Chapter 10: The Pursuit
Thursday Morning, May 17, 2018 - South LA Streets
The traffic stop should have been routine. Expired tags, minor violation, standard procedure. Lopez ran the plates while I approached the driver's window.
"License and registration, please."
The driver's hands shook on the wheel. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror.
My danger sense pulsed. Low-level. Something wrong but not immediately threatening.
"Sir, can you—"
He floored it.
The car lurched forward, tires screaming. Lopez was already in motion—back to the shop, engine roaring to life.
"Unit 7-Adam-19, in pursuit, southbound on Crenshaw." She hit the lights. "Mercer, call it in."
I grabbed the radio. "Dispatch, 7-Adam-19 in pursuit of white Honda Civic, license plate 7-Delta-Delta-Victor-9-4-2, southbound on Crenshaw approaching Adams."
The pursuit was on.
Lopez drove like Tim had trained her—aggressive but controlled. The suspect weaved through traffic, running stop signs.
My danger sense screamed suddenly. Sharp, directional, urgent.
"RED LIGHT! CROSS TRAFFIC!"
Lopez slammed the brakes. We skidded to a stop inches from the intersection. A semi-truck roared through—would've T-boned us at seventy miles per hour.
"Jesus Christ," Lopez breathed. "How did you—"
"Saw him accelerate through. Had to be running it."
Lie. But convincing.
She hit the gas again. "Air support en route. Stay on the radio."
The suspect's car careened around a corner too fast. Metal scraped. He'd clipped a parked car but kept going.
"He's heading for the warehouse district," I said. "Dead-ends and alleys."
"Good. Trap him."
Two minutes later, the suspect crashed. Lost control taking a turn, smashed into a concrete barrier. The car was destroyed but he was already out, running on foot.
"I've got him!" I bailed from the shop before Lopez could respond.
Stupid. This is stupid.
But my legs were already pumping. The suspect darted into an alley. I followed, danger sense firing constantly.
He emerged from the alley swinging. Fist coming at my face. I saw it—danger sense gave me three seconds warning—but my body wasn't conditioned enough to react perfectly.
I dodged. Poorly. The hit caught my shoulder instead of my face. Pain exploded. I went down hard on the concrete.
The suspect ran.
Angela Lopez's POV
I rounded the corner to find Mercer on the ground, clutching his shoulder. The suspect was gone—already two blocks away by the time backup units converged.
"You okay?" I hauled him to his feet.
"Fine. Bruised."
"You went down hard." I checked his shoulder—already swelling. "Why didn't you dodge better? I've seen you in training. You're better than that."
He flexed his arm, wincing. "Seeing it coming and reacting perfectly are different things. Still learning."
Fair answer. But frustrating. The kid had good instincts—amazing instincts—but his body couldn't always execute what his brain knew.
Backup caught the suspect three minutes later. We processed the arrest, documented everything. Standard outcome despite the rough pursuit.
Tim showed up to check on us. Saw Mercer's shoulder.
"You let him hit you?"
"Dodged wrong, sir."
"At least you didn't hesitate." Tim's assessment was grudging. "Stupid to chase on foot without backup. But committed."
Coming from Bradford, that was practically a medal.
Thursday Evening, May 17, 2018 - St. Vincent Medical Center, Emergency Room
The ER smelled like antiseptic and stress. I sat on a paper-covered examination table while a nurse took my vitals.
"Doctor will be right with you," she said.
The curtain opened. A woman in scrubs stepped in—late twenties, dark hair pulled back, stethoscope around her neck. Her ID badge read "Dr. Emma Shaw, Trauma Surgery."
"Officer Mercer?" She glanced at the chart. "Shoulder contusion from suspect altercation."
"That's me."
She examined my shoulder with efficient, practiced movements. Her hands were cold but gentle.
"Rookie?" she asked.
"That obvious?"
"The enthusiasm-to-common-sense ratio gives it away." She pressed the swelling. I winced. "You chased a fleeing suspect on foot without backup."
"When you say it like that, it sounds stupid."
"That's because it was stupid." But her tone wasn't harsh. Almost amused. "Nothing broken. Significant bruising. Ice it for twenty minutes, three times a day. Avoid fistfights for the next week. Think you can manage that?"
"I'll try."
She wrote something on the chart. "You're lucky. This could've been worse. Next time, wait for backup."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Doctor Shaw. Or Emma, off the record." She handed me the discharge papers. "Take care of yourself, Officer."
She was gone before I could respond. The whole interaction had lasted maybe three minutes. Professional. Efficient. Completely unmemorable except—
Except it wasn't. My recall captured every detail. The way she'd assessed the injury with quick, confident movements. The slight smile when she'd called me stupid. The name tag catching the fluorescent light.
Dr. Emma Shaw.
I filed it away. Everything got filed away now. Every face, every name, every interaction. Whether I wanted it or not.
I collected my discharge papers and headed home. Tomorrow was month-end evaluations. Grey would assess all the rookies, decide who was progressing and who was struggling.
My shoulder throbbed. My powers were developing faster than I could control them. Armstrong was dirty and I was the only one who knew. Jackson was alive because I'd intervened. Andersen was still breathing because Armstrong hadn't made his move yet.
One month down. The second would be harder.
But I'd survived the first.
That had to count for something.
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