Warrant Service

[Alfa1561]

warrant
/ˈwɒr(ə)nt/

noun
- a document issued by a legal or government official authorizing the police or another body to make an arrest, search premises, or carry out some other action relating to the administration of justice.

 

June 10th, 2460

It was a muggy, warm Thursday night - the engine of Grayson's cruiser still hot despite the motor shutting off a while ago, the heat failing to dissipate quickly in the damp warmth of South Central's streets. The overhead buzzing of streetlights long overdue maintenance created a constant drone that had come to be expected of the city's downtrodden districts at night, like part of the background ambiance to the economic and societal despair contained within the withering residential blocks. Homes once built to proudly house new families. Apartment buildings standing tall to accommodate the growing population of the conurbation. Affordable housing projects constructed to alleviate the homelessness and housing crises. All stood now in various states of disrepair, maintenance abandoned by their owners, and often by the city, too. It was only a matter of time before the entire area would be razed to the ground - forced purchases made on the cheap so gentrification could take place, property developers making a tidy profit on demolishing a failure and building anew. 

Despite whatever may happen in the future, it was likely decades down the line. It didn't matter. What mattered was then and there - the current residents of the crumbling city blocks trying to get by day to day. It was a sorry state of affairs, enough to make anyone appreciate their own living conditions, assuming they were better than those observed. Grayson always did. It had only been a year since his divorce, and despite the hardship he'd gone through, the moving to a small apartment from his once family home, the lack of frequent access to his own children - he could at least always be thankful he wasn't living like the countless residents near the poverty line, struggling to survive another day. He'd been in the homes of so many and responded to more calls than he could ever hope to count. Homicides, suicides, domestic violence, breaking and entering, overdoses, drug dealing, assault and battery - just to name the most frequent. It was depressing, but that was what Grayson was there for. To deal with the bad, in the hopes that he could make just a little difference. Make an improvement in someone's life. If he could remove one abusive spouse from a home, catch a murderer, anything - then it was worth the trouble.

It was no surprise, then, that many of Grayson's cases had crime scenes located deep in South Central. If they didn't, it wasn't uncommon for there to be a connection to the area at minimum. As to be expected, gang crime was rife in the districts, the usual for areas of economic downturn and a lack of hope for recovery. It was for that exact reason that Michael was in the area with his partner, Detective Henry Moore. They had a myriad of cases they could work on by just being there - witness statements to follow up on, locations to scout out and investigate, suspects to locate and plenty more. Right this moment, however, Grayson was leaning on the engine block of his unmarked sedan cruiser - outfitted to LAPD standards with ballistic panels, lights, sirens, a radio suite, computer, weapon racks and more. In his hands were a small cardboard box, red designs adoring the outside on a white backing, with a pair of chopsticks in his other hand. He stood there idly, eating away at the rice and noodles contained inside, only occasionally looking up and around to watch a car drive along, or a train pass in the distance. Parked nearby was a food truck the two detectives loved to frequent - Chinese food, primarily. Moore was still at the van, collecting his own order. Peaceful moments like this were few and far between on the job, but even the cops had to stop and eat sometime. It was good to have food establishments to trust and frequent, too - those you'd know didn't mind your custom, and would often hand out discounts for your purchases. According to the book, accepting such gratuities was against policy, but in reality, it was an insult to turn them down. After all, the presence of badges deterred trouble, and the less trouble there was, the better it was for business.

"So, what are we hitting after this? We've got two alibis to go verify near here, but one of 'em is that dopehead that Mateo gave, no fixed abode type deal. Think I'd prefer t' leave that for daylight hours, not lookin' to step on any used needles." Moore had returned from getting his own food, holding a cardboard container like Grayson's. The detective takes up a position nearby Michael, leaning on the door of the vehicle while he eats. Grayson meanwhile pauses, taking a PDA off his belt to open up a case list, flicking through them as he consider the question.

