Brian knows he's in trouble the moment he hears the motorcycles in the distance.

Fuck it, he thinks. He's been in trouble since the moment they handed him that manila folder with Dom's picture inside. It's been one NOS-fueled trip downhill since then, and the real bitch of it is, he'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

The times he spent running with Toretto and his crew were some of the best of his life. And okay, yeah, maybe that's not saying much, but it means something to him. It means a whole lot of something.

That's probably why it hurts so much.

And it does. It really fucking hurts, in that way that makes him feel hollow and busted up, like he's been stripped down to his frame and scrapped for parts. He didn't lose everything – he's still got his badge, and he knows that's a damn miracle. But what he did lose…it meant a lot. He'd lost friends. He lost the closest thing he'd ever had to a family.

He lost Mia.

The thought has him downing the last of the beer he shouldn't be drinking – Tanner would be pissing fire if he found out, but Brian figures it's his fault he's there in the first place – even as the roar of motorcycle engines grows louder and closer.

He's lost her; that part's a done deal. But lately, he's started wondering if he ever really had her to begin with. They were convenient, he thinks, and he hates himself for it, but it's the truth. She was his way in; he was her way out. She gave him a way to get inside the Toretto orbit, and he was the only thing around her that seemed to rotate outside it.

That's not to say he didn't love her. Doesn't love her. Because he does. He really, really does. It's just not the right kind of love. When he can't sleep at night, and she worms her way into his thoughts, it's not loss he feels; it's guilt, and that doesn't fit.

The bikes are almost on him. He's pulled over on one of the cliff roads, looking out at the lights of the LA city night spread out below him. It's something he does a lot, now, when he's not working himself like a dog for the LAPD – "Detective" ain't just a name on a badge, it turns out, and they're making him work for every damn letter – or keeping up his cover (and his rent) over at Harry's. He likes to take drives, likes to get away from it all. The beach is a favorite, too. Hell, he figures he'd be there now.

Except he isn't here to relax tonight. He's here for business.

He can see headlights coming down the road, and there's a part of him that knows he should be getting his ass in his Skyline and booking it before it's too late. But the two beers he's had since he stopped make that part a little quieter, and he's got a job to do. He's not going anywhere.

It's not that he's suicidal. Seriously. He's never bought into that 'life's too hard; it's not worth living' bullshit, and he's sure as hell not gonna start now.

But he isn't scared, either. Not of these clowns. They're just some thugs trying to rise to the top of the Little Saigon totem pole, and it's his job to keep an eye on them.

Scared or not, though, his pulse quickens a bit as the bikes appear around the bend. They circle him, like fucking vultures or something, their engines still roaring so loud Brian can hardly hear himself think.

There's six of them.

He's still not scared.

The motors cut off, and Brian's grateful for that. He likes the roar of a four cylinder internal combustion engine as much as the next guy – hell, probably a little more – but six is fucking overkill, and he already has a headache.

All the crazy shit he's done, and he's pretty sure it's gonna be paperwork that kills him.

It's not all peace and quiet, though. He's got ten kinds of warning bells going off in his head as the guys start getting of their bikes, taking off their helmets. They're all wearing scowls, except for the one that's dead in front of him.

"I'm guessing you're Kevin."

The guy smirks, his almond eyes cinching up in a way that just screams 'dick'. And while his momma always told him not to judge a book by its cover, he's thinking this one's pretty dead on.

"You've heard of me," he says.

"Yeah, I've heard of you."

Of course he has, Brian thinks. The guy's name has been spreading around like a bad case of herpes. Kevin Yeung, cousin to Johnny Tran and new big man in Little Saigon. Rumor has it he's been pulling gigs all over. Heists, shootings, beatings…probably trying to make a name for himself.

Given his background with the Saigons and LA's underbelly, it's fallen – meaning it's been dumped like a steaming heap of shit – on Brian to tie him to some of it.

Kevin's smirk is even more venomous. "I've heard of you, too."

"Nothing too bad, I hope." He's playing with fire; he knows it. But he doesn't want to stop.

Kevin is not amused. "You're Toretto's little bitch," he spits. "I hear he turned you out on your lily white ass."

Brian knows he should be offended, and a little part of him probably is. But it's the same part of him that wanted to bolt when he heard the bikes, the same part that the beer's put on mute. And there's a much bigger part of Brian that's laughing his lily white ass off at this punk ass little Wasabi wannabe that thinks he can roll up with his crew acting tough and actually scare him.

It's just kinda funny.

He manages to keep it down to a small smile as he reaches down for another beer to crack open. "You been working on that a while, Kev? Say everything you wanted to say?" He takes a pull of his beer. "Because I didn't call you here to talk shit. I called you here to talk business."

"You think you're pretty cool, don't you, bitch?"

