Weight: 85kgs

This is going to be a berating post but it’s also a reflective one.

Obviously, I’m not pleased that a month on, from my start time, nothing has changed much.

But change isn’t something that happens overnight. I also need to stop trying to place huge expectations on myself. I kept thinking that by this week, I would have lost at least 1 kilogram. That I was going to get a dopamine hit that somehow justified all the personal struggles and sacrifices I’ve made.

That was a mistake. Thinking like that isn’t really that helpful nor contributing to personal growth.

So instead, I’m going to look at some positives this past month.

I’ve been moving more than I’ve ever have in the past 2 years.

I’ve been more consistent with hitting the gym at least 3x a week. I would ideally prefer it to be 5, but we’ll get there. Whilst at the moment, I’m clocking in around the 1 hour mark, I think I want to slowly increase it to 1.5 hours and throw in more exercises. I feel like I need to do more to make up for the lack of movement I do for 7 hours in the office.

It would also be a good idea, if I threw in more walking at the office. Maybe it doesn’t hurt to go for a quick walk around the office, a few laps, or explore the nearby park. I could also use the hill nearby ….

Food for thought.

I’ve slowly started to cut down my excessive eating. There is no denying that I love food, but I feel like I’m slowly starting to shrink my stomach. I don’t feel the need to eat as much and I’m cutting the bad sugars ever so slowly out. I’m also prioritising more protein in my meals, discarding carbs and making meals that make me feel like I’m eating cleaner.

What has helped me so much along this journey though, is my girlfriend. She’s been a stern voice, yet at the same time, a boost of encouragement. She will shake her head when I try to suggest something sugary and go on walks with me to get our steps count up on our dates and be that annoying, but much needed reminder to prioritise the gym.

It’s exactly what I need to build healthier habits.

Now, we almost always check the dietary information on the back of foods. If something has too much sugar or saturated fats in it, we put it away or limit the amount we consume a day.

We both suffer from body dysmorphia at the moment. We’re self-conscious about our bodies and weight, but we’re holding each other accountable. We are starting to walk more, eat less and just be conscious about our food.

It’s so different to my previous attempt at dieting, because this time, I know that I have someone with me, helping me along and monitoring my efforts. It’s a lot easier to stay on track, when your partner scolds you for eating too many M&Ms.

What is kind of encouraging is that my weight has actually moved after 7 weeks of hustling. I’ve managed to shed a single, solitary kilogram and that has been such a morale booster.

It means that all of this sacrifice, monitoring and pain has been for something.

Now to keep the number dropping ….

~ Damocles.

Follow in the life of Senior Constable Aaron “AJ” Joy as he patrols the streets of Salernum. A routine call-out to a house soon leads AJ down a dark path, where he will fight to keep the fires of his soul pure against the evils that threaten to take down his city.

CHAPTER ONE: RUN TO YOUR DEATH

Senior Constable Aaron “AJ” Joy of the Salernum Police Department (SLPD) was breathing hard.

His hands were slick with sweat, the cold metal of his BCM Reece-14 MCMR patrol rifle soaking up the excess fluids from his body. His heart was full of adrenaline, pumping furiously as it tried to keep up with his mental pace. His green eyes were darting everywhere, as he kept his black rifle punched out in front of him, his left hand working the pressure pad atop his rifle, the Surefire Light Pro torch illuminating dark corners.

Screams were mixed with sirens, disorienting AJ in the exact direction where they were coming from. The corridors that stretched out before him, felt like nightmarish tunnels that never ended, the cream lockers lining the walls like silent sentinels.

But his sense of panic mixed with duty drove him ever forward, his combat boots pounding down the hallway, as terrified eyes peeked through doorway windows like disembodied spirits.

As AJ rounded a corner, he heard a scream that was cut abruptly short by the crack of a gun.

This one was close.

Slowing down ever so slightly, but not to point where he lost his momentum, he raised the BCM and looking above the EOTECH EXPS Holographic sight, he still shuffled his feet quickly to where he heard the terrified scream.

Then, like a jump-scare out of a horror movie, a hooded figure with a cheap medical mask came rushing out in the corridor, the front of his black hoodie soaked with sweat and blood. His dark brown eyes were a mixture of glee, anguish and confused pain. He was giggling, and there was no mistaking the large Colt Python revolver in his hand.

The weapon’s silver finish was matted with the same dark red stains on the shooter’s hoodie.

AJ froze on the spot, and without hesitation, shifted his BCM into his shoulder and settled his green eyes behind the EOTECH’s iconic red ring and dot reticle. He heard his voice yell in a coarse and rough manner. Time slowed down as his brain processed everything at a speed unprecedented in its 27 years of living.

HANDS, HANDS, HANDS.

DROP IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW.

The hooded kid whirled around, and raised his gun at the blue uniform. There was a gleeful intent behind his brown eyes.

AJ squeezed the trigger 6 times without hesitation, the rifle rounds punctuating the corridor’s natural echo with their supersonic booms. AJ saw through the sight, how each round landed centre mass into the shooter, blossoming the chest with his blood instead of the innocent.

Heart, lungs, liver. thought AJ dispassionately as he saw where the 5.56mm rounds punched through.

Moving closer, he slammed his boot down on the hand that held the gun, and kicked the revolver far away. Leaving the shooter to his final moments, AJ looked into the classroom that he had heard the scream, hoping he wasn’t too late, but knowing better than to trust that hope.

The sun was shining bright through the windows, the whiteboard still messy with the maths calculations that were interrupted by alarms. Only a single girl was inside, her bloodied chest covered by her books and hands, long blonde hair covering her face. AJ could see the red spittle on her mouth, and his heart sank in despair. Her white top was turning red, and her tortured breathing barely masked her final sobs.

Bowing his head, AJ turned away and knew that there was nothing he could do. She was gone. He would learn her name later, when her parents screamed and yelled at him in agony and anguish. Madison Harris. 15 years old. Aspiring engineer. A long-crush time crush on Jack Hamill, her best friend who had to be stopped from going in, when he heard the shooting start.

She had arrived to class early, hoping to ask her maths teacher some questions about the upcoming assignment. Being early cut short her time.

AJ knew that there was still two more shooters out there. He had to prevent another tragedy to another family. Pushing away the tears that threatened to overwhelm him, AJ ran back out and noted that what was once was a threat, was now a cooling corpse.

Stepping over the dead kid, he started to run again. He could hear screams above him, of running footsteps, as people scattered and took cover from what sounded like a shotgun blast.

AJ sprinted faster than he had ever moved in his life, and as he reached the end of the corridor, he briefly scanned left and right to check the junction before taking the stairs to the next level, almost three at a time.

As AJ rounded the curve in the staircase, he looked up and saw another hooded figure leveling a shotgun at him from the top of the staircase.

The boom of the shotgun was deafening. But AJ was too fast, and the crater that would have taken out his right hip, instead blew open the wall behind him.

As the hooded shooter tried to rack in another round, AJ managed to clear the staircase, and without hesitation, rammed the Reece-14 muzzle into the shooter’s chest and squeezed the trigger as fast as he could pull it.

Blood blossomed out of the school shooter’s back, as nine 5.56mm rounds exploded out of his torso. The shooter buckled repeatedly as each round tore through his body, before crumpling into a bloody heap on the ground, his life expired within seconds. AJ looked down in vague horror at what he had done, the adrenaline coursing through his nervous system making the fact his body was moving without him.

His brain, having processed the number of rounds he had fired, moved his left hand down to the spare magazine in his back pocket, and he tac-mag the half empty one in his rifle in a practised motion. He then moved, without thinking to secure the shotgun, kicking it away from the dying teen.

Move AJ. There is still one more shooter out there! screamed his mind.

AJ buried his emotions again, and rushed down the corridor, where amongst the crying and the soft sobs, disembodied voices shouted at him.

That way! He went that way!

Please stop him. I’m so scared.

I just want to live. Why is this happening to us?

AJ kept pushing forward, surging through the corridors, his BCM held at high ready as he was guided by petrified sounds and voices. The nightmare had to end soon. He could feel himself starting to atrophy, the emotional trauma of what he had done and witnessed slowly getting through the shield of adrenaline.

A pair of double doors in front of him, suddenly burst open, and a stream of terrified teenagers ran through. At the sight of him, they stopped, frozen in fear. Ignoring their screams, and hands that grabbed at him, AJ used his left hand to clear them out of the way, his rifle held high in his right to avoid flagging and he burst through the same doors, to see a library, the shelves and books making it difficult for him to find the final shooter.

Peering desperately through the gaps of the shelves, AJ’s first clue presented itself audibly. A soft gasp, that could only come from someone’s hands choking a victim’s neck.

Spinning around to his right, AJ saw through a gap in the books, the final shooter in the corner, a young girl’s neck in his left elbow, and a 1911 pistol aimed squarely at her temple.

His hood had slipped down, and it showed a young kid, no older than 16, his dark eyes panicked and fearful. Tears were streaming down his brown eyes, and they were oddly in sync with his victim’s own sobs, a girl barely 15, her legs shaking in fear, her small hands on the shooter’s arms.

The right hand of the shooter that held the 1911 were quivering and there was no mistaking the fear that was dominating his every thought and action.

AJ leaned forwards and settled his green eyes behind the reticle of his EOTECH once more.

The red dot hovered exactly on the shooter’s head, inches above the soft brown hair of the girl.

DROP YOUR GUN, OR I’M GOING TO DROP YOU.

The shooter spun towards AJ, his eyes widening in shock as he noted the blue uniformed officer behind the shelves.

FUCK YO—

The shooter’s head snapped back, his grey brain matter spraying the back of the library’s walls. The single round echoed eerily in the silence that now signaled the end to the chaos. The schoolgirl collapsed to her knees, the relief of being alive too much for her small body to bear.

AJ flicked the safety on his rifle, and pulled her gently towards him, where she clung to his leg, her tears soon soaking his uniform.

His heart-rate still pulsing furiously, Senior Constable Aaron Joy reached for his radio and robotically reported in.

The female operator that answered him back was equally toneless. But she added one thing, that humanised the communication.

Good job officer. You saved lives today.

The compliment pierced through all the high stress and adrenaline, and AJ felt his emotions start to overtake him. Kneeling down, he hugged the girl tight to him, absorbing her tears as his own, as he whispered to them both.

It’s OK. It’s all over now. You’re safe now. It’s OK. You’re going to be OK.

AJ knew it was a lie. Nothing was going to be OK after this. But it still felt good to hear it. As the girl sobbed into his chest, AJ looked down at his watch, a simple blacked out Stirling Durrant, noting from the moment he rushed through the doors of the school, to this moment was only 14 minutes. 14 minutes … a length of time that would haunt him for the rest of his life, because he would forever wonder what happened if he could have cut it down more.

Slinging his rifle to the rear, AJ stayed with the girl, all the way until the SLPD SWAT team converged on his position, and began the tedious task of clearing every single classroom, every single corner, door, storage cupboard and hiding spot. She held onto his hand tight, as they both walked out of the Salernum Secondary Conservatory, escorted by paramedics who were busy giving them trauma care.

It was not until he loaded her onto the ambulance stretcher that she finally let go, her blue eyes thanking him for the rescue.

AJ merely nodded back in sadness, before sitting down on a bench in what was the common yard for the school, now an emergency centre for hundreds of first responders and traumatised kids.

Cradling his head in his hands, AJ took a ragged breath and closed his eyes. The emotions were now running rampant through his mind and there was no denying the trauma of what had just happened. He had killed 3 children. As sick, tortured and mentally ill as they were, taking the life of 3 young men wasn’t something you could brush off easily.