"Take your pick. We've also got to follow up with the witness from the Chang homicide, Melissa? She's meant to be home from work about now, we needed to ask her about the cars she saw leaving the bar parking lot." Michael offers the PDA over to Henry, nodding as he points out the case he was referring to. He quickly returns to his food as Moore studies the current case summary, slowly nodding and handing the device back.

"That's probably a good one to square away first, then. Haven't filed an update on that one in a bit now. We can hit that in the next half hour, then maybe see about the alibis." Grayson wordlessly agrees, nodding his head as he eats, stopping for a moment to take the PDA back and place it on his belt again. The device was standard to the LAPD, as well as pretty much every emergency service in the country. The variant Grayson carried was law enforcement specific, bearing LAPD markings and a hardened case. A scanner on the device allowed him to load up the details on any scanned form of ID or a vehicle plate, useful for checking database records or filling out a ticket. The miniprinter on the PDA allowed him to run off a ticket or summons in a matter of moments, though it had seen more use back in his uniformed days. Still, the PDA was a powerful tool for keeping track of case files on the go, taking notes, communicating with other cops via text or photographing and logging evidence. The two detectives stood in silence, eating their food to the backdrop of buzzing lights and muffled music from a car radio down the street. It was only a short while later that the radio in the car blared to life with a message for them.

"Detective Five-Nine Adam, come in." Grayson had just finished his food, crumpling up the box and tossing it in a nearby bin. He leaned into the car, grabbing the radio mic off the hook and speaking in response, confirming his presence.

"Detective Five-Nine Adam, Detective Six-Four Adam requests you switch frequencies to TAC-6 for a message." Again, Grayson responded in the affirmative, following the directions from dispatch. It was often hard to tell whether any given dispatcher he was speaking to was a human or an AI - they were used so interchangeably and with such convincing accents and mannerisms that it near impossible to say. Nevertheless, both did their jobs, and that was all that really mattered. 

"Hey, Grayson - good to speak with you. We're on that surveillance detail out here, watching for that guy you've got a warrant on for a triple homicide, one 'Lucas Reyes'. We just clocked him entering his house over here on Hill Street, no sign o' anyone else. Haven't seen him in weeks till now. Might be best you move on this guy now 'fore he slips again." The Lucas Reyes homicide case wasn't far from Grayson's mind - a shooting at a home about twenty minutes from their current position. Gang related, too. Reyes had shot up the home of a drug dealer he'd been fighting with, killing him and two others in the house while wounding a fourth. The survivor had given a statement, but the arrest warrant was secured when the vehicle used in the shooting was found burnt out in an abandoned lot, with prints recovered from part of the door panel matching Lucas. He himself was no stranger to attention from the law, having already done two stints in prison for other felonies.

"Copy that, Six-Four Adam. We'll see what we can put together, hold there and PDA if there's updates." All in all, the case was pretty standard. After Reyes' girlfriend was caught lying when giving an alibi, a search warrant executed on her apartment located the firearm used in the murder. Reyes was on the run, though, and the warrant for him was still pending execution. It was as good a chance as any to grab him and close out the case. Turning to Moore, who had been listening to the conversation the whole way through, Michael nodded and motioned to the car. Both entered, starting the vehicle up and pulling off the sidewalk they'd parked on to head towards Hill Street. 

"Detective Five-Nine Adam to Dispatch, we got any SWAT available for warrant service? In the area of Hill Street, South Central." The best course of action would be to get a SWAT team to take the entire job from them - heavily armed, armored and trained for exactly this sort of job. Unfortunately, there were never enough teams to go round, and trying to grab one on short notice was often a lost cause. Most if not all would already be out on pre-planned raids.

