Chapter 1 – The Arizona Kid of Los Santos
Los Santos Police Department
Western Division
A balmy 77°F breeze, heavy with Pacific salt air, swept across the precinct parking lot just as the heat radiating from the asphalt began to fade.
Veteran officer David unbuttoned his second collar button; his navy blue uniform shirt lifted slightly, revealing sweat stains on the silver-gray undershirt tucked into his waistband.
He watched the badge on his young partner Erin's chest catch the sunlight like polished chrome, its gleaming surface reflecting the distant silhouette of the Santa Monica Mountains—one of those rare September afternoons when even the fountain by the station entrance sparkled like cut glass.
"You smell that?"
Erin stopped short, her fingertips resting on the parking lot railing.
The old cop squinted. Twenty yards away, beneath the roadside eucalyptus trees, a maintenance worker was hosing down the sidewalk; the spray carried the sharp scent of fresh leaves mixing with hot asphalt, weaving a damp curtain through the air.
Senior Officer David Moreman's weathered face broke into a rare, easy grin.
Today was his last day on patrol; next week he'd transfer to a desk assignment—halfway to retirement. Six months from now, he could walk away for good.
The good life was finally within reach.
He'd even ditched his usual Marlboros for today's upgrade: a twelve-dollar "Lawman's Reserve" cigar from a boutique tobacco shop in Santa Monica.
Beside him, the young officer was his complete opposite—a cloud of nameless anxiety darkening her expression.
Her field training officer, David, was retiring. Barely a month out of the academy, she clearly wasn't ready to patrol alone.
What would the new FTO be like? Would they mesh well? The questions circled endlessly in her head, making her stomach tight.
David, who'd dealt with every type of character on the streets and never taken a scratch, picked up on it immediately. He could read Erin Gresham's worry at a glance.
He exhaled a stream of smoke and offered reassurance:
"Relax, Erin—Sean Horace is solid. Half the division's been trying to partner with him. When you grab lunch, he always picks up the check—saves you a fortune."
"But I heard he's got a violent streak?" Erin voiced her concern.
David chuckled, waving off the comment, and defended the man instead:
"If using an RPG on some scumbag who murdered two of our officers and a K-9, then barricaded himself with enough firepower to start World War III—if that counts as a violent streak, nobody would ever pin on a badge."
"Okay... fair point."
Reassured, Erin relaxed slightly and pressed:
"So... what's he really like?"
David, in characteristically dramatic fashion, stubbed out his half-smoked cigar and flicked it into a nearby ashtray, then answered with classic cop humor:
"Tall, young, loaded, dead-eye shot—rumored to be the chief's illegitimate son. Oh, and... single."
"Why?" Erin asked, confused.
She wanted every scrap of intel before the sudden partner swap.
"Because the guy's twenty-six—probably the youngest Sergeant I've ever heard of. If he's not the chief's love child, he's just that damn good. Though..."
He paused and gave her a knowing look.
"Word around the station is, his romantic history's... colorful."
The implication was crystal clear; he all but spelled out Sean's messy love life. David paused, then added with a grin:
"If I were one of the women he'd been with, the second that pregnancy test showed positive, I'd already own half his house in Torrance."
While David laughed and filled her in, our protagonist was... where, exactly?
Commander's Office
A burly brown-haired man slammed the personnel roster onto the desk.
Deep-set gray-brown eyes, sharp nose, thin lips set in a permanent scowl; thick stubble, flecked with gray, ran from his sideburns down to his jawline.
The target of his frustration—Commander Murphy Winston—sat comfortably in his executive chair, utterly unfazed.
The Irish-American commander wore black-rimmed glasses; a single silver star on his collar marked his rank. Only a few sparse hairs remained on his balding head, but he looked completely unbothered.
"I'm already a Sergeant—why are you sending me back to the street as an FTO? I've been riding a desk for six months!" Sean's voice carried a barely restrained edge.
Faced with his young subordinate's complaint, Winston summoned the composure built over three decades on the force.
"I know, Sean. I know—after your promotion to Sergeant, standard procedure would be pulling you off patrol and keeping you behind a desk."
Winston's tone remained even. "As a watch commander, you're beyond qualified—nobody questions that."
