Chapter 52: Duck Season
[Mid-Wilshire Station Parking Lot — July 18, 2019, 5:47 AM]
Jackson had agreed to be my accomplice for reasons ranging from "boredom" to "Tim called me 'West' dismissively last week and I'm still salty about it."
We worked fast in the pre-dawn darkness. Tim's shop car was parked in his usual spot—territorial to a fault, he'd claimed it months ago and nobody dared challenge him. The surrounding vehicles provided cover as we unloaded boxes from Jackson's trunk.
"This is a lot of ducks," Jackson whispered.
"Two hundred and seven. Bulk ordering had bonus items."
"Why rubber ducks specifically?"
"Psychological warfare." I opened the first box, began arranging ducks on the dashboard. "Tim has a thing about them. Don't ask."
"I'm absolutely asking later, but for now—" Jackson grabbed a handful of ducks, started filling the passenger seat. "How long until shift briefing?"
"Forty minutes. We need to be done in thirty."
We worked in efficient silence. Every surface inside Tim's car received ducks—dashboard, seats, floor mats, cup holders. The glove compartment. The center console. I'd even brought tiny ducks that could hang from the rearview mirror.
The giant duck went in the driver's seat, wearing the sunglasses I'd special-ordered. It sat there like a passenger waiting for its Uber, unflappable and absurd.
"This is art," Jackson said, stepping back to admire the result. "Pure, beautiful art."
"Art is subjective. Tim's going to call it something else."
"Tim's going to lose his mind." Jackson checked his phone. "Twenty-two minutes. We should get inside before someone sees us."
We retreated to the station, acting casual, pretending we hadn't just committed elaborate prank warfare on a superior officer's vehicle. The break room was empty—most people still in briefing or just arriving. I grabbed coffee, positioned myself near the window overlooking the parking lot.
And waited.
7:03 AM
Tim emerged from the station, gear bag over shoulder, moving toward his car with the purposeful stride of someone ready to start shift. From my position at the break room window, I had a perfect view.
He stopped three feet from the driver's door.
I watched his posture change—the confident walk halting, shoulders tensing, head tilting at the unmistakable angle of someone confronting the impossible.
Lopez appeared beside me, coffee in hand, clearly having been tipped off. "Is that—"
"Two hundred and seven rubber ducks. Yes."
Tim approached his car slowly, like approaching an unexploded bomb. He peered through the window. Stepped back. Peered again.
The parking lot had gathered an audience. Officers who'd been heading to their vehicles now stood frozen, watching the scene unfold. Someone pulled out a phone to record.
Tim opened the driver's door.
Ducks cascaded out, tumbling onto the asphalt in a wave of yellow rubber. The giant duck remained in position, sunglasses glinting in the morning light, supremely unbothered by the chaos surrounding it.
Tim picked up one of the fallen ducks. Examined it. Turned slowly, scanning the lot until his eyes found the break room window.
Found me.
I raised my coffee in salute.
Even from this distance, I could see his expression cycling through emotions—surprise, confusion, annoyance, and finally, grudging respect. He held up the duck, pointed at it, then pointed at me. A clear message: This isn't over.
I nodded agreement. I know.
Grey found us in the break room twenty minutes later. His face carried the particular weariness of a man who'd been managing children for too long.
"Mercer. Bradford. My office. Now."
We followed in silence. Tim still held one of the rubber ducks, apparently unwilling to let it go. The giant duck remained in his car—he'd cleared enough space to drive but hadn't removed it from the passenger seat.
Grey closed his office door, stood behind his desk, and took a long moment to compose himself.
"Balloons," he said.
"Sir—" I started.
"I'm not finished. Balloons. Rubber ducks. The glitter incident from six months ago that I'm still finding in unexpected places." Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is there anything else I should know about?"
"The prank war is ongoing," Tim said, with complete honesty. "This was retaliation for the balloons."
"Which was retaliation for the glitter."
"Which was retaliation for the fake spider in my locker," I added.
Grey stared at us both. "You're grown men. Trained officers. Representatives of the Los Angeles Police Department."
"Yes, sir."
"And you're filling each other's cars with rubber waterfowl."
"Two hundred and seven of them," Tim confirmed. "He was thorough."
"I'm proud of the quantity," I admitted.
Grey's eye twitched. Just slightly, but visibly. "I should write you both up. Conduct unbecoming. Misuse of department resources, since that car is technically LAPD property."
"Technically," Tim agreed.
"But I'm not going to." Grey sat heavily in his chair. "Because morale in this station has never been higher. Officers are actually looking forward to shifts, wondering what's going to happen next. The rookies are taking bets on who wins." He looked between us, expression softening marginally. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. The team is bonding over your ridiculousness."
"So we're not in trouble?" I asked.
"You're in minimal trouble. This meeting is the extent of your discipline." Grey waved toward the door. "Now get out. Both of you. And if anything escalates beyond harmless pranks—anything that affects operations, safety, or public perception—I will personally ensure you spend the rest of your careers directing traffic at school crossings."
We left his office, walked down the hallway in silence.
"That went better than expected," I said.
"Grey likes chaos more than he admits." Tim looked at the duck still in his hand, then at me. "This isn't over, boot."
"I know."
"That duck thing was... inspired. I'll give you that."
"High praise from the balloon master."
Tim almost smiled. Almost. "Next round's mine. Start sleeping with one eye open."
"Looking forward to it."
We separated at the hallway junction—him toward his duck-filled car, me toward the locker room. The war would continue, escalating in ridiculous ways neither of us could predict.
But underneath the pranks, something real was growing. Brotherhood expressed through absurdity. Trust built on shared laughter. The kind of bond that only formed when two people were comfortable enough to fill each other's lives with rubber ducks.
I checked my phone. Emma had texted: Heard about the ducks. You're both children and I love it.
Tim's response in the group chat: For the record, I'm keeping three of them. They're kind of cute.
The prank war was far from over.
But the friendship it was building? That was already won.
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