Chapter 5-6 - The Rookie: Former Seal

Chapter 5 – Languages of Silence

September 18, 2015 – 10:38 AM

City Car 7-Adam-15 – South Los Angeles Precinct

The morning was starting out hot. The sky was such a clear blue it looked hand-painted. Traffic followed its familiar, chaotic rhythm along the wide avenues, while the city pulsed under the relentless late-summer sun. Inside the car, the air conditioning hummed low, blending with the sound of the patrol car radio, which for now merely hissed in the background, waiting for its moment to explode with its usual urgency.

Angela Lopez drove with the practiced calm of someone who has been through too many situations to be impressed by the din of everyday life. Beside her, as he had been for the past few days, Derek Davis maintained impeccable posture. His arms rested on his knees, his eyes alert to the surroundings. No conversation. No distractions.

"You know, you should try to be a little more... sociable." Angela said, casting a sidelong glance.

"Is that a suggestion or an order, TO?"

She laughed. "It's a warning. If you keep quiet like that, the others will think you're a secret agent waiting for activation."

"I've had my share of secret missions," he replied, without taking his eyes off the street.

Angela turned right, approaching a small park in the Jefferson area. A crowd gathered on the sidewalk in front of a low-rise apartment building. A Hispanic woman gestured excitedly as she talked on the phone. Beside her, a family—visibly immigrant—stood back, watching with confused and frightened looks.

"There's something there," Angela murmured, slowing down.

She pulled the patrol car to the curb and they both got out. The heat from the asphalt rose like an invisible wall.

"LAPD! What's going on here?" Angela said, walking toward the crowd.

The woman put down the phone and pointed to the others.

"They... they were in the building, trying to get into one of the apartments. They don't speak English, I think they're Afghans or something! I called because it seemed like they were lost, but who knows..."

Derek approached, his eyes already focused on the family: a man with a short beard, dark skin, and Asian features, with a woman beside him holding a child in her arms and another beside her, about ten years old. They were all dressed in simple, clean clothes, but they seemed completely out of place. There was fear in the man's eyes. Distrust. And a deep discomfort with the situation.

The man said something quickly, pointing to the building, but his words were incomprehensible to the others. Derek frowned. Something about the sound was familiar. The structure of the words, the cadence.

He took a step forward. He looked at the man directly and said:

"Za so LAPD yam. Za taso sara madad kawalay sham."

("I'm from the LAPD. I can help you.")

The impact was immediate.

The man's eyes widened. The woman stared at him as if she'd seen a ghost. The small girl squinted in confusion, then gave a shy smile.

"Taso Pashto wai?" the man replied hopefully.

("Do you speak Pashto?")

Derek nodded with a tiny smile. He replied calmly:

"Bale. Zma num Derek de. Zama sara tolow ba asan she."

("Yes. My name is Derek. With me, everything will be fine.")

Angela watched with her mouth slightly open. She glanced at the Hispanic woman, then back at Derek, as if she'd missed part of the conversation.

"Wait a minute... you speak Pashto?"

Derek didn't look away from the family, keeping in touch with his father, explaining that they were there to help, asking if they were looking for anyone, if they needed assistance.

Gradually, their expressions softened. The woman said something in a low, sad tone. Derek paused, then turned to Angela.

"They were brought by a relative, a translator who worked with the American forces. He disappeared two days ago. They came here because of an address written on a piece of paper. They were trying to see if the apartment was his."

Angela sighed. "Someone saw strange people trying to enter a building and called the police. They didn't know how to ask, how to explain..."

"Exactly."

"And you... you speak Pashto. Fluent."

Derek nodded. "I learned it in the field, then studied it more on my own. I helped with negotiations with villages, civil reconciliations. I was essential in counterterrorism missions."

Angela shook her head, as if adding that information to a pile that was already too high.

"You're like a human Swiss Army knife, aren't you?"

Derek looked at her for a second and, for the first time, smiled lightly, without his usual stiffness.

"I do what I can."

Angela approached the family, and Derek introduced them, explaining that they would try to contact immigration services and look for the missing translator. Then, they instructed the family to wait with a social worker who had already been called to the scene.

11:57 – Police car, moving

Angela still looked impressed

"Okay, let's go. You speak English—obviously. Pashto, fluent. Any other linguistic surprises?"

"I speak Spanish. I grew up hearing it in the neighborhood. And Russian. I learned it during a mission in the Caspian Sea."

Angela snorted, laughing. "Of course. Because learning Russian in a weekend is super normal."

"It wasn't in a weekend. It took six months. With instructors. Intensive."

She shook her head.

"You... have a strange... intelligence."

"I'm not a genius. I've just been trained to learn quickly."