"But..." Having lived two lives, Sean recognized the pivot word the instant it left Winston's lips.
Winston leaned forward, speaking with the authority of someone who'd seen it all.
"Twenty-five years on this job." He deliberately brushed the five silver service stripes on his left sleeve.
"And a Watch Commander runs to the equipment locker, grabs an RPG, and blows up a suspect? Sean, you've completely redefined 'aggressive policing' for me."
Sean thought: With a setup like that, who could resist pulling the trigger?
He defended himself immediately.
"Post-incident investigation proved me right! That bastard had two rifles and a hundred seventy rounds. Our AR-15s? Couldn't penetrate his body armor." He couldn't resist taking a shot at the department's equipment.
(Standard LAPD "greeting" when they make a traffic stop!)
Sean snorted. "If we'd followed standard protocol and tried negotiating him down, Westwood Memorial Park would've been ordering half a dozen extra headstones."
Winston nodded, conceding the point.
"Right. That's why you weren't demoted—just a month's administrative leave. When the chief heard about your 'heroics,' he said: the Los Santos PD needs a hundred more like Sean Horace."
"Then why not send me back to my old position? Why throw me back on patrol?"
Sean was genuinely puzzled. Street work wasn't the end of the world, but a desk job was easier on both body and mind—not to mention safer.
Winston didn't answer right away. He methodically pulled out a lens cloth, removed his glasses, fogged them with his breath, and began polishing.
"Over the past three years, you've been involved in thirteen officer-involved shootings and prevented thirty-one major crimes. Best of all, neither you nor your partners have taken a scratch. That makes me damn proud."
He raised his gaze to Sean, the subordinate he'd mentored for years.
"I'll be straight with you: you're too good to waste behind a desk. The minute you're eligible for promotion, I'll personally recommend you for either Detective Bureau or SWAT."
Sean understood: Being too good is its own problem.
"You work vice—you bust a major drug operation. You work patrol—you uncover a gift card fraud ring. Even helping ATF with illegal gun confiscation, you somehow dismantle an entire trafficking network." Winston rattled off his "greatest hits."
Sean barely suppressed a smirk, thinking:
Can I help it? The system auto-flags crimes within twenty yards; free experience points—who wouldn't take them?
Seeing the standoff, Sean stood up.
"My lawyer will discuss this reassignment with you next week, Commander."
Sean didn't flinch—want the horse to run but won't feed it oats? Not happening.
No such deal. If they insisted on frontline duty, he'd squeeze every benefit while he had leverage.
Winston hadn't expected such steel. Department regulations were clear: if the officer was blameless, reassignment required consent. Seeing Sean head for the door, he spoke up.
"I can approve Hazard Duty Pay and Special Skills Compensation."
"That's only twenty-three thousand a year."
Sean kept walking; that pittance wouldn't move the needle.
Need a better offer than that.
"Perhaps you'd rather discuss my emotional distress claim with the union rep and legal?"
One step, two, three—Sean cursed internally:
Still nothing? I'm almost out the door!
Finally, the awaited words came.
"The minute you're eligible for promotion, I'll personally write your recommendation for Lieutenant, plus a PBA courtesy card—your 'get-out-of-jail-free' pass. And—"
Winston paused. "Your new partner is an attractive young woman. That's my final offer, kid—no more concessions."
Sean's negotiating was shameless, but Winston was out of chips. He didn't care about Sean's questionable background; as long as the crime statistics looked good, he could turn a blind eye.
But the streets needed aggressive cops. If everyone sat behind desks, who'd actually do the dangerous work?
Besides, every one of Sean's operations had been by-the-book—no policy violations, no liability.
Why shouldn't cops hit hard when criminals go heavy?
Why not break out the rocket launcher if the situation calls for it?
Since Sean's RPG incident, the local gangs had gone radio silent—department analytics showed crime down 11.3% month-over-month, 21.6% year-over-year.
The gangbangers finally got the message: push LAPD too far and they'll literally bring the boom.
Hearing the final offer, Sean figured half a loaf beat none and mentally agreed.
He spun around, strode back, and clasped Winston's hand with a sunny smile—no trace of his earlier confrontation:
"Alright then, Commander. Let's make it work."
Winston exhaled in relief.
"Let's make it work."
(Officer Erin Gresham)
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