"Negative, Five-Nine Adam. Trucks One through Five are on-call, Trucks Six and Seven are on emergency reserve and Truck Eight is pending another assignment. If you can wait an hour, Truck Three should be clear." As expected, every tactical team was already dealing with a backlog. Not that anyone could be mad about it - every other unit in the city was usually dealing with a backlog of cases and calls either way. There was no such thing as an empty to-do list. It was just one individual though, and as dangerous as one man could be, they'd just have to handle it with the regulars.

"Copy that Dispatch, roll us two black n' whites to the parking lot just off of Hill Street, 7687, by the Huang Convenience Store, code two." They needed to make it quick. There was no telling when Lucas might leave the premises, so there wasn't a lot of time to plan and prepare. Ideally, they'd go in with a floor plan of the house, a tactical entry team, a hard perimeter around the block, possibly even an air unit to keep watch. Life was far from ideal, however. Parking up at the convenience store parking lot, Grayson shut the vehicle lights and engine off, sitting there in silence for a few moments. Taking out his HoloWarrant projector from the glovebox, Michael began scrolling through the massive amount of open warrants, typing in the name to narrow it to the warrant for Lucas Reyes. Meanwhile Moore had exited the car, heading to the trunk to sort through their equipment. Reyes' house was just up the block - they'd use the parking lot to prepare the raid, then roll up outside the house and execute it before their target would have any time to prepare a retaliation or escape.

"Vest up, Michael. The Uniforms are here." Henry remarked, tossing a plate carrier on to Grayson's lap. Michael nodded, exiting the vehicle and taking his waist holster off, switching his gun and magazines into a hip holster setup, more suitable for the vest. The plate carrier was plain - black in color, with large white letting saying POLICE on its front and back. Taking his badge off his hip, Grayson pulled out the chain from its holder, looping it around his neck to hang over the vest. Lastly, he grabbed his windbreaker from the back of his seat, putting it on over his vest. The windbreaker was a dark blue, bearing the words LOS ANGELES POLICE on the back, as well as the department's seldom used patch on the shoulders. The front of the jacket bore the same wording again on the right breast, with the left breast adorned by a white depiction of an LAPD detective's badge - printed with Grayson's own badge number on it: 11645.

Now ready to go, two sedans similar to the detective's own rolled into the desolate parking lot. Only these ones were painted in the traditional, age old black and white color scheme, the seal of the city on their doors accompanied by POLICE in gold letting, a series of numbers and the famous motto of the department itself. "To protect and to serve." The rooves of the cars sported clearly visible lightbars, currently not active so as to avoid drawing eyes to the vehicles. Parking up near the detectives, neither driver was too bothered to follow the faded markings of the parking lot, their vehicles idling as two officers in uniform stepped out of each car, walking over to greet Michael and Henry. The briefing was straightforward - Officers Valencia and Howard would follow with Grayson and Moore, while Officers Diaz and Chen would cover the rear of the house to prevent an escape. Before leaving, the four officers adorned their own plate carriers and helmets, Officers Chen and Howard equipped with shotguns while Officers Valencia and Diaz took the patrol rifles. Knock the door, announce themselves, breach the house and clear. Arrest all individuals inside, neutralize any hostiles, and make it out alive. That was what mattered. The status of the three units was relayed to dispatch and all the lawmen were back in their vehicles, awaiting the signal.

"Detective Fine-Nine Adam for Seventeen Adam Thirty-Two and Seventeen Adam Sixty-One, moving out now. Dispatch, show us code six at 7694 Hill Street, warrant service." With that, the three vehicles rolled out of the parking lot and a block down the street, only steady burning, forward facing red and blue lights on the vehicles activated to show discrete presence, amber lights on the backs of the cars warding off nearby traffic. Grayson's car and one of the patrol cars quickly came to a halt out front of the house, while the second patrol car quickly swung into the driveway of the building, boxing in an older model car. Officers Diaz and Chen quickly got to work, exiting their car and rushing past the wagon to the rear of the house, while the rest swiftly exited and shut their doors, proceeding up the steps and across the front garden to the porch of the house. The building was like thousands of others in the city - timber frame with wood paneling, the panels slowly rotting from a lack of care, the paint applied just after construction long since flaked away. Holding a hand out to his side, Grayson motions for his comrades to stack up to the left side of the door, he himself standing by its frame. He waves forward the officer with the shotgun, Howard. Leaning forward, Michael banged on the door, shouting out.