AJ’s mind began to work into over-drive, justifying his actions, replaying every single moment of the shooting, wondering what he could have done different, what he could have changed.

What if I had just sprinted a bit quicker? What if I hadn’t checked that room … Jesus AJ, why didn’t you check on those kids? I should have floored the car faster. Why did I spend so long on that body? I should have moved on quicker. If I had just sprinted down corridor a bit faster, she’d be still alive …

A weathered, leathered hand on his shoulder broke him away from his reverie. Looking up, AJ saw his Captain standing over him.

At 60 years old, Captain John Armstrong was a seasoned, fair and much beloved leader in the SLPD. A Gulf War Veteran serving in the famed USMC, Armstrong ran his department like the military captain he was in the 90s, engaging Iraqi soldiers. A broken office when Armstrong marched in, the SLPD was in major need of reform, with officers quitting or committing suicide at an unacceptable rate and public perception at an all-time low. Squad cars were frequently vandalised, rocks thrown at officers on patrol, and crime was rampant, with criminals so emboldened by the SLPD’s incompetence, that they were openly carrying firearms in their territory, dealing near major infrastructure and there were even rumours of a high-ranking mole in the office.

A fearless yet just leader, Armstrong championed the men and women under his command to perform at the best of their abilities, whilst prioritising moral and ethical conduct. Like a chaplain, every week on a Friday morning, Armstrong would gather his entire department and deliver an impassioned speech, highlighting good and bad behaviour from footage he had reviewed from every officer’s body cam, whilst surreptitiously transferring or firing the bad cops that brought others down, including the sergeant who was rumoured to be the mole.

His mantra, “you represent the best of society, which means you have to uphold your personal best” instilled in every officer a reminder to constantly train, and constantly review their own behaviour. In the SLPD shooting range, it was difficult to find a free spot, as so many officers would spend their off time practising their pistol and rifle skills. Even more difficult to book, was the monthly CQB shoot-house session that Armstrong would hire from his friends in the USMC, in which officers found the training immensely applicable in their day-to-day work, a fact that was bolstered by the decrease in friendly-fire incidents.

This weekly “police sermon” and supporting training regimes, resulted in a much better-behaved department. Men and women conducted themselves to a higher standard, and community relations rose after a slump. The pride and ethical morality that so often degraded in the job, was slowly being reinstated in the day-to-day work and behaviour of the SLPD’s finest.

John Armstrong was someone that AJ looked up to with a near religious reverence. It was Armstrong who originally championed AJ to sign up, having been an early proponent of the rookie who had just finished his college degree in criminology and now wanted to apply that knowledge in real time. If there was any advice that AJ wanted more right now, it was going to come from the grizzled former Marine.

Son, I want you to remember something. You did something good today. Look around you, son. Look at all these kids that get to go home, because of what you did. I’m proud of you Aaron. You did damn good today. Now the media’s going to hound you, but the department got your back. As of this moment, you’re going to go on administrative leave and take some time off. Use that time wisely son. Relive, process and settle. Make sure you do those things, in that order and we’ll see back here once you’re ready.

AJ shakily took a breath and nodded.

Thank you, sir.

No, thank you. You’re a credit to us all.

John Armstrong shook AJ’s hand firmly and squared up in a salute, that AJ promptly returned.

Rest easy, son. We’ll see you back soon.

~ Author’s Note

Am starting a new LEO (Law Enforcement Officer) story. Stay tuned for Part Two.

There is a code 10-101 in Downtown Los Angeles. All units respond. I repeat, there is a code 10-101 in Skid Row. All units respond.

Upon hearing the calm feminine voice cut through the metal music that blasted through my headphones, I pause mid-lift and stare up at the intercom.

Code 10-101 – Civil Disturbance – Mutual Aid Requested.

Sighing, I put the kettlebells down and place them carefully back on the rack, before tipping my headphones out and pausing the music on my phone.

Walking calmly back to the locker room of the precinct, along the way, I pop my head into the office of the Captain with a questioning look on my face.

He nods silently back and without saying a word, I clenched my jaw and nodded seriously, before pushing open the door to the locker room of the SWAT team.

My BLUE Team of operators were already gearing up.

In the left corner, seated on a bench, was John Watts, a huge African American officer, with an even bigger heart and smile to match his 6 foot 3 frame. Tattoos adorned his arms, many of them personal designs from his twin 17 year old daughters. His nickname was HALFBACK, because his specialty resided in breaching through doors or in the context of riot control, creating space in a crowd to arrest suspects.

Opposite Watts was Michelle Rivers, one of the toughest LAPD officers in history. Her arrest record was staggering, and had the distinction of easily being the fastest and quickest operator I’ve ever seen. At an imposing 5’10, Rivers was simply known by her last name, because it suited her calm and professional manner. She was rarely ruffled by anything, yet when the situation called for it, she was quick on the draw and even quicker on the trigger. Her signature was the 2011 race model pistol she carried on her hip, normally reserved for competitive shooting, but now used to arrest suspects instead.

The final SWAT Officer on BLUE Team was the most serious operator out us all. Whilst Watts was all smiles, and Rivers rested easy on her confidence, Johnathan Specter rarely ever cracked his mouth. A former U.S. Army Ranger, Specter was nicknamed after his Regiment. With even more tattoos than Watts, Ranger was your classic stoic, deadpan humour ex-soldier with more experience and training than all of us combined. In high stress situations, Specter was almost serene and slow in how he processed bullets flying over his head. But then I expected nothing less from a guy who came back from 4 tours of Afghanistan whilst working with the best special forces members in the world.

Together we were a well-oiled machine. In Watts, we had a specialist in breaching, Rivers was our main arrester, Specter, our weapon specialist and myself as the lead. Even our primary weapon varied between us, with Watts rocking shotguns, Rivers preferring sub-guns, Specter, longer barrelled rifles and myself choosing a carbine.

This meant that we could all complement each other when the situation called for it. Just like it did now.

Changing out of my gym clothes and into my dark blue tactical dress uniform, I pulled on my black plate carrier and slipped on my left thigh, a big gas-mask bag that contained my CM-6M mask with dual filters.

Stretching my arms out, Specter came up behind me and attached to the rear of my plate carrier, a magnetic holster that would hold our dense riot shields to our backs. Because we were SWAT, our shields weren’t as big and bulky as the regular Riot Control officers. We were also less armoured, devoid of any protective gear on our arms and legs, because our job wasn’t to fight rioters but to arrest them.

In every riot scenario, there will be the regular Riot police who will form a defensive barrier, protecting important structures or focusing attention on them, whilst the grab teams, SWAT officers normally, will come in from different angles and arrest particularly troublesome suspects.

As BLUE team, we were one of the best grab teams in the precinct. It was our job to get our arrest records up and we were all eager to ensure we got the most collars.

There was nothing quite like friendly competition between rival SWAT teams to dissipate a protest quickly.

Specter clipped the dense shield to my back and then handed me my guns.

A high capacity Glock 19 rested on my right hip, whilst in a cross draw holster, I slotted in a X26 taser gun.

Just below the Glock, rode a hoop where I locked in my telescopic baton, and just as I was doing my final adjustments to approximately 55 pounds wort of police equipment, Specter finally handed me a very unique pepperball gun, that was based on the AR-15 platform.

With orange tips, orange magazines and an orange buttstock, the VKS PepperBall carbine looked more like a toy than anything else, but it was loaded with paintball-styled projectiles that sprayed CS gas the moment they broke apart.

Our department had only been recently equipped with them and they were a godsend, capable of inflicting pain and incapacitating violent rioters with a few rounds that sprayed the irritant everywhere.

Whilst Rivers was running the same weapon platform as myself, Specter and Watts opted for the more painful, but shorter range, bean-bag Remington 870 shotguns.

As everyone made their final adjustments, I looked at myself in the mirror.

The letters that spelt POLICE was emblazoned across my chest in stark bold white font, and just above on my left chest, was my name, D. HAYES. Like most officers who had served for a long time, it was hard for me to picture the baby-faced graduate of 2007, fresh-faced and eager to serve his community to the seasoned veteran that stood in the mirror, decked out in dark navy combat fatigues, tattoos running down his left forearm, with designer stubble across his tanned face and a white scar running along his jaw.

My service had changed me irrevocably and there was no turning back.

Turning away from the mirror, I cast one last look over my shoulder, to see my callsign on the back of my plate carrier, emblazoned in blue font: NEPTUNE, given to me after my service in the Coast Guard.

The team huddled around me and I began to brief them on an tablet that was nearby.

OK BLUE TEAM. Listen up. We got a Code 10 101. This is big. There is a huge protest that has turned ugly in Skid Row. The precinct there is actually pinned down by protesters and our brothers and sisters need our help to turn the situation around.

As you know, our department is to the south of that precinct, which means we are going to push north upwards to the precinct and relieve them. We will engage and disperse any suspects along the way. We are going to be GRANITE TEAM’s shadow OK? Y’all remember Lieutenant Luiz yeah?

Rivers nodded. Fuckin’ A. Gunslinger himself.

That’s right. So Gunslinger is gonna be our wall and we’re his spear. Behind us, we’re gonna have our SWAT truck on standby, with the rookie team, GREEN TEAM ready to relieve us or provide back-up if necessary. They’re fully kitted up for medical and will be on-site for any casevac.

Any questions?

My team shook their heads.

OK. BLUE TEAM, bring it in.

Our four fists stacked atop each other and together we pushed downwards and yelled “BLUE” in unison.

~

It’s always the smell that gets you first. It’s the only thing that can’t be scrubbed from our truck’s protective shell. Everything else is eliminated. The heat, the rocks, the occasional brick. Even the sounds of chaos is muted. But the smell always filters through and perfume the cabin of our SWAT truck.

To describe it was difficult, but it was acidic in nature, almost sulphurous, the smell of a decaying city burning under the weight of its failures.

Our driver was taking it slow. Already the blasts of hundreds of sirens and the constant yells of angry voices were creating the unique soundscape in which we had to learn to filter through and ensure that our communication was on-point.

Looking at my team, I noticed that Specter was rehearsing his hand signals to Watts who was busying cycling through a print-out of all the major suspects that we had collated from surveillance drone footage of the protest. He used hand signals to indicate build, levels of aggressive and who was a priority, whilst Specter mimicked them to memorise crucial details.

Opposite them, Rivers was busy doing her final checks on our equipment, including shoving more flex-cuffs in our plate carriers, so that we could siphon off each other during arrests. She was also triple checking our more “lethal” options, in her case a tried and true, MP5A3.

Carefully inspecting her weapon, Rivers placed it on the rack that was in the middle of the truck, where Watt’s Beretta 1301 tactical shotgun was already prepped, along with Specter’s long Daniel Defence M4 V7 that had an LPVO in case we needed the ability to touch someone at extra long distances. Rivers then picked up my personal carbine, a BCM M4 Mod 2, opening the bolt and racking in a live round. She then peered through the Eotech EXPS3, tested my magnifier before placing the weapon back on the rack.

As for me, I was too busy listening to the radio chatter and growing more concerned about how many injuries were being reported over the communication network.

The protest, originally about climate change and how ineffective the government was at dealing with the current crisis in L.A had turned into a full blown riot. Water shortages amidst an increasingly unkind heat-wave meant that people were already running short on patience.

This once-peaceful protest was merely one of several being run over the week. However, according to police intelligence, an eco-terrorist group hijacked the cause, stirred up the crowd and began assaulting officers thus resulting in the current bedlam that afflicted Skid Row.

The entire situation was extremely ugly.

And we had no idea which group it was either.

I felt the truck ground to a halt and the driver turned back towards us, his gas-mask already equipped.