Angela stared at him for a few seconds, then said:

"Okay. Now it's my turn. I speak Spanish, obviously. And English. That's it. And sometimes I get the plural of 'cactus' wrong."

Derek laughed. A dry sound, but real.

"Cactuses? Cacti?"

— "I just point and say 'that thorny plant.'"

The silence that followed was comfortable. They both chuckled, until Angela said, more seriously:

— "You're the kind of guy who, in another context, would be feared. But here, you're becoming... part of the machine."

— "That's what I want. I'm not my training. I'm what I do with it."

Angela thought for a moment. Then let out a sigh.

— "Okay. Last question of the day: what's your favorite language?"

Derek was silent for a few seconds.

— "The silence."

She looked at him, surprised. But then she smiled.

— "Poetic, soldier. Poetic."

2:03 PM – Police Station Database

Back at the station, Angela was typing on the terminal, cross-referencing data on the Afghan translator's disappearance. Derek, beside her, was scanning the reports with quick eyes. There was something disturbing about the details. The man, Sami Noor, had applied for asylum in 2014, which was approved in 2015. He had been living in LA for six months. Last contact with his family: three days ago.

"He left to pick up a colleague at the airport and never returned. His car was found in a parking lot near downtown."

"This isn't abandoning his family," Derek said. "Something happened. I'll try to use contacts with veterans who might know him. He translated for Seal Team Two in Kandahar; I was there before I went to Helmand."

Angela stared at him.

"You're really willing to get involved, huh?"

Derek nodded.

"If there's one thing I learned from war... it's that we don't abandon those who trust us."

Angela typed again, eyes fixed on the screen, then murmured:

"Then let's bring him back."

End of shift – 7:22 PM

As they left the police station, the city was still bustling. The lights came on one by one, like an organism awakening in the dark.

Angela and Derek walked together to the parking lot. He adjusted his watch, as he did every day. Always to the same second.

"You're a polyglot, a tactical operator, a strategy reader, a pop fan... and now also a detective."

"Just a cop. In training."

She laughed, unlocking the car.

"Let me ask you something, Davis..."

He looked at her curiously.

"Do you know how to make tacos al pastor?"

He was silent. Then he answered:

"No. But I can learn. I have a good memory for instructions."

Angela smiled, opening the car door.

"Now that's a useful skill."

And that late afternoon, under the yellow light of the streetlights, as cars passed along the noisy avenue, Angela had a silent certainty: she wasn't just training a good police officer. She was getting to know a rare human being made of many layers, many languages… and much more than met the eye.

Chapter 6 – Voices That Fall Silent

September 19, 2015 – 7:04 AM

Mid-Wilshire Police Station – Angela Lopez's Desk

The noise of the start of the shift mingled with the low hum of computers and the muffled voices of officers greeting colleagues with lazy nods and half-empty cups of coffee. The atmosphere at the station was as usual: somewhere between tiredness and readiness, with the feeling that the city never sleeps and its protectors don't have the right to close their eyes completely.

Angela Lopez typed frantically on the keyboard at her desk while absently chewing on a protein bar. Beside her, Derek Davis maintained his usual impassive expression, watching the data on the monitor. The screen displayed the medical record of Sami Noor, the missing Afghan translator. Last recorded contact: a quick call to a colleague's number, letting him know he was going to pick him up at the Burbank airport.

But he never arrived.

"I already checked his cell phone's call history. The last call lasted only 18 seconds," Angela said, frowning. "After that, the phone was turned off."

"Or destroyed," Derek added, his voice deep and thoughtful. "Or confiscated."

"The patrol car that responded to the abandoned vehicle report reported that the car was locked, with no signs of forced entry. His wallet was found in the glove compartment. Documents, cash, everything."

"That rules out robbery as the primary motive."

Angela nodded, rubbing her chin.

"What about the parking lot security camera?"

"I already asked the tech center. They're trying to pull up footage from the two days before the vehicle was found. It should be ready this afternoon."

Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on the screen as if he could decipher the disappearance with just the intensity of his gaze.

— "The car was in a private parking lot. Four blocks from where he said he'd drop off his friend. It's not the most direct route from the airport. Why would he detour?"

— "Maybe... he met someone along the way?" Angela looked at him. "You said he worked with the SEALs. Could some enemy from his past have crossed his path here?"

Derek was silent for a few seconds, weighing the hypothesis.

— "It's unlikely. But not impossible."

— "What if he was being followed?"

— "Then we need to find out by whom."

9:25 AM – North Hills Neighborhood – Reza Wazir's Residence

The house was simple, with a unkempt front yard and a faded American flag attached to a rusty pole. Derek knocked on the worn wooden door. A thin man with coal-black hair and deep-set eyes answered.

