Chapter 9 – Rookie Reality Check: The Sergeant's Trunk Holds More Firepower Than a Gun Store
Los Angeles weather flips faster than a Kardashian's mood. One second it's overcast, the next it's blazing sun turning the asphalt into a griddle.
Even Sean had peeled off his khaki jacket and changed into a navy-blue LAPD uniform shirt.
Handcuffs, pepper spray, a locked-and-loaded Glock, and the Taser he's never fired.
Who needs a Taser when you've got a sidearm?
Against a dangerous felon, a Taser won't guarantee compliance.
Only an empty magazine keeps the city safe—and earns you paid Administrative Leave.
Sean led Erin up to the roof where his personal cruiser waited in the top-floor parking structure.
It was the first time Erin saw her supervisor's assigned ride.
A Ford Explorer Police Interceptor SUV, perfectly sized for Sean's 6-foot-1 frame.
Most of the LAPD fleet was Ford or Chevrolet—American-made all the way.
Once you hit the right rank and seniority at LAPD, you can apply for a 'dedicated vehicle'—assigned to one officer or a permanent two-person team.
With pool cars on rotating shifts you never know what the back seat's been through the night before.
Could be suspect vomit, bodily fluids, and every foul substance imaginable.
As a Detective-designate, Sean could've claimed a solo cruiser for commuting—perfectly within department policy—but why bother?
He already owned four personal vehicles; rotating them every other day fills the workweek without mooching off the taxpayers.
After a month on the job, checking the cruiser's equipment was second nature to Erin.
The 'veteran' Sean leaned on the fender scrolling through ESPN highlights and texting a few 'close friends' from his contact list.
Lightbar check, spotlight check, siren test, log into the Mobile Data Terminal, verify the radar gun calibration.
Normally you'd note the mileage for shift handover.
But this unit was Sean's alone—no hand-off, no paperwork hassle.
Next came the trunk inspection. Erin popped the lid and froze, muttering before she could stop herself:
"Sarge, your load-out could take down a small militia!"
Locked in the rack between the front seats sat an M14 EBR designated marksman rifle and a Remington 870 pump-action shotgun.
She hadn't expected the two HK416 carbines and an AR-15 still secured in the rear cargo area.
Five long guns in one cruiser—classic cop firepower mentality.
Grinning at her shock, Sean unlocked the rack, pulled an HK416, dropped the mag, racked the charging handle, and gave the rundown:
"German-made Heckler & Koch, 35-inch overall length, cold-hammer-forged barrel—accurate, reliable, thirty-round PMAG."
He then tapped a tactical vest against the fender.
"Level IV ballistic plates, under nine pounds. I added trauma pads—stops multiple 7.62 NATO rounds. Two vests for twenty-five hundred bucks total—best life insurance policy money can buy."
He tossed it to Erin. "Gear up."
"All this equipment must've cost a fortune."
While strapping the vest on, she asked why he'd personally bankroll gear the department should issue.
"File it under 'training equipment requisition,' attach an itemized list—problem solved."
"Pay out of pocket? Only a sucker would do that."
"The city owes us proper equipment; I'm not padding budgets, just getting what we actually need to stay alive."
HK416 Carbine
Level IV Ballistic Vest with Trauma Plates
All boxes checked.
After confirming the AED, high-visibility vests, and tactical helmets were accounted for, they rolled out.
Sean belonged to Western Division, Wilshire Area—a property crime hotspot full of car thefts and smash-and-grabs.
He still didn't see the 'sophistication' in smashing car windows and grabbing whatever's inside.
Stealing cars? Just pop the glass and hotwire the ignition or steal the console contents.
Burglary? If no one's home it's burglary; if someone's there it's robbery—either way you're still stealing.
Either way you're taking other people's property.
Western Division ran lean on administrative staff due to heavy patrol demands.
Wilshire's complex theft patterns needed more crime analysts to track organized retail theft crews and getaway routes.
En route, Sean briefed Erin on their beat.
"Demographics are mostly Latino, then white, Asian, and Black. We've got the largest Koreatown in America—8,200 people per square mile, forty percent above the city average."
More people, more problems. The density stat sounds manageable—until you remember statistics don't tell the whole story.
Their patrol area ranked among L.A.'s most densely populated.
"Huge income disparity: Hancock Park median household income is $150K, western Koreatown drops to $40K. That wealth gap is why we get property crimes and gang shootings."
Erin nodded, her earlier confidence replaced by visible tension.
She half-expected gunfire any second, already side-eyeing every 'suspicious' pedestrian on the sidewalk.
"Relax. The windows are ballistic-rated; we're practically invincible in here."
Sean scrolled through Instagram reels—funny cop content, mostly from other departments showing off their daily stupidity.
Too much time on social media and even his own posting habits felt performative.
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