DROP OFF is here! Link up with GRANITE TEAM about half a klick up this street! Good luck BLUE TEAM! I’ll be right behind with your lethal options if you need them!

Slipping on my gas-mask, I heard the metallic hiss as the filters kicked in and could taste the slightly sour flavour of scrubbed air in my mouth. My breathing was now magnified, heavy breaths that was nicknamed the Vader cough.

Rivers swung open the rear doors and we were instantly confronted by the sight of rubbish strewn everywhere across the street.

That and an intense heat that wasn’t natural. It could only come from a scorched pavement and too many angry bodies clashing against each other. I instantly felt sweat bead on my skin and drip into my uniform.

Looking around the truck, our eyes widened as we saw the iconic hot trail of a Molotov cocktail being thrown high in the air and landing behind the strong wall of Granite Team. They needed our help ASAP.

I motioned the team to move forward and we jogged cautiously up the street, scanning every building, alleyway and crevice. Riots were an urban nightmare to control and we were all too wary about being flanked.

As we neared Granite Team, I unhooked the shield from the magnetic holster on my back and held it at the ready with my left hand. Unlike regular Riot Shields, which were transparent and bigger, our shields were more manoeuvrable and smaller, with a tiny window to look through, and possessing tapered wings that wrapped inwards towards us.

In the hands of a seasoned SWAT Officer, we could effectively hold this shield with one hand, rest our handguns on the tapered wing and exchange fire with suspects. It was also much more offensive weapon, owning to its smaller size, more frequently used to knocking suspects down on their asses than allowing them to charge at us.

Thumbing my radio mike on my chest, I checked in with Lieutenant Luiz.

Gunslinger. Check your six! Blue Team is behind you. What’s the sitrep!

Neptune, is that you?

Solid copy!

Thank fuck you’re here. We actually got a visual on 2 primary suspects. Foxtrot and Hotel. I need you and your team to grab those fuckers and then we’ll advance the line! Also, please slot any fucking idiot that keeps making those goddamn Molotovs!

Copy that Gunslinger. We’ll tune in to your channel and shout BLUE BLUE when we go in and come out!

Understood Neptune!

Tapping Rivers on the shoulders, we made our way over to the left side of the Granite Team wall, whilst Watts and Specter moved right.

Barely a minute had passed, when Rivers motioned upwards and we both sprinted out of the way, as a Molotov cocktail sailed through the air to our 2 o’clock and splashed in a fiery explosion behind us.

Rivers, clocking the suspect instantly, shouted into her mike BLUE BLUE as she and I surged through the Granite Team wall, along with 3 of their officers, and together we slammed into the angry crowd.

My shield was instantly assaulted with rocks, dirty rubbish and fruit, but I made solid contact with a protester, sending the angry man flying, his body rolling backwards with the force of the blow I gave him.

Using my baton, I blocked a kick that was sweeping towards my face, by jabbing at the limb before it could reach me. The protestor howled in pain, before being shot unceremoniously in the chest with 4 CS pepperball rounds that sent him reeling to the floor, retching all the way down. Orange CS gas enveloped the man and without any fear, Rivers immediately got behind him and man-handled his hands into her flex cuffs.

Two Granite Team members instantly hooked their arms underneath the suspect and carried him behind the wall, whilst Rivers and I kept pushing through the crowd, her pepperball gun spitting occasionally as people dared to come close to us, people staggering back, coughing in pain.

I felt a subtle tap on my helmet and looked to the right, as Rivers finished her slap on my bump helmet and gestured to our 3 o’clock. Only 10 yards away, a hooded protestor and his accomplice was about throw a Molotov Cocktail. Bandanas covered the lower halves of their faces and they were too busy looking at Granite Team to notice us.

The man about to throw the cocktail was gesturing furiously at his friend, whose Zippo refused to light.

With one her trademarked quick-draws, Rivers snapped up her pepperball gun and fired 6 shots in rapid succession.

All 6 rounds crossed the distance in a heartbeat and slammed into the Zippo protestor’s hands who immediately dropped the lighter. Not taking any changes, Rivers charged behind me and just over my shield, took out her taser, where with pinpoint accuracy she sent the electrical charges through the air and 50,000 volts through the central nervous system of the Molotov protestor, who immediately collapsed to the floor, urine staining the front of his pants.

I felt a tug of Rivers’ gloved hands pulling out flex cuffs from my plate carrier and she cuffed both protestors in under 30 seconds, where the remaining Granite Team hooked their arms under the two suspects and we stormed our way back to the safety of the wall, shouting BLUE BLUE over the comms.

As we made it through the wall, I looked over to my right and keyed my mike.

Specter, Halfback! Give me a sitrep!

Neptune, Halfback here. We’ve apprehended 3 suspects, all Molotov. No sign of Foxtrot or Hotel targets yet!

Copy that. Keep me posted Blue 2!

Understood Neptune!

Motioning Rivers to follow me, we walked over to Lieutenant Luiz, dodging occasionally to avoid a brick or rubbish.

Gunslinger, we just nabbed 5 Molotovs. Guide Blue to targets Foxtrot and Hotel!

OK Neptune. Switch over to this channel. I’ll guide you in personally OK? My drone operator got this.

Copy that. Blue team, switch to channel Alpha seven-niner.

Check, check. responded my team.

OK, Blue team, Gunslinger here, y’all read me?

We copy.

You guys ready? Foxtrot is deep. We’ll go for him first! Hotel is only 40 yards away from Foxtrot. Have a quick look up, the drone will be hovering above him!

I looked up towards the sky and saw the tiny red dot that was on a greyed-out drone hovering high above the air. At this distance it was hard to see it, but I knew that it was soon shine a laser down to indicate where the target was exactly.

Copy that! Let’s go Granite One.

Halfback bumped my left shoulder and together, we raised our shields up next to each other, pistols in hands. Specter and Rivers formed up behind us and together as a team, we surged past the Granite Wall and back into the crowd, as the Granite Team launched 6 consecutive CS Gas grenades to create a thick smoke screen for us to penetrate further.

As we barrelled through the crowd, that were in the middle of a coughing fit, Gunslinger kept guiding us through.

Blue team, head to your 1 o’clock! That’s it. Keep pushing! Foxtrot is only 50 more yards!

But the further we got in, the less effective the smoke screen was. Soon, Halfback and I were being assaulted and the now familiar stutter of River’s pepperball gun, began firing in earnest, followed by the shocking booms of Specter’s 870 shotgun.

It was the pump rack action of Specter’s shotgun that dictated our rhythm. As he pumped in a new shell and fired off a round, Halfback and I would shove our way forward by 4 steps, slamming our shields into people, sending them reeling back, as our batons protected our sides from random limbs that came our way.

Keep moving Blue team! Granite still has a visual on you. Foxtrot is close, he’s wearing a purple hoodie, has a black mask on, approximately 6 foot tall and is currently holding a baseball bat in his hand! Laser is now inbound!

A red streak from the sky shone down and it was literally just metres away.

Halfback kept up the pace and I followed. As we charged through and punched away protestors, we finally laid eyes on Foxtrot.

He was exactly as described by Gunslinger. Only this time, my team could see the fear in his eyes, as he pushed three of his men towards us and started to turn around to run.

Halfback and I looked at each other and we immediately executed our open shield move. Letting the three men come right at us, we turned our shields inwards, so they had to come between us and right into the solid bars of our nightsticks.

The three men, unable to check their momentum, flew ass over backwards, our nightsticks making solid contacts with their faces, necks and upper chest.

Meanwhile, Rivers and Specter moved behind us and took off after Foxtrot, their guns blasting away at anyone who came close.

Rivers, faster and nimbler, slung her pepperball rifle over her shoulder and moved ever so slightly to the left of Foxtrot.

Specter, knowing exactly what Rivers wanted, sprinted ever so slightly harder, before coming to an abrupt stop, aiming his beanbag shotgun, and letting loose 4 rounds in quick succession.

The 4 beanbags flew through the air, over-taking Rivers and slamming into the back of Foxtrot.

The force of the impact was so great, it flung him forwards two more metres and caused his face to heavily smash into the ground.

This bought more than enough time for Rivers to slam a pair of cuffs on him, and before Foxtrot even knew what was going on, Specter and Rivers had their arms under his and were dragging him back through the crowd, where Halfback and I were waiting, and a support team from Granite were already next to us.

As we escorted Foxtrot into the police van where suspects were being held, Gunslinger came running over.

Neptune, the Hotel target has run into a building along with 5 other guys. I think he’s spooked. It’s not looking good bro, drone footage shows they’ve got rifles and pistols. Come over here and check this out.

I walked around to the SWAT van where the driver pulls up the surveillance footage from one of the many drones flying above the riot. I frown, as I study the grainy image, and wince when I noticed the various weapons the men are carrying.

See the guy in the blue/white bomber jacket and the M16? That’s Hotel.

How many guys did you say he has with him?

5, bro. It’s not good odds. They’re literally barricading themselves in right now.

The hurried movement of the suspects barricading doors and positioning themselves behind cover would have been comical if it wasn’t for the fact that they were armed to the teeth.

Blue team, gather round.

Rivers, Halfback and Specter came in, and we all bowed our heads together as we looked down at our chests. A godsend from the department, we were one of the first to use the ATAK, the famous Android Team Awareness Kit, a specially designed smartphone that allowed us to create plans, observe livestreams from drones and so much more. All our ATAKs were synced to each other, so when I started to draft a plan for entry into the building.

An old staple of the Los Angeles aging and decaying architecture, the building in which Hotel had run into, was a dilapidated two storey brick structure, that had busted open windows and a mountain of trash outside and inside. The roof was completely blown apart, which made it convenient for our drones to look through and spot the targets. Two entrances, north and south, featured a large garage-door that indicated that this was some sort of former mechanic’s workshop.

Alright Blue, listen up. New mission parameters. This went from riot control to a barricaded suspect situation. Gunslinger here, has told us, our target, Hotel, is now inside this building, armed and dangerous. 5 other suspects are roaming inside, and they are just as hostile as their boss.

Gunslinger, I want support from Granite to prevent any egress from this building. I also want two of your best shooter teams to provide overwatch from this office building opposite. Ideally, they should find a spot on the 2nd and 3rd floor. Can you get on the horn and update Control on the situation now?

Gunslinger nodded and started talking on his radio to his team. Looking up at the driver of our SWAT BearCat, I smile at him in a slightly sadistic yet apologetic manner.

Deacon, looks like you’re going to be our distraction. I want cherries and berries on full blast and I want you on the bullhorn to convince them to surrender.

Deacon flashes me the thumbs up, before I look back at my team and at the plan we’ve drawn on our ATAK.

OK Blue, this is it. We’re going to breach from the North, whilst Granite secures any squirters running out back. Switch to lethals. We’re not taking any chances. We’re going approach from the east on foot, fast and quiet, whilst Deacon comes in with the light show about 6 minutes later. These suspects are going to be labelled Hotel 1 through to 6. Hotel Six is our main antagonist, so if possible, we want him in cuffs, not a bag. Drone surveillance shows they got a variety of weapons, mostly pistols, but at least 2 of them have long guns. A bullet is a bullet, so don’t get cocky.

Whilst they’re paying attention to the BearCat, we’re going to go in, work our way from the bottom, up. Granite is going to provide overwatch on us as we go in, so at least we got some type of sniper support. This one is going to be rough, so we’re going to need at least one shield going in. Also, I’m going to get on the horn, and ask GREEN team to come in for medevac and be on standby as our backup. Any questions?

Everyone shook their heads. I nodded seriously at all of them, before opening the back of the BearCat, so they could grab their lethal options.

