Chapter 48: The Bet Begins
[Patrol Car, West Division — July 2, 2019, 8:47 AM]
"Traffic stop. Blue Toyota, broken taillight."
Tim pointed. I nodded. Routine call. The kind of thing I'd done a hundred times without thinking.
Today, I had to think.
The Toyota pulled over cooperatively. I approached the driver's side while Tim covered the passenger. Standard procedure. Nothing special.
"License and registration, please."
The driver was mid-forties, nervous, hands gripping the wheel too tight. My lie detection immediately flagged his anxiety as suspicious—something more than the usual discomfort of being pulled over.
Ignore it, I told myself. Run the information. Do this by the book.
"Sir, is there a reason you seem nervous?"
"Just late for work. You know how it is."
Lie. The tightness in my chest confirmed it. He wasn't late for work. He was hiding something.
But I couldn't act on that. Not today. Not for the next month.
"I'll run your information. Please wait here."
Back at the patrol car, I processed his license through the system. Clean. No warrants. No flags. Whatever he was lying about, it wasn't in the database.
"Anything?" Tim asked.
"Nothing. Clean record."
"You sure?"
I hesitated. Normally, I'd tell Tim about the lie detection hit. We'd dig deeper, find what the driver was hiding. That was how we worked.
But today, that would be using my powers. That would be Mercer's Luck.
"Just nervous about being late," I said. The words felt wrong. Incomplete.
We let him go with a warning about the taillight. As he drove away, my lie detection screamed that I'd made a mistake. That whatever he was hiding mattered.
I forced myself to ignore it.
Three Hours Later — Convenience Store, Vermont Avenue
"All units, possible 211 in progress at QuickMart on Vermont. Multiple suspects reported. Proceed with caution."
Tim accelerated. I gripped the door handle as we wove through traffic.
The store was on a corner, glass front, limited cover. Two vehicles in the lot—a white van and a sedan with tinted windows. My danger sense spiked the moment we turned onto the street.
Threat level high. Multiple armed individuals. Ambush positioning.
I tried to ignore it. Tried to approach this like any other call, without the advantage of knowing what waited inside.
We parked half a block away, approached on foot. Tim took point. I followed, watching corners, staying alert through normal means.
The front door was propped open. Inside, I could see the counter, the aisles, a clerk standing with hands raised. No visible suspects.
"LAPD! Anyone inside, make yourself known!"
Silence. My danger sense screamed louder.
Gun behind the counter. Left side. Shooter moving into position. Three seconds.
Tim stepped through the door. The clerk's eyes flicked sideways—left, toward the counter's edge.
My powers mapped the threat before my conscious mind processed it. A figure rising from behind the counter. Weapon raising. Tim directly in the line of fire.
I had a choice. Stay quiet, let normal police work handle this, probably watch Tim get shot. Or act on what I knew, save his life, lose the bet.
"GUN LEFT!"
I shoved Tim sideways as the shot cracked through the air. The bullet passed where his head had been half a second earlier. Tim hit the ground rolling, came up firing. The shooter dropped.
Four seconds. Beginning to end.
Tim stared at me from the floor, breathing hard. "How did you—"
"Don't." I was already reaching for my radio. "Shots fired, QuickMart Vermont Avenue. Suspect down. Requesting backup and medical."
The shooter was wounded but alive. The clerk was unharmed. Tim was unharmed because I'd violated every promise I'd made about suppressing my abilities.
Day one. Hour four. Bet lost.
My phone buzzed as we waited for backup. Lopez: Day 1. Really? REALLY?
I didn't respond.
Mid-Wilshire Station — Later That Afternoon
Lopez was waiting in the parking lot when we pulled in. Arms crossed. Grin so wide it practically split her face.
"Four hours," she said. "That has to be a record for fastest bet loss in station history."
"There were extenuating circumstances."
"There are always extenuating circumstances with you." She fell into step beside me as we headed inside. "You knew the shooter was there before anyone saw him. You knew exactly where he was positioned. You reacted before Tim even registered the threat."
"I saved his life."
"I know. That's why I'm not actually mad." She stopped, turned serious for a moment. "Mercer, whatever you've got going on—instincts, training, psychic powers, I don't care—it's valuable. I just wanted to prove that you can't turn it off."
"Point proven."
"Loudly." The grin returned. "Now, about my new house..."
Tim found me in the locker room an hour later. He sat on the bench across from mine, said nothing for a full minute.
"You knew," he finally said.
"Tim—"
"Not asking for explanations. Just confirming." He looked at me with something between gratitude and frustration. "You knew the shooter was there before anyone could have known. And you saved my life anyway, knowing it would cost you the bet."
"It wasn't a choice. You were going to die."
"How? How did you know?"
"I can't explain it."
"Try."
I leaned back against the locker, exhausted from the day, from the constant effort of suppressing what couldn't be suppressed.
"Sometimes I just... know things. Where danger is. When people are lying. What's about to happen." I shook my head. "It's not something I control. It's not something I can turn off. And it's not something I can prove to anyone without sounding crazy."
Tim was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.
"I've suspected for a while. The instincts that are too good. The timing that's too perfect." He stood, straightened his uniform. "I don't need to understand it, Mercer. I just need to know you're using it for the right reasons."
"I am."
"Then we're good." He headed for the door, paused. "And thanks. For my life."
"Anytime."
After he left, I sat alone in the empty locker room, processing. Tim knew something was different about me. Lopez knew. Eventually, more people would notice. The careful balance I'd maintained was slipping, inch by inch.
But Tim was alive. That mattered more than secrets.
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