"POLICE DEPARTMENT, WE'VE GOT AN ARREST WARRANT. WE'RE COMING IN!" Nodding to Howard, the signal was given, the officer raising a booted foot and planting it right beneath the lock on the door. The impact ripped the handle through the door and pulled screws out of the rotting doorframe, giving the lawmen access to the house. First through the door was Grayson himself, his service handgun un-holstered and its safety off. Moving through the doorway revealed what might be expected of the interior of such a dilapidated house; a worn, ripped couch and armchairs, a coffee table covered in trash, stained walls with crumbling plaster and wallpaper surrounding the depressing sights. The living room they'd entered into had more doors into other parts of the house - parts unknown to the officers inside. With the first room visibly clear, Grayson moved up to the next, waiting for the others to have his back before swinging the door open and making entry.

The door opened into a smaller living room with a set of stairs at the back heading up to the second floor. There were similar amounts of trash scattered around, but no time to analyze the contents. No sooner than he'd stepped through the door, Michael found it suddenly slammed back against him, pinning him between the splintered wood and chipped frame, the left half of his body visibly exposed to the room ahead. Moore gripped Grayson's shoulder right as the door swung back, trying to pull him back too, but it was no use, the detective stumbling backward with the officers as they recollected themselves. Michael had shouted some combination of words to warn his fellow officers and ask for help at the same time, but in a matter of seconds he was staring down the barrel of a shotgun, the previously unseen aggressor from behind the door showing himself. He was a large man, standing at around six foot two, shaved bald and with a dark complexion. His features were hard to make out in the dim light of the house, not that they were the focus of Grayson as a firearm was point blank aimed at his face.

With his right arm behind the door and unable to draw and shoot his attacker, Michael's instinct instead had him reach for the shotgun aimed right at him with his left hand, while kicking the door forward as best he could with his right foot. It all happened in a matter of seconds, the door swinging back towards the man and hitting his left arm. It wasn't much, but the bang knocked his aim off to his right, his finger squeezing the trigger and letting off a single blast of the twelve gauge shotgun. It was a good effort, perhaps one that may have saved his life, but it wasn't good enough to escape the blast. The pellets tore out from the barrel of the gun, travelling only a short distance before embedding in Grayson's outstretch left arm, shredding the flesh with ease. Some errant pellets embedded themselves in Michael's armor, dealing a powerful blow but failing to penetrate. The sheer force of the impact, coupled with the shock, knocked the detective into the doorframe once more, sliding slowly down against it, pain coursing through his body. By now the door had opened, the shooter stumbling back from both the recoil and the knock from the door, pumping the shotgun. 

"I'm hit! Fuck!" Called Michael, relaying his obvious state to the men behind. Reflexively, Grayson's right hand went directly for his holster, slipping his handgun out with relative ease in one, swift, practiced motion. In no time at all he had the gun levelled at his aggressor, squeezing the trigger once, twice, three times... In total, he fired six shots, each one landing square in the shotgun wielding criminal's torso. The large male unceremoniously collapsed, his shotgun clattering against the creaky wooden floor milliseconds after the casings from Michael's gun found their resting place on the floor. With the agonizing pain emanating from his left arm, it felt like the entire ordeal was going on for minutes, when in reality it had been just a matter of seconds. Still slowly collapsing against the wall, Grayson tried to reach back with his free hand to grip the wall and steady himself, but on his arm hitting the wall, he only received even more horrific pain. It was at this point he realized that through the pain, he couldn't feel his hand. He couldn't feel his hand. Looking down and to his left as his rear hit the floor, a second wave of shock was sent through him by the sight. His hand wasn't there. His lower arm wasn't there. In their place was a messy stump of blood and bone, skin hanging from the edges like the decrepit wallpaper of the house they were in. Fresh blood continued to pour from the wound into a quickly growing puddle below. Grayson's own gun fell into his lap as he frantically grasped at his wound. His fruitless attempts at stemming the bleed only increased the pain, eliciting a blood-curdling scream from the detective. 