Halfback came out first, with a new, heavier ballistic shield. Thick, strong and highly armoured, the shield was capable of taking a 7.62mm round to the glass and keep the operator in the fight. His pistol, a Glock 17, was compensated at the front, and a unique Surefire XR2 weapon light and laser combination was attached to the front, to allow him

Slung across his broad back, was Watt’s Beretta 1301 Tactical shotgun. A smooth, lovely weapon, I knew that Watts liked to customise his plate carrier to suit the ammo he carried.

On the right, he carried a multitude of red slug rounds, which he used primarily against armoured suspects or when he needs to take a precise shot. Down the middle, were his main ammo, 12-gauge buckshot rounds that were coloured green. On the very left vertical strip, was a combination of blue non-lethal beanbag rounds and a few grey “Hatton” breaching rounds that he could load in his shotgun.

The versatile nature of the shotgun in CQB couldn’t be understated to a man like John Watts. For as long as I’ve known him, Halfback exclusively trained with shotguns. He loved them with a passion, and could almost pump and rack a round as fast as we could pull the trigger on our rifles. His 1301 was heavily customised to his liking and wasn’t even standard issue. It was his own shotgun that he bought, and used on deployment, preferring the soft kick of the Italian weapon over the Remingtons normally found in our gun lockers.

An Aimpoint T2 rested atop the Picatinny rail of the shotgun was supplemented by a Surefire Scout Light Pro, the same one we all used on our weapons. In addition, running along the left side of the gun, was a match-saver mount for a single red slug shot, in case Watts needed it for an emergency reload. Seeing that match-saver reminded me of the time, when I saw Watts dispatch a kidnapper with that competition shooting technique, his greasy head snapping back with such force, his neck snapped.

Specter was the next one out, his precious and expensive Daniel Defence M4 V7 cradled in his hands. The weapon was a clear reference to his time in the U.S. Army 2nd Ranger Battalion, where he learnt first-hand how important it was to get a longer barrel to touch terrorists in the mountains of Afghanistan. The venerable EoTech Vudu 1-6×24 LPVO was his favourite optic, but like most military men, he liked having redundancies for his redundancies. A Trijicon RMR was mounted on a 40-degree angle to his LPVO, enabling him to switch between higher magnifications to a red dot in an instant.

Unlike the rest of us, the Ranger also equipped his long barrelled M4 with a bipod and suppressor to further stabilise his shots and preferred to run with 20-round magazines. This kept his heavy weapon, light and manageable. For clearing rooms, Specter would collapse the stock as much as possible, whilst using his sling to punch his weapon out when needed.

Rivers, with a confident smile, waltzed out last, slapping the charging handle on her MP5A3. As tricked out, a submachine gun could be, Rivers’ Heckler and Koch was bristling. An Aimpoint T2 rode flush on the top of the gun, with an angled foregrip riding on the bottom of the handguard. A Surefire Scout Light Pro punched out, alongside the muzzle of the gun, accompanied by a unique charm.

Tucked in flush along the Picatinny quad rail, was a pink/white friendship bracelet, given to her by a grateful 9-year-old. The case in question, was what convinced me to sign Rivers to my team. Having been kidnapped by her drunk father, who refused to hand over custody, the car chase that Rivers went on to pursue the dirtbag was one of the longest in LAPD history.

It all ended when Rivers took advantage of a mistake the father made around a corner and performed a pitch perfect PIT manoeuvre, spinning his truck around. The man, without hesitation, put his 9-year-old daughter in between the muzzle of River’s 9mm 2011 pistol, and held a knife to her throat.

Rivers, having winded down the window to her police cruiser, waited 3 heartbeats, before placing the green tritium sights square on the father’s outstretched elbow and firing a single round that shattered the arm completely.

The scream from the man barely started, before Rivers’ next shots punched right through his left orbital and ended his life.

Weeks later, Rivers was on administrative leave, when a package arrived at her door. Cookies, a card and a police-woman action figure were inside the pink decorative box. When Rivers opened the card, the friendship bracelet with the words “MY HERO” and the initials of the young girl, a Madison Velaquez, MV was alongside hearts, and little studs.

Rivers, touched by the gesture, kept the friendship bracelet on everything important, a daily reminder of her duty and a bright spot in what was a largely ungrateful job.

As I climbed in to grab my own gear, I wondered about my own personal story. I knew for the longest time, that I wanted to serve. In what way, I wasn’t sure. I thought about enlisting in the military, but so many of my friends had already done so, and I wasn’t so sure it was the path for me. It wasn’t until I was in college, studying psychology, that I finally had my calling.

It was a late night on-campus where I was walking back to the library, eager for some sleep after studying far too late. As I was about to enter my dorm, I heard a sob nearby, that made me turn. There she was, a half-naked student, her long legs covered in bruises, her blonde hair a mess, and a ragged grey UCLA shirt covering everything above her waist. She was cowering in a bush, her sobs covered up by her hands, which were slick with blood.

I walked closer, vaguely remembering my lessons about trauma, my hands held up in a non-threatening manner, and doing my absolute best to look sympathetic. As I got closer, I asked in a gentle tone whether she was OK. The girl looked up at me with her green eyes and immediately fear shot right through her system and she screamed at me to leave her alone.

Now that I had gotten closer, I noticed the blood that trickled down her legs and instantly came to one conclusion: rape. This was a rape victim and I needed to back away. Placing a 911 call, I watched from afar, as the paramedics arrived on scene, along with the LAPD. It was the tough, yet sensitive behaviour of the officer questioning the girl that made me sign up. This was a job that could make a difference. I watched in delight, as the officers marched into my dorm, and walked out moments later, 3 men in cuffs and place them in the back of their cruiser.

It was that simple moment, of seeing something wrong, righted, that made me finish my degree and pursue a career in law enforcement. Someone needed to balance the injustice. That person was going to be me.

The BCM M4 Mod 2 carbine in my hand was my personal rifle. Having lived off a cop budget for years and knowing the number of times I needed to get the rifle out into the fight quickly, I trusted the Bravo Company quality at their price point to a tee. Lightweight, yet capable of longer distance shots due to my G33 x3 Magnifier, the rifle had seen a lot of street combat over the years. Oddly, as a SWAT Officer, I used it less, then when I was a patrolman. But it was battle-tested and vetted, many times over and I trusted it with my life.

I kept it largely stock, with my G33 magnifier and EXPS holographic sight up top, the same Surefire torch that the rest of the team was running and a short stubby foregrip with a sling.

Keeping my mask on, I inserted 4 rifle magazines into my plate carrier, before walking out to join my squad. Chambering a round into my rifle by pulling back the charging handle, I let it ride to the front, before holding out my fist.

Specter, Watts and Rivers placed their fists atop mine and we all shouted “BLUE!” in unison once more.

~

When you are walking down the streets of LA, you get accustomed to the rubbish that is strewn everywhere. This was a city that was heaving under the excess of 13.2 million people and struggling to breathe. She was a city that was fading by the day, but that didn’t mean that we, the LAPD, were going to let her die in ignominy. We still had a job to do, and that was to arrest the fall of this city as much as possible.

It was getting dark, with the twilight casting an orange glow over the sky and the street. Looking up, I was grateful for our foresight in bringing NODs with us. The dual tube PVS-14 would be invaluable in helping us fight in low-light conditions, and with shit going to get hairy inside the building, we needed every advantage we could get.

As we cleared our way to the target building, I looked up at the drone that was monitoring us. Holding up my fist, we all took a knee, as we looked at the target building directly in front of us, only 50 metres away. Fortunately, the side we were approaching from, had a mostly intact wall, which meant the guys inside couldn’t see us.

Granite Overwatch, Gunslinger, & Deacon sit-rep.

Overwatch here. We’re in position on deck 2 and 3. We see you. Recommend you activate your IR beacon before making entry. We got eyes on 1 suspect, armed with a pistol on the second floor. No sign of Hotel at the moment.

Copy that Granite. Confirm visual on our IR.

We all reached up on our helmets to activate the infrared strobe that would help differentiate us from the bad guys.

Copy Neptune. Overwatch has visual on all 4 IR strobes. You’re good to go.

Understood. Gunslinger, sit-rep on Granite and Green team?

Neptune, this is Gunslinger. We got you covered with our drone, and Granite is currently in position, in 2 squad cars to the South of the target building. Command has given us the green light on this op. The moment Blue makes entry, Granite will advance to the South of the building and establish a perimeter. Green team is currently split into two chalks, one with Deacon in the BearCat and two with Granite. How copy, over?

Copy Gunslinger. Neptune copies all. Deacon?

Go for Deacon.

Punch it.

Copy that. Cherries and berries on their way.

In unison, we looked across the other side of the street, where opposite us, we could see the glows of the red and blue sirens atop our BearCat light up a few blocks away.

Using hand signals only, I motioned my team forward, Halfback taking point, Rivers aiming her gun at the target building upper floors, whilst Specter and I covered the left and right of the street.

Halfback was only 2 metres away from the door, when he slung his Beretta and took out a C2 breaching charge. A small explosive designed to completely obliterate the door lock, it was also powerful enough to swing it open on its hinges. Behind him, Rivers prepped her 9-bang grenade, pulling the pin, but holding onto the spoon tightly.

30 seconds later, the BearCat arrived on scene, and all hell broke loose.

Gunfire immediately erupted, loud and harsh. It was coming from the floor above us. Specter and I glared upwards, as we felt the hot brass from an M16 rifle shower onto our clothes.

My comms unit exploded into calls instantly.

Green Alpha taking fire in the BearCat! Shots fired, shots fired! Granite Overwatch, do you have a visual on the shooter?

Affirmative Green. Overwatch, taking the shot.

I looked across at the building, and saw two muted flashes in the deep recesses of a room occupied by police snipers.

The M16 rifle stopped firing and we heard it crash loudly onto the floor, only to be followed by an even louder thud as the body followed.

All elements. Granite overwatch here. Hotel 4 is down. Confirmed suspect down.

Green team, not one to waste opportunity, popped open the hatch on the roof, and using a standalone M302 launcher, sent a CS gas round through the open window where the shooter had been just to make sure.

I squeezed Rivers’ shoulder, who then squeezed Halfback. Blue team, making entry!

Holding up 3 thick gloved fingers, Halfback counted down and then pressed the plunger on the detonator, shielding his head down away from the blast.

CRACK. The door blasted open in a shower of splinters and sparks, as it swung open noisily.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG, BA-BANG, BANG, BANG, went River’s 9-bang grenade as light and sound shot out at a deafening speed. We rushed in right after it, Halfback moving to the left side of the wall, Rivers peeling into the right corner, myself and Specter hot on their heels to cover the rest of the points of domination.

The abandoned warehouse was a classic garage structure. A open floor plan, with a lot of trash mountains that covered a formerly pristine workspace, the two garage hydraulic lifts were still rusting away in the centre of them all. Near the rear of the building were 4 offices that were on either side of the side wall, and an old staircase lead to the second storey, where more offices were located, with a big boardroom in the centre.

Just above the central boardroom, was a small access ladder that lead up to the attic where the target Hotel was likely to be found.

To our immediate right, as the main door was along the west side of the building, was a huge mountain of rubbish. Using it as basic concealment, I motioned to Halfback and Rivers to peek the right side, whilst Specter covered the long line of sight down the left wall, and I would peek the left side.

As I peered around the corner, I saw the left hand hydraulic lift, orange with rust, and saw movement in the deep bay where mechanics used to slide under the car. Yanking my head back, I flinched as rounds came through, shredding dirty garbage bags and sending debris flying everywhere, and across the visor of my gas mask. I ducked down and turning my BCM sideways, I sent 6 quick rounds in the general direction of the shots.

