."
Hen approached, breathing deeply, his face sweaty. — "He was shot. In the back. The bullet went through the left lung, lodged near the collarbone. That's what almost killed him, not the fire."
Chim finished, in a deep voice: — "The bullet went over the kidney. Severe internal bleeding. If we hadn't gotten there when we did, it would have been a lost cause."
Mike looked toward the building. — "Could the fire scene have been staged? Or did someone shoot and then set it on fire to cover their tracks?"
Bobby nodded.
— "The structure started burning in the kitchen, but the worst damage was in the hallway leading to the bedroom where the man was. And there was an empty gas can lying in the back."
Mike looked at the three of them.
— "This is an attempted murder."
Hen wiped his hands with a field rag and looked at the hospital that was receiving the rescue ambulance.
— "He's still unconscious. No visible ID. But he has a military tattoo on his left shoulder: Marine Corps unit."
Mike frowned. The pattern was repeating itself. Another military casualty. Another scene covered in chaos.
— "I'm going inside. I need to check the place out while it's still fresh."
Bobby nodded.
— "Go with Chimney. He knows the layout well."
Chim put his helmet back on.
— "Come on. But be careful with the floor. Part of the stairwell floor is still unstable."
9:34 a.m. — Inside the burned building
The air was thick, filled with soot, burnt wood, and a faint chemical residue—probably from the accelerant. Mike climbed the stairs carefully, flashlight in hand. Chim walked ahead, pointing:
— "He was in this room. When we entered, the bed was already half-melted from the heat, but the body was lying behind the nightstand."
Mike entered the room and observed the marks on the floor. With a marking stick, he outlined the area and crouched down.
— "Blood pattern concentrated on the boards. He was shot here. The blood loss predates the start of the fire the marks are too dry to have been caused by a wound in the middle of the flames."
Chim approached.
— "You've seen this before, right?"
Mike nodded slowly.
— "I've seen a lot of people trying to hide their intentions with smoke. This is a poorly disguised execution."
He scanned the wall. Then something caught his eye: a partially burned piece of paper stuck to the light switch plate. Mike picked it up carefully.
— "Motel receipt. Santa Fe Avenue. Yesterday's date. Name: Charles T. Morgan."
Chim whistled softly. — "You may not have been a cop for long, but your sense of smell is sharper than ours."
Mike stood up. — "It's not a sense of smell. It's trained paranoia. It becomes instinct."
10:15 a.m. — Return to the perimeter
Athena arrived at the scene, wearing a jacket over her uniform shirt and sunglasses. Mike went straight to meet her.
— "The rescued man has identification: Charles T. Morgan. Ex-Marine. Possible involvement with international private security. Was in a motel on Santa Fe Avenue last night. Found shot and unconscious inside an apartment that had been set on fire with clear use of accelerant. Crime scene fabricated."
Athena stared at him for a long second.
"Do you think this is personal? Or professional?"
"If it's professional, Charles knew something he shouldn't have. If it's personal… someone wanted to see him suffer. The shot wasn't fatal for nothing."
She nodded.
"We'll put together a joint report. I'll need you to sit in on the interrogation if he wakes up. You speak his language better than anyone."
Mike took a deep breath.
"Okay. But first... I need a minute."
Athena watched as he walked away, taking off his jacket for a moment and sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, near the still-curling smoke.
It was the kind of scene that brought back echoes of past operations, of memories that burned brighter than any fire.
Hen approached slowly, carrying a bottle of water.
"Is he okay?"
Athena looked at Mike.
"He's starting to be. And that's what scares me."
Chapter 8 — Closed Circle
January 27, 2016 – 4:12 p.m.
Cedars-Sinai Medical Center – Trauma Ward
The heart monitor pulsed slowly in a rhythmic pattern. The artificial light cast soft shadows over the haggard face of Charles T. Morgan, now conscious but still weak. A fresh cut above his eyebrow was covered with stitches. He was breathing with oxygen, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he were still trying to come back to his senses from wherever his mind had gone.
Mike sat nearby, arms crossed. His expression was calm, but his eyes revealed a keen sense of smell as if every detail, every inflection of his voice, was a piece of a larger puzzle.