"Fuck - FUCK! My arm, FUCK!" Came the screams from Grayson, in disbelief at the circumstances. Right next to him laid the remains of his left arm, far from a clean slice off as pieces of flesh were splattered across the lower wall nearby. It was a ghastly sight, yet one that wasn't as surreal as it could have been. It wasn't the first limb he'd seen in a bloody mess. His father had told him stories before - about walking down closed highways at night, flashlight in hand, looking for pieces of bodies that the coroner had noticed missing following horrific vehicle fatalities. He'd experienced similar himself over the years, at traffic incidents as well as other situations. The rare but tragic fights involving use of a sword or machete, or an explosion leaving body parts strewn across a street. It was part of the job, just like the rest. Only this was his. Before, it was always that of the already deceased, or the very soon to be. It was never him. Never his colleagues. But right then and there? It might just be. Fear shot through Grayson just as the shotgun pellets had - fear of death. With it came the adrenaline, ten times stronger than when they'd made entry through the first door. A drive like no other to survive. He had children to be a father to, even if he was hardly in their lives nowadays. He had colleagues and friends who were depending on him to be there for them, just as they were there for him over the years. Just as they were there for him right then. He was going to live.

"Shots fired, shots fired! Officer down, get us backup, supervisor, airship and an R-A!" Screamed Valencia into his radio, scrambling to take cover and relay the situation as quick as possible to the cavalry.

"All available units, respond code three to shots fired at 7694 Hill Street, officer down. Repeat, shots fired, officer down, 7694 Hill Street. Rescue Ambulance dispatching from Central Memorial. SWAT dispatching from Southwest Area Station, airship en-route." The reply from dispatch was hurried and to a certain degree filled with fear, too - despite the crackling of the radio itself. Perhaps the dispatcher tonight was human after all.

Quickly rolling over on to his right side, Michael grabbed his gun off the floor, crawling into view of his colleagues who were scrambling close to drag him out of the danger. Such sudden salvation was not to be, interrupted by a stream of automatic gunfire overhead. The shots rang out from a rifle wielding man stood on the stairs at the back of the room, his lower body obscured from sight by plywood making up missing sections of the stairway railing. The bullets from the firearm ripped through the walls and door, sending dust and splinters into the air around them as Moore, Valencia and Howard quickly scrambled for cover, forced back to the front door by the hail of lead. There was further gunfire from elsewhere in the house, accompanied by shouting and roaring. The concoction of sounds left a ringing in Michael's ears, obscuring any clear instructions from his comrades. He continued to crawl, a trail of blood left in his wake - Michael purposefully catching his foot on the side of the door to swing it closed, blocking the rifleman's line of sight on him. Another individual fired from a dark doorway at the back of the first room, a smaller but no less deadly gun in his hands. The shots forced the three standing lawmen back outside to the porch, the law and the criminals trading shots across the living room. Valencia turned the corner, pinning the new shooter down with his own barrage of shots, the patrol rifle's rounds pounding through the thin walls. 