As I did so, Rivers and Halfback aggressively moved forwards around the mountain to get a better angle on the shooter.

I began to bark orders

Suspect is in the bay of the left garage lift! Specter, on me! Suppressive fire on my flood!

Toggling my Surefire torch on, I aimed my M4 in the area where the suspect could have been and sent slow methodical fire in that area. Specter, guided by my torch, put his Daniel Defence rifle to work, covering Rivers and Halfback, as I changed magazines quickly.

Rivers’ voice came through loud and clear.

LAPD! PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN, OR BE PUT DOWN.

Suddenly, Halfback’s shotgun roared to life, its blast punching through the air like a cannon would. A eerie moan followed, as the suspect made guttural sounds after having his chest ripped open by 12 gauge buckshot.

An awful wheeze could be heard, and I winced as I realised air was escaping through his chest. The man would be dead in seconds. Halfback, in his deep baritone, reported coldly. Suspect down, before we could hear his heavy breathing over the radio.

Neptune, Specter, taking fire! yelled Rivers, as she dove to the side as a suspect, in the boardroom that looked down on the garage opened up with a goddamn rifle.

Halfback, took a knee, and sent three quick rounds upwards, before diving to the side as well as another suspect on the ground floor this time, opened up with his pistol. He landed heavily in the bay of the right hydraulic lift, and kept his head down as bullets rained down all around him. Rivers, did the same as she hunkered down next to the corpse of a man who clutched a pistol, and not much else after Halfback’s Beretta finished him.

Specter looked at me, and I could see the Ranger’s mind going into overdrive.

We need to get fire superiority again sir. I’m going to lay down cover and join Rivers. You move to Halfback and get an angle on the ground shooter.

I didn’t waste my breath. I merely nodded and as Specter’s long barrelled M4 barked in response, shattering the window of the upstairs shooter, causing him to duck down, I sprint across and took cover behind a small mound of trash, just behind Halfback.

Going into a half-crouch, I waited for a muzzle flash in the dark offices at the back.

There. Got you, you fucker. I thought as I saw a muzzle flash open up at Halfback from the left office.

Activating the SureFire torch on the suspect with my thumb, and centering the red ring of death on the man crouched in the corner, I felt my M4 bark 4 times.

The man shuddered as the high velocity rounds punched through his chest, and caused his legs to cease working, the limbs sliding out underneath his body, his head lolling forward lifelessly.

Suspect down! Halfback you’re cleared to move! Rivers, you follow him on your side. Specter continue to lay down fire! I’m going to CS!

Halfback and Rivers rose from their bays and charged forwards taking cover by the nearest offices to them. They scanned each other’s respective room on the opposite side with their torches, making sure there were no suspects in them, before nodding to each other and walking down the hall.

Specter’s long M4 continued to provide cover on the boardroom shooter, as I grabbed a CS grenade from my chest, pulled the pin and threw it up and over, into the smashed window.

Specter, move! I yelled as I covered him, sending rounds after the gas, as it spread.

I moved forward as I fired, before kneeling next to Rivers. Flicking out my empty magazine, I topped up with a fresh one, before squeezing her shoulder.

Rivers, moving!

Halfback, moving!

I stayed close to Rivers, clearing the two offices next to us. We paused for a second as we waited for Halfback and Specter to cuff the dead suspect I killed, and spike his pistol, an ugly Hi-Point that probably would have blown up in his face, if I hadn’t killed him.

Looking at the staircase that lead up to the boardroom, where at least 3 more suspects would be waiting for us, I looked down at my ATAK and saw that Gunslinger was busy, listening to our comms and marking off suspects. Hotel 1, 2 and 4 were all killed. I tapped into the drone feed and saw through the thermal cameras that there were at least 4 heat blooms.

Blue team, wait one, they got a goddamn hostage up there.

Specter was the first to hiss his disappointment. Where, boss?

Attic, according to the drone feed. Hotel 3 and 5 are on the floor above us. I think you must have gotten Hotel 5 with your suppressive fire, because he’s on the floor and rolling about a bit. Halfback, Rivers, Hotel 3 is on your left when you breach. We’re going to make entry and use 9-bangs and CS gas to get him to surrender. As for the hostage, Hotel 6 is up in the attic with them. We’ll deal with that later, after Hotel 3 and 5

Solid copy, boss. said Rivers. I got the nades ready, on your go, Halfback.

Halfback nodded and checked his shotgun. Loading a single Hatton breaching round, he made sure the rest of the load was lethal, before racking it in. Let’s do it.

As we climbed the stairs, we kept our heads down, not wanting to expose our heads. Nearing the door, Halfback stayed as low as his huge frame could manage, aiming the shotgun at the door. Rivers pulled the pin on her 9-bang grenade. Reaching up above her, I pulled the stock of my rifle as far out as it could go, before reversing it and smashing a window open. Without hesitation, Rivers threw in the 9-bang and following it up with the CS gas seconds later.

As the grenades exploded, Halfback blew the hinges off the door and kicked the door open. Before Halfback’s leg even landed, I rushed through, with Specter right behind me. My gun up, I immediately made for the left room, where Hotel 3 was waiting, his eyes blinded, his lungs filled with noxious gas. Slinging my rifle to the side, I whipped out my taser and shot the suspect without hesitation, sending 30,000 volts through his nervous system and causing him to collapse face first on the ground, shuddering. I slammed my knee on his back, and wrenched his hands back behind him, slamming white plastic flexicuffs on.

Specter kept moving, clearing the rooms, with Rivers right by him, and Halfback taking my side of the room. A sixth instinct warned the Ranger, honed by years of combat experience that something was about to happen.

Without hesitation, he fell backwards, his left hand grabbing River’s plate carrier, tripping her. Landing heavily on their backs, Specter turned his head sideways, as a huge barrage of bullets came blasting through the air, entering the space he was just standing at. Rolling on his belly, Specter simultaneously grabbed a grenade off Rivers’ plate carrier and tossed it into the boardroom, where it landed right next to the prone suspect who was shooting blindly through the double doors.

The grenade, a unique and special explosive known as a Stinger, delivered hundreds of painful tiny rubber balls in every direction when it detonated. With the grenade so close to the suspect, it acted like a claymore mine, shredding his face instantly. If anything was still alive, it was ended soon after, when Halfback, thinking his fellow officers had been shot, sent 4 rapid shotgun blasts through the door and into the remnants of Hotel 5 bloody, headless corpse.

Officer down! yelled Halfback in a panic.

Hearing the gunfire, and the panicked voice, I got up instantly and ran over, checking both Specter and Rivers for any holes, but thankfully, there was nothing.

You guys are good. I said in a relieved tone.

Thanks Specter. I owe you one. said Rivers in a bit of shock. Specter shook his head and tapped the side of her helmet. You’re good Rivers. Don’t worry about it.

Knowing that we still had a job to do, despite how shaken we all were, I gruffly brought them back to reality.

OK Blue team, rally. Let’s sort out the final guy. The one we are really here for. Remember, there’s a hostage up there. Top up.

We all reloaded our guns, with Halfback making sure he had solid slugs, instead of buckshot. The attic was going to be extremely difficult to breach. It was an enclosed space, with only way in or out.

The ladder to the attic was the only way up and the first person up there, was going to be absolutely shredded with gunfire.

It’s a suicide breach boss said Specter coldly.

Then we’ll go around. I said curtly. Specter, Rivers, take the live suspects back to the BearCat and grab the assault ladder. Coordinate with Gunslinger. You’re going to make entry from above, and smoke him out. If you got a shot, take it. Halfback and I are going to be down here, and we’re going to see what we can do. This is going to take timing. You know what I am thinking, so let’s do it.

Without a word, Specter nodded and looked down at the few C2 breaching charges in his pouch. Nodding back at me, he left with Rivers, whilst Halfback and I began to consult our ATAKs. The thermal feed still showed Hotel 6 moving with an outstretched hand towards the ladder, the cold steel of his submachine gun barely discernible. His other arm was around the throat of a woman, who was wriggling furiously, but he kept an unsteady grip around her throat to keep her compliant.

The attic was small, barely 5 metres by 5 metres. The two pairs of feet stood approximately 4 metres away from the ladder, and there was no way Halfback or I could see up and over to spot them.

But it didn’t matter. We had a plan and we were going to execute. Halfback looked at me and nodded. He was ready. His hands, normally gripping a Beretta, had two flashbangs in them instead.

Whilst Specter and Rivers were getting ready, I tried the negotiation route.

Hey pal, this is the LAPD SWAT. My name is Damon Hayes. We don’t anyone else to get hurt here. So please put the gun ….

Shut the fuck up cop! If you come any closer, I’m going to cut you up to tiny pieces. I’m going to kill you and then I’m going to kill this bitch!

Come on man, it doesn’t have to go down this way. We can settle things peacefully. Just put the gun down and let the woman go. We don’t want any more ….

I already told you, you dumb pig fuck! I’m going to kill you all, and then I’m going to cop this bitch. I swear, if you try anything, I’m going to …

Before Hotel 6 could finish his sentence, Halfback, who had snuck up halfway the ladder, tossed both his flashbangs into the tiny attic.

As Hotel 6 eyes registered what they were seeing, a C2 breaching charge exploded in front of him, ripping right through the thin, weak roof of the abandoned garage. Hotel 6 raised his hand at the sight of bright daylight pouring through, and tried to squeeze the trigger of the gun, but the flashbangs went off and caused him to drop the gun, and clutch at his eyes instead.

Rivers, light and fast on her feet, dropped through the hole first, whilst Specter placed his LPVO’s red dot squarely on Hotel 6’s head. Rivers took mere seconds to cross the threshold, and tackle the hostage out of the way to safety. As she did so, Halfback, his taser drawn, popped up from the ladder’s entrance and sent the electrified prongs through the air and right into Hotel 6’s chest, where they dropped him like a sack of shit.

As I waited below, watching the drama from my ATAKs, I smiled when I saw Rivers flip Hotel 6 on his back and slam a pair of flexicuffs on.

Grabbing my radio, I sighed All elements, this is Blue Team lead. We are code four. All clear. Suspects are bagged and tagged.

Gunslinger was the first over the radio.

Neptune, that was the most ballsy play I’ve ever seen. A rooftop breach? You had us driving the BearCat right next to the goddamn building, then making poor Rivers and Johnathan walk across the support beams to breach from above ….

Bro, you’re fucking wild. But out-fucking-standing work Blue Team. This one is for the ages.

As Rivers, Spectre and Halfback brought down the hostage and Hotel 6, I clapped them all on the shoulders, our relief apparent.

Great work Blue. Good job y’all. Let’s get these guys back and call in our shifts at the Short Stop.

Amen to that boss. said Rivers wryly.

As we walked back to the BearCat, I looked out on the street and saw the final vestiges of the sun disappear behind the horizon of LA. With the light gone, the city was now entering a new phase, one that was going to get a lot more violent, dark and terrifying.

With that disturbing thought on my mind, I looked over at the flames that were still flickering a few blocks away, where the riot was still ongoing.

Job isn’t done yet. I thought. But that’s a problem for another team, for now.

Closing the door on the BearCat, I shut my eyes like the rest of my team, and started to run through everything we’ve done. There’s always shit that can be improved.

~i~

At close to 9000 words, this is definitely one of my longer pieces. I started this draft ages ago, but never got around to finishing it, until I had an eureka moment that solved how I was going to end the arrest. I’m starting to get the hang of writing things more in advance now, and it’s a nice feeling to actually end a draft that has been sitting around for far too long.

It’s been good practice, since I am about to start a new novel on a much more intimate LEO story.

See you at the next one!

~ Damocles.