On the other side of the bed, Athena maintained a semi-relaxed posture, but the clipboard on her lap indicated that the informal debriefing was about to begin.
— "Charles, I'm Sergeant Athena Grant, LAPD. This is Officer Mike Edwards. You were found shot inside a burning building in Westlake. We need to figure out what happened."
Charles moved slowly, as if each movement was a reminder of how fragile the body can be.
— "It was personal," he murmured. — "It wasn't robbery, or settling a score. It was… revenge."
Mike leaned forward a little. — "Do you know the person who attacked you?"
Charles hesitated. Then he nodded slowly.
— "His name is Noah Brinker. Son of a former Marine. Kid tried to enlist about six years ago. I was a Drill Sergeant at Parris Island. He… wasn't fit. Undisciplined. Unstable. And dangerous. He failed his physical and psych evaluations. I disqualified him."
Athena wrote everything down, while Mike watched the way Charles told the story no vanity, no anger. Just tiredness.
— "Have you seen him recently?"
— "Three days ago. I was staying at a motel near Union Station. I thought it was a coincidence when he showed up at the same bar. He recognized me. He smiled. But he didn't say anything. Yesterday, when I walked into the building, he was inside. He called me by name. It was quick. One shot. I don't know how I survived."
Mike took a deep breath. This wasn't just a case it was the old wound of rigid systems: the choices that save lives… and the ones that create ghosts.
Athena stood up.
— "We'll issue a bulletin with a name and description. Can you give details?"
— "Thin. About 6'2. Tattoo on his forearm a cross with a Latin phrase. Clear eyes. Soft voice, but… his eyes. They were empty."
Mike nodded, exchanging a silent look with Athena.
— "We'll find him. And you, Charles… you did the right thing. Don't carry this burden alone."
Charles smiled weakly.
— "You speak like someone who's seen both sides."
Mike didn't answer. He just stared out the window, where the Los Angeles sky was beginning to turn a metallic orange.
The day wasn't over yet.
6:25 p.m. – LAPD Western Precinct
Noah Brinker's capture was easier than expected.
A patrol car spotted him near a bus stop in Lincoln Heights, trying to change clothes behind a diner. His tattoo gave him away. When approached, he resisted — and had to be restrained.
When Mike and Athena arrived, Noah was already handcuffed in the backseat of the patrol car.
Mike observed the young man's blank stare. It was as if there was a hole there, a space that had never been filled not with discipline, not with structure, not with affection.
— "He held you responsible for everything," Athena said, as they watched Noah being taken away.
— "Broken people always look for someone to blame," Mike replied. — "But blame isn't always enough to justify the pain."
Athena turned, her eyes fixed on her partner.
— "Have you ever felt like this? Responsible for something you couldn't control?"
Mike took a deep breath.
— "A lot. The problem is when you start to believe that if you had been there… everything would have been different."
Athena touched his shoulder lightly.
— "Today you stopped another man from carrying that burden. That's real."
7:40 p.m. – Grant residence
The kitchen was filled with comforting aromas. Michael was finishing the tomato sauce. May was setting the table with napkins folded into almost perfect triangles. Harry, anxious, adjusted the chairs with military precision.
"Is he coming?" Harry asked more than once.
Athena came through the front door, followed by Mike, who was now without a vest, in lighter clothes a dark T-shirt, jeans, and a gentle weariness on his face.
Harry ran over to him.
"You came! We have new questions today!"
Mike smiled genuinely.
"How many pages?"
"Two! May helped proofread."
May appeared from the living room with a half smile and typical teenage eyes trying to look disinterested.
"He needs a code name."
"I already have plenty," Mike replied. "But I welcome suggestions."
Michael approached with the same easygoing hospitality as always.
"Dinner's ready. I hope you like Italian food.
— "After years of eating army rations, anything home-cooked is haute cuisine."
Everyone laughed.
That night, amid the laughter, absurd questions ("Have you ever arrested anyone in a rainforest?"), and carefully edited stories of CIA missions, Mike felt something deeper take hold:
Belonging.
It wasn't home.
But it was a safe place.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like he had to look over his shoulder.
The war, for today, was out there.
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