"It's actually Brian." He takes another swig, leaning back against the trunk of his car.

"It's actually whatever the fuck I say it is, because last time I checked, we've got you six to one." He starts walking forward, and the cop in Brian sees the gun on his hip, and by the time Kevin's within a few feet, Brian's already got ten scenarios in his head to how this is gonna play out. "I'm gonna make you pay for killing my cousin."

Because since when did things ever happen for Brian the easy way?

Kevin doesn't go for the gun; that, he thinks, would be too impersonal, too quick, and he wants to make this last. After all, what better way to make his name as Kingpin than by getting back at the guy that nixed the last one?

So, no, no guns. Not yet, anyway, which is good. He's not really keen on putting bullets in people, and he really doesn't want to explain in a report why he'd been drinking when he put couple holes in the new leader of the Little Saigon crew.

Kevin goes the much more standby route of a sharp right hook, which is easy enough to dodge, although some of his beer sloshes out over his hand. He's glad he's holding it in his left – it's not, by the way, coincidence – because his right hand's always been his dominant, so the punch he throws in retaliation would probably have hurt him more than it hurts Kevin.

That, luckily, is not the case. He feels knuckle collide with soft belly, and Kevin doubles over his fist. He doesn't stay that way for long, though; Brian gives him a shove to the shoulder while he's reaching for his toes that has him stumbling back.

Brian grins. This might not be so bad, after all. He needs to blow off some steam, and so far, Kevin's not posing much of a threat.

The guy manages to stop himself just short of kissing asphalt, which is kind of disappointing, but Brian figures he can work with it. It would be a drag if he went down that fast, anyway.

"Little bitch," Kevin seethes.

"Kinda old for name-calling, aren't we?" he takes another drink of his beer and flexes his hand. Gut shots don't really hurt that much, but he's pretty sure there's gonna be more fists flying before the night's out. It's with that in mind that he sits his beer down on the pavement beside him.

In hindsight, it was kind of stupid to think Yeung would agree to meet him just to talk.

"You sure bend over like one."

Brian stops. He's still squatting down, hand on the bottle that's now sitting on the pavement, and he tells himself he's thinking about what he's about to do. Six guys on one: shitty odds. And he knows Kevin ain't a pushover, even if he got in an easy shot on him. He's out on a road that no one's gonna come by, close to midnight, with only the headlights of his car and the six bikes to see by, and he's a few beers in. The beer-softened voice in his head – it's starting to sound an awful lot like Tanner – is ripping him a new one for putting himself in such a bad situation for the case, but the rest of him…

Eh, he figures he's had worse.

So, one second he's crouched, and the next he's sprinting, shoulders low, and tackling Kevin like a full-on fucking linebacker. He's pretty sure someone's shouting, and maybe it's him, but he doesn't really care.

Things pretty much go to hell from there.

He's got Kevin on the ground one second, and he was right; Kevin's no pushover. He's throwing elbows and fists and knees and everything he can into Brian's kidneys and ribs, but Brian doesn't let up. It feels good to just wail on someone, to just let go, and so what if it hurts a hell of a lot more to punch someone on the bony parts of their face than it does their stomach?

But then the attack gets new dimensions. There are hands on him, grabbing him, trying to drag him back. He spares an elbow for a second to catch one of them in the groin, and judging by the pained sort of yowl the guy lets out, he's not gonna have to worry about him for a little while.

Kevin's trying to worm out from under him, though, so Brian shifts his focus back to him. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, he hauls him up, off his elbows and off whatever traction he'd managed to gain, before slamming him back down with a fist to the nose.

He's pretty sure he's not going to be getting up for a while, either. He knows it's broken; he's happy with that. None of it's enough to kill the guy, but he'll be ugly for a little while, and maybe that'll teach him.

He's planning on leaving it at that. He's not in the business of putting people in the hospital to prove a point – he's seen where that road leads, and he's got enough shit to deal with as it is – so he really doesn't mind just letting him tuck tale and run.

Only, just as he's starting to stand—

Something hard connects with the back of his head, and the world goes white for a second. When it clears, he's on his hands and knees, and he's staring down at asphalt that's shining in the headlights. It's kind of weird, because he can almost see his reflection, and last time he checked, asphalt doesn't shine like that.

There's something wet on the back of his head, he realizes. Probably the same something wet that's on the ground, and he thinks he sees glass shards, but his visions kind of blurry.

He doesn't get long to think about it, anyway. Just when the world looks like it's gonna stop spinning out, he's literally lifted off his hands and knees by something hard and solid and fast colliding with his ribs. It's hard enough he lands on his back, and yeah, that was definitely glass, because he can feel it digging into his back, now.