Christmas is upon us …. and I’m finally stabilising things at work.

It’s probably the best Christmas gift I could have given myself, given how absolutely chaotic everything has been at work for the past 3 months.

After struggling for two months, dealing with chaotic schedules, holidays, finances, and just the overall stress of adapting to a new job, I’m finally in a good place. I’ve made my demands clear on how I want to tackle my new full time job, how I want to free up more time for my personal life and just overall work on ironing out huge issues with scheduling and time management.

To their credit, Messina has agreed to a lot of my demands and are currently working on ensuring that my start to 2024 is as smooth as possible. I’m working more normal hours, tackling more responsibilities and will be doing less grunt work.

All of which is music to my ears. It means I can spend more time with my partner, friends and hobbies. I can also give Fed Square more availabilities, and just focus on my personal health which has been taking the longest hiatus for 2 years now.

Stability breeds discipline and I cannot wait to get myself in a more disciplined state of mind going into 2024. I want everything to be more orderly and less chaotic, because by being in more control of my work hours, I can then devote time to my fitness, hobbies and partner. It also means that my finances should start to stabilise and that is the whole point of working full time.

No more different amounts of money coming every week, no more weird hours (except on rare occasions), more time dedicated to stuff I want to work on …. there is simply no cons to this.

And I want it to work out very badly.

But even though I have all these hopes and dreams for 2024, I know that I got to put in consistent effort and work to ensure that my precious stability stays stable. All this effort did not come easy. I had to be honest, brutal and critical with my feedback, whilst making sure that I was understanding about how chaotic the event industry is, in general.

In a lot of ways, the past two months have created so many opportunities where I learned a lot about myself, how my partner is so incredible supportive and patient despite the hardships and how I need to be firm yet professional about how I go about things.

I’m excited for 2024, simply because I finally landed a full time job and it is starting to pay off. My hours should start to regulate and with that ….. my whole life will finally experience some proper discipline.

I cannot wait.

Sometimes I forget just how infamous I really am.

When I study my behaviour, actions and history, there is no denying the reality that what I’ve done and continue to practice will always make me infamous. There is quite literally too many unique aspects of me to ever fade into obscurity.

There is no real way to write this rambling essay on myself, without sounding arrogant and unbearably self-centred, but understand that, this is the only way to truly discuss the problem with being even slightly influential.

Leadership roles have thrust on me ever since I learned that taking charge was the only true way to gather 12 unruly teenage boys in a quiet Chinese restaurant and get the orders completed for the poor waiter.

This initial taste of command, has evolved to a long litany of roles in which I’ve always been the “older brother”, the one who made all the big decisions and ultimately put a lot of other people at ease, freed from the burden of responsibility.

From ordering for my group of friends, to leading a festival, to even commanding total strangers who turned up to work as labourers for an event, command seems to follow me around.

Throw in a penchant for military style clothing and styling, a no-bullshit attitude and a competitive streak that dictates my workstyle has to be harder, faster and longer than everyone else, and you’ll find me a relatively unique character amongst many generic people.

There is no denying that my unique attributes and hardass attitude has given me a reputation amongst the community I work for. I have a tendency to scowl whenever I work, an indirect result of me focusing on harnessing my inner anger to fuel my work. Without that inner anger, I would not be able to achieve half of what I can do in a full shift.

The sheer efficiency at which I work out, has often exhausted and surprised by bosses, who struggle to find tasks for me to do once I’ve completed their list in shorter time than expected.

But that is just how I operate. I like doing all my difficult tasks at the beginning of the shift, so I can relax later. For me, work is a sprint, not a marathon and I like how it feels to know that my final 2 hours out of 8 can be done at a more relaxed pace.

However, in the off-chance that I do need to maintain that speed, my anger within will sustain me throughout the entire workload.

Fast and furious. That is a surprisingly apt way to describe me at work. Everything is done at a swift pace and there is an undercurrent of rage behind every movement.

It’s just something I learned as a younger man. Being happy wasn’t a good mental state to be in. Tapping into the darker elements of my personality was something that could be sustained for much, much longer period of time. It’s helped me to mentally focus on the job at hand and get past all the bullshit that any job has. Whether it’s a terrible manager, a rude customer, an angry protestor, an irate food vendor or just an idiot who wants to waste my time, having a deep well of anger that I can tap into, allows me to control it more and not lose control.

I suppose the fact that I don’t bother to hide this darkness within, that I actively drink from the well of anger, is part of the reason why I am infamous. The scowl, the military precision, the undercurrent of rage bubbling beneath every action … it’s no small wonder so many people in the community have heard of me, yet lack of the courage to come up and test my mettle.

I suppose the rumours of my temper, lack of patience when it comes to idiocy and overall recalcitrance doesn’t help. In many ways, I’m still atypical of young, angry men who have the potential for great violence, despite their stable upbringing and natural luck.

You know the sort … the ones who fall in with bad crowds, develop a fixation for lost causes and are more eager to lash out than talk things through. Boys who are unnecessarily rebellious, more eager to stir up trouble than toe the line and are often a strain on society than an asset.

I’ve never really grown past that side of me, and it’s reflected in how the community at large views me. They don’t know how thoughtful I can, how considerate or kind. All they see is an angry individual, whose angry demeanour is only matched by his lack of respect towards his elders and is stubbornly headstrong and fractious.

I’ve unwittingly cultivated this persona for so many years and allowed it to grow to mythical proportions that it’s now out of my control. My name is synonymous with a reluctant, ruthless and rebellious leader who has little time for politics, interpersonal problems or anything that gets in the way of the job.

But that is essentially true. My leadership style is brutally direct and straightforward. It doesn’t bother with ego, feelings, emotions or politics. I simply do not have enough time for it. I suppose, it’s why many people don’t view me as their friend afterwards, because why would they?

I used them as tools to an end, and they did the same to me. It keeps things simple, professional and efficient. Whatever their personal lives and problems are, I have no interest, unless it will directly affect the outcome of the task.

That impersonal touch to my leadership style though, ironically makes my personal moments all the more touching and raw when they do appear. The people under my command see it like a glimpse of the man behind the tough armour. They appreciate the nanosecond of vulnerability, before the plates of armour close up again and they are confronted with a tough exterior once more.

But it makes for a very pleasant work environment, one in which people can truly just focus on their task at hand and ignore everything else. Under my command, it does not matter one bit where, who, what or why you came to be. All that I ask for, is for you to not be asshole to the other team members and do your job.

Your identity is stripped down to the tasks you have been assigned to and how competent you are at delivering them.

There is a reassuring feeling about how much I don’t care about your personal problems. Because under me, you can put them aside and just focus on the job at hand. Life is simpler, easier and much more satisfying because you can actually achieve something under my supervision.

That is the base appeal behind my infamous style. Because beneath all the anger, the scowl, the ruthlessness and dispassionate judgement, is a place where you can actually thrive.

But you have to put in the work and those who aren’t brave …. will never see past the surface level of my reputation and understand why I inspire such loyalty.

I know that I am infamous amongst the community, not just for being my father’s son, but also because I’ve carved a much darker slice of history for myself. To know that my name is held in the same regard as many other prominent community members, but with a much fearsome caveat is something that I’m oddly proud of.

Because in this life, amongst so much uniformity, I always strive to be unique and divergent. I hate being lumped in the same category as everyone else and to be as distinct as I am, even amongst all the more accomplished young people, is ultimately a good thing.

It’s still strange knowing though, that at one point, I was disparaged, mocked, disrespected and cursed for my actions by hundreds of people. I suppose I should be thankful that all my experience and mental training prepared me for such a moment and all that toxicity rolled off my back like water to a duck.

It also helped that my opinion of the community I’ve served for many years, was quite low and due to my inherently rebellious nature, I’ve always held people in contempt until they’ve earned my respect.

So, in a lot of ways, I only added to my dark reputation. I still stood tall, a proud insurgent against everything they threw at me.

At the end of the day, no-one controls me nor will anyone ever come close to doing so.

If that is what I am known for, then let it be heard everywhere.

~ Damocles.

Life was good for Daniel.

He was in the zone.

The beat was hitting just right, there was just the right amount of alcohol in his system to enjoy himself, without losing control and the girl in front of him was smoking hot.

One of his boys, a charming Scouser with a cockney accent came up to him and passed him another beer, as they continued to dance.

Daniel grinned at his friend and as the chorus swelled up, they both yelled in unison.

Beautiful, Beautiful Is Boring!
Beautiful, Beautiful Is Boring!
Beautiful, Beautiful Is Boring!
Beautiful, Beautiful Is Boring!

Then the band, a dark edgy pair of female punk rockers, known as BONES UK, shredded their guitars and both men banged their heads away, lost in the musical moment.

Just as the music peaked, Daniel’s phone rang and he could feel it vibrate away inside his coat.

Frowning, he pulled it out and stared at the screen.

“Ahhhhh bollocks!!” cursed Daniel as he realised who it was and in an instant was sobered up.

“Harry, mate! I got to go bruv. I’m sorry man. It’s Abby.” apologised Daniel, as he pulled Harry close.

“What?! Did you say Abby? Ah sorry bruv. Yeah I get it. Go!” yelled Harry over the din of the concert.

Daniel gave his mate a hug. “I’ll catch you soon yeah? Fill you in on the tea soon bruv.”

“No worries man. You mind if I chirps your peng ting though?”

Daniel laughed and cuffed Harry around the head. “Tosser! Yeah go for it, ya numpty.”

Harry grinned at Daniel’s consent and immediately forgot his best mate, as he focused his attention on the girl who Daniel was hitting on for the entirety of the concert.

As Daniel started to make his way through a raucous crowd, he looked down at his hand and realised that Harry had stolen the beer from his hand and was now offering to the attractive blonde.

Laughing to himself, Daniel grabbed his coat from the check out chick at the front desk and made his way back out into London.

At a tall, lean, 185 centimetres tall, with dark ebony skin and a magnetic smile, Daniel Abara’s model looks were only accentuated by his grey tweed coat and tortoiseshell glasses that made him look younger. He was the iconic British upper class schoolboy. Confident, polite, always up for a good time and impeccably dressed for any shenanigans, illegal or otherwise.

Women and men would stare at him, as he walked down the street, entranced by his natural cocky swagger. Daniel Abara was truly on top of the world.

Except for this one girl.

Hunching himself into his coat to protect himself from the iconic English weather, Daniel pulled out his phone and rang back Abby.

“Abby? Hi! Where are you?” asked Daniel urgently.

“Oh Danny, I’m a mess right now. Please help me. I’m at St. James Square. Please hurry.”

Looking down at his dress shoes, Daniel swore inwardly and began to break into a jog. Replying back to Abby calmly over the phone, Daniel said “OK Abby. Hang on. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

From the Wigmore Hall to St. James Square, was a solid mile, in the direction of the Thames. As his feet pounded the pavement, Daniel wondered to himself, how many times it was now, that Abby would call him up in the middle of a night and ask for help.

Probably a solid dozen by now thought Daniel as he ran down New Bond St, ignoring the horns that blared at him angrily from behind.

Why I keep helping this chick is beyond me. Before he could query his own statement further, he saw the picturesque garden of St. James Square.

Running through the gate, Daniel scanned the small garden anxiously, before his brown eyes settled on a lonely girl, her long legs up to her chin, her pale arms around herself, as she rocked silently on the bench.

“Abby…” whispered Daniel as he moved towards her. This situation looked different to the previous rescues. There was something haunted in the way how one of his oldest friends moved.

Keeping his hands in front of him, Daniel moved slowly towards Abby, concern suffusing his handsome dark features.

