Chapter Text
Silence filled the ambulance on the way back to the station. Emmett Lang focused on the traffic while Tim Bradford stared out the window. Sometimes he wasn't sure if he was seeing LA out there—or Kandahar, Kirkuk, Fallujah. It didn't really matter. Everyone's blood ran red. Their brain matter was equally pink-gray when it had just been inside a living body. Tim wasn't a man of many words, but his gaze had been trained by life itself.
As they passed the side street near the Dusty Miller, two figures caught his attention. It was nothing more than a shadow in the backyard of a remote bar, barely more than a movement—too hasty, too violent for a harmless bar patron. In Tim's chest stirred that instinct honed by years in the desert and service on LA's streets; adrenaline banished exhaustion in split seconds.
"Stop, Emmett. Now," Tim called out—it wasn't a suggestion but an order.
"Tim, we're almost off shift..."
"Now! Over there—something's wrong!" He was shouting now, his voice matching the urgency screaming inside him, even as Emmett threw the vehicle into reverse.
Emmett knew all too well that Tim had seen something requiring immediate action. They'd known each other since he joined the LAFD years ago, and he could trust Tim's perception completely, 100%.
Tim was already gripping the door handle before the vehicle came to a complete stop. As he jumped out, the cool night air stripped away the last remnants of fatigue from Emmett as well, replacing it with an icy, deadly clarity. There, in the pale light of a flickering streetlamp, a man was trying to drag a limp figure into the passenger seat of a car—it was Caleb, Doug Stanton's protégé. He held the woman tightly, his grip not supportive but possessive.
Tim's stomach clenched as he recognized the ashen face of the woman in the man's grasp: Lucy Chen, the normally vibrant young police officer. She hung like a broken doll in his arms, eyes half-closed and completely disoriented. The sight of such total helplessness tore open an old wound in Tim's core—an echo of the fear of the little boy once defenseless against his father's violence—instantly transforming that pain into an relentless protective need. It would have applied to any vulnerable being. The fact that it was clearly Lucy in Caleb's clutches made him furious.
"Emmett! Get the cops here, now!" he bellowed over his shoulder, approaching Caleb with the menacing calm of a man with nothing left to lose. "What the hell are you doing with her? Let her go, Caleb."
Caleb froze. "Bradford? It's all good—she just had too much to drink. I'm taking care of her." He tried to pull Lucy deeper into the shadows.
Lucy's head no longer obeyed her. But when she heard Tim's voice, she flinched. She remembered him.
"What did you give her?"
"What?" Caleb's smile became brittle. "I didn't give her anything, man. She—"
"Don't lie to me." Tim's voice turned icy. "I was a medic long enough to recognize when someone's been drugged."
Caleb stepped back, dragging Lucy with him. "You have no idea what you're talking about. Get lost, Bradford."
"Let her go." Tim moved closer. He was far more than just a paramedic.
"Or what?" Caleb's free hand slid to his belt. Tim recognized the threat in the movement—and the desperation of a caught predator.
Everything happened very quickly then.
Caleb tried to reach for the knife in his pocket. But Tim was faster. Years of field experience and instinct took over. He grabbed Caleb's wrist lightning-fast and twisted it. Caleb dropped Lucy. He tried to break free and swung with his free fist. Tim countered with a hard, straight punch.
The impact on Caleb's skull echoed through his right hand like thunder. He felt something give way—a sharp, white-hot pain exploded in his knuckles. Caleb collapsed.
"Don't move, you piece of shit," Tim hissed, briefly clutching his own right hand. Gritting his teeth, Tim ignored the pulsing fire shooting from his right hand up to his shoulder. His only priority was the young life now lying pale and fragile on the wet ground before him. He knelt beside her and spoke:
"Lucy?" In his mind crowded all the situations where he'd encountered her before.
With his left hand, he checked her pulse—weak but steady.