Which doesn't seem that important, compared to the boot that's driving down into his ribs. He hopes he's just imagining the crunch, but the pain and pressure are all too real. There are bodies looming over him, he realizes. He needs to get up. Needs to get some leverage, some control back.

The next boot that lands just left of his sternum, he grabs between his arms. He rolls, still holding his foot – and that's a snap he knows he's not imagining – and the guy goes sprawling with a cry that, in Brian's opinion, shouldn't come from anything with a dick. It must be his lucky day, too, because he takes one of his buddies with him.

Scrambling to get his feet under him, Brian launches himself forward and up. He needs distance. The glass bites into his hands, into his knees, and it's worryingly hard to catch his breath, but he's up, and that's what matters.

He's barely had his feet under him two seconds when there's a knife swinging his direction. The guy's holding it wrong, though – blade inside rather than out, and it's easy enough to grab his wrist, twist, and catch the knife blade-out. Out of the goodness of his heart, he drops the guy with an elbow to the back instead of his newly-claimed weapon, and his rush at Brian has him just off balance enough that he skids forward.

Brian is on him in an instant. Because as good as it is to have a knife, there's something he wants considerably more. He drops his knee on the guy's back and reaches for his hip, and when he stands, he's got a gun. He could've gone for his own just as easy, he figures, but he's hoping he can maybe salvage some of his cover.

So, no, he uses the other guy's gun. He keeps his foot on his back, and the gun, he's leveled at Kevin who's managed to haul himself up with the help of one of his boys.

"Get out of here," Brian says, and he really doesn't like the way his voice is echoing in his own head. "Unless you guys want this to get ugly. Because I know for a fact I can drop at least three of you before you even get your guns out, and the odds aren't great for the rest getting off a shot." He's talking in his cop voice, he realizes. It would worry him, except he's pretty sure none of them are listening to him all that close.

The four still standing are looking at Kevin, their fearless and fucked up leader, and with a sort of unspoken agreement, they all make for their bikes.

"Get off me, bitch," snarls the guy Brian's half standing on.

Brian gives him a kick. "You're pretty fresh for a doormat." All the same, he lets the guy to his feet and watches him sprint to his bike to take off after his buddies.

He waits until the last taillight disappears around the mountain before he risks turning his back, and then, it's only to grab his beer.

It isn't there, he realizes with a frown. On the plus side, though, he figures at least he knows what they hit him with.

"Fucking wasteful." Gingerly, he squats down to recover his two-pack of beers. He's still got another six in the car, so it's not a total loss, but he thinks better of cracking open another one as he all but drops into the driver's seat. "Christ," he breathes, and he lets his forehead fall against the steering wheel. The adrenaline's still coursing, and he knows he needs to get going before it wears off, because then he's fucked.

So, he does. He puts the keys in the ignition, and he goes. His whole body screams bloody murder with every bump he hits in the road, and his vision's still not quite right, but he'll manage. Long enough to get where he's going, anyway.

He doesn't actually know where that is. At least, he doesn't have any place in particular in mind.

Which is why he's kind of surprised and, at the same time, kind of isn't when he pulls off to the side of the road in the one neighborhood he thought he'd never swing by again.

He's parked right outside the Toretto house. He has no idea why, but he is, and as soon as he kills the gas, he knows there's no way he's getting going again. There's sure as hell no way he can get his ass all the way to Harry's. He's too used up. His skin hurts; his bones hurt. Breathing, no surprise, hurts, and he's pretty sure the only thing keeping his eyes open is the steady throbbing of his heartbeat behind them.

For a single, stupid second, he actually thinks about dragging himself out of the car. Walking up to the door. Knocking. It's one in the morning, and he can imagine Mia in there, maybe Leon and Jesse, maybe even Vince, all sleeping soundly.

And Dom. Jesus, Dom. He's not sure whether the way his stomach turns is fear or…something else he can't quite place. They didn't have anything on him; Brian had made sure of that, wiping down both the Civics inside and out and covering all Dom's tracks until there weren't any left. It had kind of been his final 'fuck you' to the Bureau before they'd backed off.

So yeah, he'd covered for Dom. But he'd also betrayed him, and he wasn't sure how all that balanced out on the Toretto scale.

He's not willing to risk it. Besides, he made it a month and a half without them – made it his whole damn life without Dom and his crew; he can make it on his own just fine. He just…he needs to close his eyes for a little bit. Maybe a couple hours, and he'll leave. They won't even be awake yet, won't even notice his car sitting out on the road.

That's what he tells himself, anyway. It's enough for his busted up body and his dog-tired mind, and so he carefully shrugs on his jacket, reclines the seat, turns on his side – his back stings like a bitch, and his right ribs don't hurt as much as his left ones, so it works – and closes his eyes.

Just a few hours.

He'll be gone before morning.

Just a few hours….