Up close, Abigail Robinson was your definition of a stunning attractive British blonde. Svelte, elegant, refined and almost too good looking. No matter the angle, Abigail presented flawlessness and seduction. Full lips, a straight nose, large blue eyes and a strong, sharp pair of eyebrows. A slender body that had enough curves to draw attention, without sacrificing fashion appeal.

When she smiled, dimples graced her cheeks that would stop traffic. But it was when she was crying, Abby’s true magnetism shone through. Her big blue eyes would hold your attention and melt everything away, until only her problems existed in the world.

It was her melancholy that made her an overnight sensation.

Abigail was one of England’s most in-demand It girls, gracing both magazine covers and nightclubs with equal abandon. Her star was rising and it seemed to Daniel, that his friend of 10 years was soon going to outgrow him.

To see her here, all alone, without an entourage to look after her was something extremely bizarre. Especially with the way how Abigail was dressed, a golden low-cut shimmering dress that shone under the amber lights of London.

Daniel walked up to her, unsure if it was really his friend.

“Abby?” asked Daniel in a half whisper.

The girl looked up, tears running down her cheeks, and sobbed in relief.

“Danny! Oh, thank God you’ve come.”

Daniel instinctively took off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. Sitting down next to her, he placed his hand across her shoulders and brought her in close.

“Abby, what the hell is going on? What are you doing out here alone?”

Abigail looked at his gentle expression and unable to control herself, burst into tears. Daniel recoiled slightly in shock, before bringing her in even closer, her arms wrapping themselves around his torso.

“It’s alright Abby. It’s OK. I’m here.” whispered Daniel soothingly. He rubbed her back tenderly, confused and concerned as one of his oldest friends continued to cry into his chest.

“What happened Abby?” asked Daniel in between her sobs. But she remained mute. Sighing, Daniel looked around at the desolate park and winced. Pulling out his phone, he called for an Uber before nodding seriously to himself, considering his options as he noted the 4 minute wait.

OK, first thing first. Just like any Abby rescue mission. Let’s look for her kit. thought Daniel, as he looked around for any of Abby’s possessions, as she clung to him desperately.

“Take it easy, darling. Did you bring anything else out here, other than your phone?”

Abby merely shook her head in his chest. “OK. I just called an Uber. We’re going to your place OK?”

Abby violently shook her head.

“OK, OK. We’ll go to mine then.”

Abby nodded silently.

“Christ Abby …you’ve really outdone yourself this time.” as Daniel settled back and continued to rub her back comfortingly.

The shudders started again. Daniel sighed again, in as many minutes.

They stayed together for a few minutes, with only the sounds of the city and her sobs to accompany their lonely comfort. Just as Abby began to relax in his chest, the lights of Daniel’s Uber flashed through the trees of St. James Park. Daniel shook Abby gently, however she refused to move.

Wrapping his arms under her legs, Daniel effortlessly lifted one of Britain’s top models and carried her to the car, where the considerate Uber driver recognised the situation immediately and hopped out to get the back door. Daniel nodded his thanks and placed her down gently in the backseat, before doing up her seatbelt and climbing in himself.

“Sorry bruv, but slight change. Instead of Camden, can we go here instead?” Daniel punched in the new coordinates for his apartment in Greenwich to the app.

“Yeah, all good, guv. She alright?” asked the driver, concerned.

“Yeah, she’ll be OK.” said Daniel curtly, shutting down the conversation.

The ride to his apartment took less time than he anticipated and Daniel left a 5 pound tip for the driver, when he opened the door again, as Daniel carried the wreck of an Abigail Robinson into his apartment complex, where he flashed the security guard with his ID dangling from his mouth.

By now, Abby was almost asleep, her consciousness fading in and out of her emotional state.

The guard raised an eyebrow but buzzed him through, calling the elevator to the 7th floor. Daniel nodded politely in gratitude. The whole night was only going smoothly due to the kindness of strangers.

As Daniel stumbled out of the elevator, his arms burning, he set her down on the floor before swiping open his apartment and holding the door open with a foot, whilst he bought her in, before placing her on his bed.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Daniel wrapped his blanket over Abigail, before heading into the bathroom to change.

As he shoved his dirty clothes in the laundry, Daniel caught a glimpse of himself in his hallway full length mirror. The tired, stressed Daniel that looked back, was a far cry from the easy going version only an hour earlier, and a lot less impeccably dressed, with tracksuit pants and a worn dark grey shirt with the words of his favourite band, MUSE written across it in block letters.

Shaking his head, Daniel walked into his kitchen and put the kettle on, pleased that at least his apartment was clean. It was large, even by London standards, spacious enough to fit a small home gym, and a walk-in wardrobe. A spare bedroom operated as his study, which was filled with custom military jet models that he had painted and collected over the years.

Glancing at the antique clock that hung on the wall, he sighed at the sight of the hands reaching out to 1am and walked back into his room, to check that Abby was fast asleep.

Grabbing a spare blanket and pillow, and smiling forlornly at his friend, Daniel walked out into his kitchen, switched off the kettle just before it was about to whistle and made a comfortable makeshift bed on his couch.

Flicking on the TV, Daniel settled himself in with a cup of hot chocolate, some digestives and surfed the channels, until he came across a relaxing music channel that only played progressive rock.

In what seemed like only moments later, Daniel woke up, bleary eyed, to feel a weight on his shoulder. Abby had woken up, changed and was now only wearing one of his large T-shirts, another one from his rock collection, a white print of Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland. Her bare legs were stretched out next to his, her blue eyes were closed, as her long blonde hair flowed down his chest.

How many times has this happened and I’ve done nothing about it. wondered Daniel. Sitting up, Daniel heard Abby sleepily moan, as his comforting warmth faded away from her and she also began to wake up.

As Abby stretched, Daniel looked up at his clock again and winced. 3am in the morning. Still, no time like the present to have a deep and meaningful conversation.

Shrugging internally to himself, he put on the kettle again and waited in the kitchen, whilst Abby covered herself with a blanket to keep the chill away.

Pouring out hot chocolates again, Daniel handed one to Abby, who nodded her thanks gratefully.

Sitting at the end of the couch, their legs touching mid way across the leather, Daniel raised a suggestive eyebrow over the lip of his coffee mug.

Abby licked her lips nervously and sighed heavily.

“I fucked up big time Danny and I’m paying the price for it.”

Daniel looked at her concerned. “How did you fuck up Abby? What happened tonight? Where was everyone? I mean, where’s Topher, your manager? He’s always by your side.”

“That’s the thing Danny, Topher is the problem. He … He …” Abby’s tears began to flow as she struggled to get the words out. “He …” Abby began to gag as the memories came flooding back.

Sensing the coming eruption, Daniel reacted quickly, slid his hot chocolate onto the coffee table, grabbed the nearest waste bin with liner and placed it under her mouth, whilst holding her mug with his free hand.

Abby vomited. Desperate, emotional and traumatic dry heaving. Her whole body was convulsing with shame, fear and disgust.

Daniel knew deep down what had happened, but he was too shocked to truly grasp what had happened to his beautiful friend.

Handing her a tissue to wipe her mouth, Daniel got up and grabbed an diffuser, to waft away the smell of bile.

This time though, Daniel sat down next to her and put his arms around her. Her body was still shaking, but it calmed down slightly when he softly stroked her head.

“He raped you didn’t he …” said Daniel with a terrible finality.

Abby nodded. She didn’t have the strength to say it. To say it aloud, would be to acknowledge that everything inside she was feeling was true.

“Oh Abby … I’m so sorry.” whispered Daniel. There was nothing more he could say. He didn’t know what the hell to do.

Normally, when Abby was in trouble, it was literally as simple as picking her up, taking her home, tucking her into bed and sticking around, until they both woke up in the morning and she would rant about her wild night over mugs of hot chocolate and left over sourdough.

Daniel knew then, that there wasn’t going to be any sleep. So he stayed beside the broken British model, softly stroking her hair, and her shoulder, silently trying to inject some strength back into her, as his long time friend clung onto him, despairing and trying to forget, but unable to remove the pain she felt in her heart and in her stomach.

It was around 7am, when Abby finally found the strength to be more herself. She took a ragged breath and tried again. Daniel squeezed her shoulders encouragingly.

“That’s it Abby. There’s only one way through this, girl.” Daniel paused and lifted her chin, so that she could look at his earnest brown eyes. “Tell me what happened and we’ll sort it out together, I promise.”

“I feel so disgusting Danny.” said Abby sadly. “I can still feel him inside of me and I can’t get rid of him. I hate myself so much right now.”

Tears streaked down her cheeks, but this time the convulsions weren’t as strong. She was slowly coming to terms with her trauma.

“I went out alone tonight. It was just Topher and me, going out to Luv, the nightclub. After the week I had, fucking 3 shoots in a row, I just wanted to let loose tonight.”

“I wasn’t thinking straight Danny. I really wasn’t. By the time I got changed, I was already a bit tired. I actually thought about cancelling and staying at home, but Topher insisted … he told me that this was the perfect way to relax.”

“God, I’m so stupid. My whole life, I’ve always let other people tell me what is good for me. Like they know me better than I do. I wasn’t feeling it at all last night. I thought Topher understood that, so about an hour in, I asked him to get me a glass of water.”

“I honestly don’t know what happened after that. I think he roofied me … because the next thing I remember, I’m inside a cab and he’s touching me everywhere and I can’t control my body.”

Abby dry-heaved again as her body relived the sensations. Daniel hugged her tighter, horrified.

Wiping her mouth with a wet tissue, Abby took a ragged breath.

“Next thing I know, I’m in my apartment and he’s lifting my dress and he … he fucking RAPED me Danny.”

Painful sobs wracked Abby’s slim frame and she began to bawl her eyes out in earnest at her confession.

“Oh God … Oh my fucking God … I …think I …”

“No, No, No.” whispered Daniel. “Let’s not go there. I’ve heard enough. It’s OK. We’ll get through this, I promise.”

Abby nodded slowly. “Thank you Danny. God … you’ve always been here for me, but I’ve treated you like shit. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I didn’t even ask you what you were doing before you came for me … I’m the worst. I’m so sorry Danny. I really am. I’m such a fucking toxic mess …”

“Oh for the love of God, it’s OK Abby.” smiled Daniel ironically. “An abandoned Bones concert is skint to what you went through tonight. Come on, we got to get you cleaned up. You want something to eat?”

Abby nodded vigorously. “Please.”

“OK, well, jump into the bathroom and take a hot shower. Trust me, it’ll make you feel a lot better. I’ll get some bacon, eggs and toast going out here.”

For the first time, since the fateful phone call, Abby could stand on her own. Daniel nodded approvingly at her, proud. “That’s it. You got this, girl. Brekkie will be waiting for you when you come out”

As the sounds of the shower running and the crackle of bacon mixed together, Daniel looked over at his stereo and put on a slow song: Sway as sung by Anita Kelsey.

Laying out two plates and piling a generous serving of eggs and waiting for the shower to stop, before toasting the bread, Daniel poured out two glasses of orange juice and smiled at Abby, who came out, rubbing her long blonde hair with a towel, still dressed the same way.

“Thank you Danny.” said Abby gratefully as she sat cross legged on the kitchen chair.

Daniel nodded silently as he leaned back on the kitchen counter, drinking his orange juice thoughtfully.

Abby ate gratefully, the food slowly restoring some sanity to her fractured mind. A question suddenly burned in her mind and she looked at Daniel with a slight panic, as a realisation struck her.

“Can I ask you something Danny?” queried Abby with a hint of trepidation in her voice.

“Yeah, course you can, what is it?” replied Daniel.

“This is going to sound really dumb, but I just realised that whenever I’ve needed you, you’ve always dropped everything for me. Can I ask why?”