— "Mr. Wazir?"

— "It's me."

Derek stepped forward.

"My name is Derek Davis, LAPD. This is my TO, Angela Lopez. We're investigating the disappearance of Sami Noor. We were told he was supposed to meet you at the Burbank airport three days ago."

Reza sighed, visibly shaken. His shoulders slumped a little.

"I'm the friend. But... I couldn't board. A connection problem in New York. I tried to tell Sami, but he didn't answer."

"Did you know if he had other commitments that day?" Angela asked.

"Not that I knew. I just know he was trying to get another job. He said there were people at the Afghan consulate he was communicating with. But he also mentioned threats. He thought he was being followed."

"Did he mention names? Any contacts?" Derek persisted.

Reza shook his head. — "No. It just said, 'Not everyone wants to see Afghans here.' I thought it was paranoia... but now..."

Derek saw the fear in the man's eyes. It wasn't just concern for his friend. It was something deeper. A memory of persecution. An echo of war.

— "Do you have a record of his emails? Or any contact information from the consulate?"

Reza hesitated.

— "I have... on my laptop. He used my Wi-Fi sometimes. Maybe the history is saved."

Angela and Derek entered, and Reza led them to the small room where an old Lenovo laptop sat on a small wooden table.

Derek deftly took over the keyboard. He searched through the email history. He found an address that repeated several times: "[email protected]"

— "Dr. Ahmad Najafi. He's based in Los Angeles."

Angela was already pulling out her cell phone to schedule a visit.

"Let's talk to this guy today."

11:57 AM – Afghan Consulate – Pico Boulevard

The consulate was small and discreet, tucked between an import store and a Lebanese bakery. A receptionist led them to the second floor, where Dr. Najafi greeted them with formality and courtesy. A man with a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a dark suit, his eyes flickering between distrust and diplomacy.

"Yes, I know Sami Noor," Najafi said, sitting behind his glass-topped desk. "He contacted me twice in the last few months. He wanted help bringing his sister here. He talked a lot about security. He was afraid of retaliation from his compatriots."

Angela leaned in.

"Retaliation for what?"

"He translated for American forces. In some Afghan diaspora communities, that's still seen as treason. Even here."

Derek frowned. "Did he mention any names?"

"No. But he told me a man named Masoud sometimes followed him. He said he saw him in markets, at prayers, always at a measured distance."

"Do you know who this Masoud is?" Angela asked, writing on her pad.

Najafi hesitated. "There's a Masoud Gul, who lives in South Gate. A former member of a civilian militia. They say he fled Afghanistan after clashes with NATO forces."

Derek shifted in his chair. His eyes hardened.

"If it's the same man, and if he recognized Sami... this could be personal."

Angela stood up.

— "Let's find this Masoud."

2:14 PM – South Gate – Afghan Flame Restaurant

The small Afghan restaurant sat on a block of shops and family-run establishments. Simple tables, the smell of spices, and customers chattering softly in Pashto and Dari. Derek and Angela entered discreetly, their name tags visible but maintaining a neutral posture.

The waitress recognized the name.

— "Masoud works in the kitchen. Hold on a minute."

Moments later, a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard appeared in the kitchen doorway. His eyes narrowed when he saw Derek. Instant recognition. Masoud hesitated.

Derek saw the microgesture—the tension in his shoulders, the weight shifting back on his leg.

— "Mr. Gul, we need to ask you some questions about Sami Noor."

Masoud didn't answer. Instead, he ran into the kitchen.

— "He's going to run!" Derek shouted, pulling out his radio.

They ran to the back of the restaurant. Masoud jumped out a back window. Angela followed him around the side. Derek jumped out the same window, landing nimbly in the dirty alley.

"Stop! LAPD!"

Masoud ran. Derek sped after him, breathing steady, his steps precise. I caught up to him at the alley's exit, immobilizing him with a swift, technical rear-naked choke. He struggled for a few seconds before giving in.

Angela arrived seconds later, handcuffing him.

"You ran, Masoud. That doesn't seem like an innocent person."

7:47 PM – Mid-Wilshire Police Station – Interrogation Room

Masoud kept his gaze fixed on the table. His hands trembled.

"I followed him. Yes. Because he lied. He translated for whoever bombed my village. My brother died in that attack. Sami knew that."

"You threatened him?"

— "I never spoke to him. I just wanted him to know we remembered. But... he disappeared before I could do anything."

Derek stared at him for a long moment. Then he looked at Angela.

"He's telling the truth. That... that's something else."

Angela nodded. The search would continue.

But now they knew something important:

Sami Noor didn't disappear by accident.

Someone wanted him silenced.

And Derek Davis didn't intend to let that silence win.

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5-6