It gave Grayson enough time to crawl his way over between the coffee table and couch, laying on his back down out of direct from from any of the doorways. In the distance, sirens roared to life as officers across the south end of the city rushed to respond to their fallen colleague. They'd arrive any moment, but as the saying always went - when seconds count, help is only minutes away. Shots continued to fly overhead from either side of the room, the differing sounds of each weapon dissipating into one pounding noise that was contributing to a growing agony in Grayson's head. The blood-loss was severe, and with each passing moment he was getting more and more lightheaded. The adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him conscious and alert, the body's in built survival mechanism allowing him to persevere beyond the norm - his right arm still clutching at his pistol. He couldn't crawl out now, he'd be shot in moments. He had to trust his colleagues would succeed and get him out. Moments continued to pass, the barrage of shots flying over and back pausing every few seconds as gunmen reconsidered their options and adjusted their aim. Through the smoke and dust to his left, Michael could see a figure advancing towards the front door, his weapon trained on the opening. Flashes of light from the muzzle of the firearm he carried accompanied the loud bangs, further outlining himself in the darker surroundings. It was enough for Grayson to raise his gun again, squeezing the trigger off three times.

The man stumbled from the shots, his gun briefly shooting into the ground before being dropped, accompanied by the criminal himself a few moments later. If he wasn't dead, he was dying, but either way, he was no longer a threat. The sound of shooting stopped, replaced instead by the quick, heavy footsteps of shoes and boots on a wooden floor. Around himself, Grayson could see Valencia and Howard, scrambling to grab him by the shoulders and legs. They shuffled out from between the couch and table as quick as they could, their long guns slung over their backs as they dragged Michael across the floor. As they neared the exit, the door to the room where it all went wrong opened once more, the man from the stairwell taking aim at the trio of lawmen from beyond Grayson's view. Shots rang out once more, two bullets clipping Howard in the back, sending him tumbling forward from his already hunched over position. A third shot struck Valencia right in the chest, sending him falling backwards, but he didn't let go of Michael's shoulder. On his back he scrambled out with the detective in tow, Moore leaning over from the doorway to assist in pulling both out of the line of fire. Howard quickly crawled forward, throwing himself down the broken and snapped porch steps and into the grass, away from the shooting. 

Outside, sirens continued to approach, as did the whirring sound of helicopter blades high up in the sky. A blinding spotlight approached, shining around the neighborhood before focusing on the house behind, dimming to the benefit of the officers on scene. A patrol car's tires screeched to a halt outside the house, haphazardly parked alongside the three original vehicles, its red and blue lights lighting up the street as its occupants quickly rushed up to the house, their own weapons drawn. Two, three more cars like it rounded the corner blocks down the street, rushing their way up to the scene. Valencia, who had composed himself following the shot he took, quickly ran to grab a medical kit from his own cruiser, ferrying it back up to where Michael lay. He wasted no time at all in applying a tourniquet to the mangled remaining arm, while Howard fished through the bag for an autoinjector, soon after pumping inaprovaline into Grayson. The damage was already severe, however, and with the adrenaline wearing off, consciousness was not easily being kept by the downed detective. An executive decision was made by two of the recent arrivals on the scene to use their patrol car to get him closer to hospital - to meet with the ambulance already on its way and transfer there. With the help of multiple officers, Grayson was carried down and laid out in the back of a cruiser, one officer sitting with him to keep pressure on the wound and look after him. 

As the car raced away from the shootout, the gunshots turning into distant pops as the sirens blared overhead, they passed by countless more police vehicles of all varieties - sedans, SUVs, motorcycles, unmarked vehicles, even units from other agencies, the Sheriffs and Highway Patrol, as well as the SWAT truck that had been dispatched. Before long, however, Grayson could no longer keep himself awake. The next period of time to him was of unknown length, his memories littered only with sporadic moments of lucidness. He could remember being buckled to a stretcher, being in the back of the ambulance as paramedics leaned over him, working away with a mask attached to his face. He could remember being rushed down the halls of a hospital, the rattling noise of the stretcher wheels against the ridges of doorframes in the halls adding to the headache he was suffering, as if that was chief among his problems. He could remember the bright light of a surgical theater, multiple people in scrubs and masks hurriedly working, right up until it all went black. 

Edited May 17, 2022 by Alfa1561