Daniel felt his breath catch, as he beheld the girl who he had fallen for a long time ago, but could never quite articulate how he truly felt.

He looked away from her blue eyes, unable to really express himself.

“You know why Abby. I think you’ve always known. But I guess the timing was never quite right between us.”

Abby looked away from Daniel. “I’m sorry, Daniel. I truly am. But I don’t see you that way …”

Daniel took a deep breath. “I know Abby. I’ve known that for a long time too. I’ve gotten over you in a lot of ways, but not enough to stop helping you when you need it. We’ve been friends for a long time, and that hasn’t changed.”

“I’m a toxic mess Danny. You don’t need me in your life. You need a woman who got her shit together. I mean look at me … I honestly don’t deserve any better. I ..”

“Hey!” interrupted Daniel. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you last night. What Topher did to you was fucked. And I sure as shit, ain’t gonna let him get away with it. Who knows who else he’s done this to? No, Abby, we’re going to get that bastard. You definitely did not deserve what happened.”

Daniel moved closer to Abby, holding her hands.

“What happened to you Abby? You’ve changed so much over the years. You’re not the same girl I remembered when we first met. Do you remember what happened?”

“I kicked your bully in the head.”

“That’s fucking right. You stood up for me, when I was being bullied at school. No one else did that for me. What happened to that feisty, hellraiser? You need to be that girl again.”

Abby looked away from Daniel’s brown eyes and stared at their entwined hands.

“I’m not sure I can be that girl again Danny. I don’t even know if she still exists.”

“You got to find her again Abby. Because at least that girl knew what she wanted to do with her life. The one before me … she’s on a bad track and it doesn’t look like she knows how to get off.”

Abby sighed heavily. “I know Danny. I know.”

She looked up at Daniel, transfixing him with her blue, melancholy eyes again. Every time, Daniel always fell for them. They were too mesmerising to ignore, too deep to not fall for and far too expressive to dismiss.

“But seriously, Danny. Thank you. I don’t know where I’ll be without you.” Abby squeezed his hands and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“Any time.” said Daniel with a smile.

Author’s Note

It’s been a while since I last wrote something and I can already sense the rust when I was writing this story. It’s a bit meandering in places and arguably, I’m not too happy with the conclusion.

This is a shame, because I actually had a really strong idea on where this was headed, but then my holiday came and put everything on hiatus and thus I lost track of the pulse.

I was inspired to write this, because I’ve been recently thinking about my new lifestyle and how much easier it is for me to be supporting friend, than what I used to be. Whether its a new-found confidence or better perception into people, I’m a bit more abuzz with the ability to comfort and reassure people that things will be alright.

Anyway, whilst I wasn’t super happy with this one, even bad drafts get published on this blog, so hope it wasn’t to terrible to read!

Until the next one

~ Damocles.

I can taste blood.

Metallic, tangy and weirdly addicting.

Running a finger along my mouth, I can feel the sharp prick of a split lip and I lick at it, relishing the pain, to sharpen my focus.

A big right hook sweeps in towards to my eye and I lean back, allowing the knuckles of the Turk to brush across my chest.

His back was now to me. The worst position for any fighter.

Stepping in close, I softened his torso with a right handed blow to his ribcage, before scything my left elbow towards his face.

The fight should have ended there.

Instead, the Turk saw the move coming and he ducked his chin, allowing the brunt of my elbow’s force to dissipate against his strong forehead.

Grimacing, I keep my momentum going, to break free of the close quarters we were in, and we both glared as each other, as we stood on opposite ends of the fighting square.

Our chests heaving from physical exertion, I decided to take quick stock of the situation I was in.

The iconic smell of sawdust mixed with centuries of beer and blood perfumed the air and set the scene for exactly what this fight was: a pub bash, with 70-ish people crammed in a small space, baying for more blood.

The ring wasn’t exactly circular, more a square that was commonly used to herd in fresh cattle on market days. Straw matted the floor, making our fight perilously slippery and it didn’t help that spilled beer sploshed constantly, as the crowd cheered on the Turk who came stumbling forward, his dark face twisted in a fierce scowl.

The cheers turned to boos, as I dodged out of the way and tripped him with my feet, causing him to crash into the wall and knock over 3 over enthusiastic men, their coats and beer mugs flying into the air, as they stumbled back into a less than happy crowd.

For a man so large, the Turk was extremely nimble. He was sheer muscle, a former strongman that worked at a circus, lifting heavy items and astonishing people with his muscle mass.

Which, to me, meant that he was a tiny bit slower than the fighters I was used to, but also a lot damn harder to take down.

Hitting his body, was like punching a wall.

But I had to persevere. I could tell that the last punch to his torso hurt him, more than he was anticipating. And that was because, this entire fight, I was just aiming at that one spot, dodging and dancing, counter-attacking at that single spot, just underneath his ribcage.

Already I could see that his dark complexion was even darker in that spot, ugly purple bruising mottling the skin. His right arm wasn’t as quick anymore, and the recovery move to protect himself was now significantly slower.

Despite these percieved disadvantages though, I was getting thoroughly trashed.

My knuckles bled from hitting such hard muscle all the time. I couldn’t feel the right side of my face properly, and there was a gash above my left temple, where his fist had nearly split my head open.

Blood was dripping constantly from my left brow, causing me to wipe at it constantly and I was now favouring my left side, after a monstrous blow nearly split my kidney in two.

I was losing.

The Turk though, was still hesitant to finish me off. He was still wary of me, my counter-punches that had slowed him down, enough to cause doubts in his mind.

I had also worked out a simple trick. Every time I wiped my bloody brow, he would advance and try to get into my blind side. Then he would feint to my strong side, before coming at me from my bleeding left side, eager to give me another trashing.

I knew that this was his favoured strategy, but I had to apply my knowledge carefully. It had to be for the final blow. I was recovering still, gathering my wits, will and fists for a final attack.

Both he and I had been here for too long, the match that was supposed to be over in seconds, now dragging out the minute hand of the grandfather clock, where the pub owner stood with everyone’s bets.

Our breathing was getting heavier and heavier, the Turk’s grunts as he threw punches louder and more savage, and my feet were starting to drag sawdust, straw and blood along the ground, instead of nimbly dancing above them.

The next hit, rocked me to the floor. The Turk had feinted with his right shoulder, before coiling his left hand into a fist and sending a massive sternum punch that launched me backwards and left me kneeling on the floor, coughing.

The Turk, sensing my weakness, charged forwards, eager to deliver a final king hit that would win the fight once and for all. His huge dark body, glistening with sweat, his face contorted into a viciously smug scowl, bared down on me.

The crowd screamed and cheered as they sensed the fight ending. Flecks of beer foam rained down on the fighting square.

I wiped my bloody brow.

The Turk just went straight for my blind side, coming in hard and fast towards my “unseeing” left side.

Just as the Turk pumped the brakes, and raised his right leg to kick me square in the face, I swiftly moved my head out of the way, allowing his leg to rest on my left shoulder and uppercutted the bastard right in the nuts.

The crowd instantly fell silent.

The Turk’s face went purple from the pain, and before he could even reach down and cup his balls, I placed both of my hands on his knee that was outstretched in front of me, and chopped down brutally, nearly breaking the joint.

The Turk toppled backwards as I released him. He screamed in pain, tears streaking down his face. Incredibly he was still standing, his breathing coming hard and ragged, his damaged right leg, hobbling behind him.

The Turk hissed in intense pain as he glared at me pitifully.

It was time to end this.

I feinted to the spot that I had been hammering away for the entirety of the fight, and the Turk dropped his arm to protect himself. However, as his head drooped down, I stepped in and chopped an overhead elbow, right into the side of his head.

The Turk barely had any time to react, as his head was promptly met by my rising knee that sent his neck cracking back up the other way.

I cut my elbow across his face for good measure, and the Turk spun around.

The poor bastard was now stunned, defenceless and barely conscious.

Discombobulated.

But still, he was standing.

Taking a step back, to the deafening silence of a stunned crowd, I ran forward, like the Turk had done to me, but this time, I knew that he was truly done.

Jumping up, I raised my knee and slammed it, right into the spot just underneath his ribcage, where his kidneys were.

A sickening crack could be heard, as I broke two of his ribs and an even louder crash swiftly followed, as the Turk smashed onto the floor, completely unconscious.

I landed on my feet, and gasping for air, I raised my right fist in silent triumph, before wiping bloody spittle from my mouth, and spitting in the corner.

No one could believe what had just happened. Looking over at the pub owner, who nodded in respect, I opened the door to the fighting square, and grabbed a spare towel, from a stunned patron, wiping myself off before collapsing into a chair.

The pub owner grabbed a bottle of whiskey and threw it underhanded at me. I barely caught it in time, but the moment I ripped off the cork with my mouth and chugged a good portion of it, I could feel a hint of pride in still being able to function adequately, despite the immense damage to my body.

The stunned crowd then cheered raucously and clapped loudly, as the pub owner broke the spell by yelling “Alright lads, show’s bloody over. Come and get your winnings!”

Random men came up to congratulate me, clapping me on the shoulder, shaking my hands and throwing me respectful nods.

As the bar attendants cleared the ring and carried away the Turk upstairs, I sighed and took stock of my injuries, gratefully dousing my bloody knuckles into a pitcher of cold water that one of the bar’s local prostitutes bought over.

She was pretty too, with blonde hair, green eyes and porcelain skin that whipped at the senses, when you noticed her plunging decolletage.

Always after a dollar, I thought to myself as she came up and gently stroked my shoulders, sitting astride me with a naughty tempting smile playing across her red lips.

“Good fight out there lad. Need some help loosening up?” whispered the girl into my ears, she gently massaged a knot in my shoulder.

“I’m not sure I qualify as a very attractive client right now, lass” I replied as I close my eyes, enjoying the way how she is digging into my back.

“That’s never stopped me before, has it now, Jack?” said the girl teasingly.

“No Lucy, it certainly hasn’t.” I smiled at her.

“Come on then, let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up. Otherwise some of the other girls might get the wrong idea.”

Lucy pointed looked at the other girls, who were glaring enviously at us. No doubt they were angry that Lucy and I had a long term understanding, thus she would get the first pick. After all, I was a man who had just made a lot money in a fight and all these girls wanted a piece of me, no matter how badly I looked.

Lucy was still continuing her ministrations as I sighed and swallowed the rest of the whiskey.

“You’re insatiable Lucy. I don’t know what is worse, not knowing whether you’re after me or my winnings.”

Lucy pouted prettily at me as she allowed me to wrap my arms around her shoulders and we slowly climbed the stairs to one of the spare rooms above the pub.

Looking back, I could already seeing the next fight about to commence, this time a young aristocratic looking boxer taking on an wiry Indian. The crowded bayed once again, and I shook my head before looking ahead and wondering if my body was even going to perform for the next strenuous exercise.

Lucy, sensing my trepidation, gave me a cheeky smile.

“It’s OK, Jack. I promise you own’t have to fight much. Just surrender to me darling.”

~

Author’s Note:

This one was astonishingly easy to write and it was all because of an tennis injury I sustained recently. Going for a forehand, I misjudged the timing, and complete with the sun in my eye, ended up smashing my racquet into my lip, cutting the inside and leaving me with a split lip.

So inspired by the strange new look I had to sport for a few days, I wrote this and was very happy that everything was quite smooth to write. I obviously based it off the Sherlock Holmes slow motion fight scene in the pub but made my guy a bit more of a dirty fighter and tried to pay more homage to the setting with the inclusion of different ethnicities being forced to fight for money.

Hope it was as fun to read as it was to write!

~ Damocles.