Peyton’s heart kicked against her ribs and she felt light headed.
He held up his hands, his dark eyes widening. “Easy there, sparky.”
Peyton swallowed and forced herself to draw a calming breath. “I didn’t hear you.”
“Sorry.” He glanced at the files, then back into her eyes. “Sarge says to get you signed up for self-defense training and to take you for target practice.”
“I got self-defense training in Quantico.”
“Yep. Let’s go.” He turned and walked to the door, stepping outside.
Peyton scrambled to follow him.
Wandering around the cubicle jungle, he headed for the elevators with Peyton jogging to keep up with him. Then they took the elevator down two floors and got out. Crossing a non-descript hallway, Carlos opened a door and let them into a gym. Weights, stationary bikes, and other torture devices covered the floor.
Two doors on the back wall sported signs, indicating Men and Women. Carlos pointed at them.
“Go change and meet me over there.” His hand swung to the left, indicating an open area covered in mats and ringed with mirrors. A couple of men were sparing, wearing loose black pants and white tank tops, their feet bare.
“We’re going to work out now?” Peyton asked.
“Yep.” And he took off for the men’s locker room without looking back.
Peyton sighed and followed after him. The locker room sported a row of lockers, a set of showers, and three stalls for toilets. A wall of mirrors hung above the sinks, reflecting the entire room to the door.
Walking down the row of lockers, Peyton discovered they had names on them. The one at the very end had a paper label with her last name on it. She pulled it open and found a pair of pants, a white tank top inside, and a pair of soft soled slippers.
She really wasn’t looking forward to this, but it was slightly better than reading files, so she shucked her clothes and gun, tugging on the training uniform. Then she stuffed everything in the locker and shut the door. She’d have to get a lock tonight. For now, this would have to do.
She came out of the locker room, glancing around, and found Carlos already stretching on the mats. The other two men had left, so they were alone. She hurried over and began the stretching exercises they’d taught her in Quantico.
After that was finished, Carlos positioned himself across from her. “We’ll just try a few moves to start. Nothing too strenuous.”
She nodded and rose on the balls of her feet, trying to tamp down on the anxiety this training always elicited in her. Carlos feinted at her and she dodged him, then he turned and aimed a kick at her shoulder. She deflected it and danced back.
“Good,” he said.
She ignored the praise, not lowering her guard. She’d learned that lesson the hard way in Quantico. The minute they praised her, she dropped her guard and they sent her sprawling on her ass.
He came at her again and she deflected a blow to the body, then one to the head, but before she could get away, he aimed a kick at her knee. She managed to deflect that as well.
Backing away from him, she drew a deep breath. Her heart was pounding and black spots were starting to form in her peripheral vision. She hated this. She hated the panic that always rose inside of her whenever she trained.
Drawing a deep breath, she deliberately held it, then slowly released, reaching for an artificial calm.
He came at her again. This time the blows rained faster, angling in at her on all sides, but she deflected them. Anger edged to the surface and she went after him, striking out with the heel of her hand and catching him in the chin. His head snapped back and he danced away, but she kept after him, aiming a blow against his hip. He turned it, but he had to stagger back to get away from her. She followed him, punching at his nose. He deflected it at the last minute, but she was already striking with her other fist, catching him on the ear.
“Okay, okay!” he shouted, circling wide around her and holding up his hands.
Peyton staggered to a stop, her chest heaving, tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.
He rubbed his ear, giving her a piercing look. “You have PTSD.”
She closed her eyes, fighting for composure.
“How the hell did you get past the psych eval?”
“I told them I had it, and they knew I was working on it. I was under a psychiatrist’s care the entire time I was in Quantico and ultimately, they decided that I handled myself with great restraint.”
“Meaning what?”
“I only killed the perp in my last case once.”
He barked out a laugh. “All righty then.” He rolled his shoulders and straightened. “Let’s see how you are with a gun.”
The firing range was in the basement. They rode the elevator in silence, still wearing their training gear. He hadn’t even given her time to fix the stray curls that had escaped her bun when he sent her to get her gun from her locker.
An attendant inspected their badges, handed them practice bullets, ear protection and safety glasses, then motioned them through to a booth. Peyton replaced the clip in her gun, settling it on the shelf, then put the glasses and the ear protectors on and braced her feet. Drawing a deep breath, she released it and picked up the gun, firing at the target. She emptied the clip and lowered the gun, tugging off her ear protection.
Carlos punched the button to advance the target and they both inspected her aim. Peyton felt proud of her score.
“Nearly 85% in the kill zone.”
Carlos lifted his brows, then motioned for her to put on her ear protection again. She slipped it in place as he moved to the target next to hers. Narrowing his eyes, he raised his gun and fired.
Peyton’s lips parted in awe. She could see most of his shots went through the center of the target, sliding through the same hole the previous bullet had made. He emptied his clip and pulled off the ear protection, then punched the button to advance the target.
Peyton removed her own ear protection and the glasses, leaning forward to see better. Every single shot had struck inside the kill zone, most in the center of the body. They weren’t kidding when they named him Radar.
Carlos smiled as he inspected his work. “Gotta be 100%, sparky.”
Peyton’s eyes whipped to his face. “Oh, no, you’ve called me that twice. That is so not going to be my nickname.”
He gave a chuckle.
Setting her gun on the shelf, she turned toward him. “How did you know?”
“Know what?”
“About my PTSD. Did Sarge tell everyone?”
He shook his head.
“Then how?”
He motioned to his own eyes. “You got that look, you know? Little vacant, absent, like an animal that’s being hunted.”
“I’m sorry I hit you.”
“Not a problem, just surprised me. Didn’t know a little thing like you could pack such a wallop.” He leaned close to her. “I won’t be taken by surprise again, though, sparky.”
She smiled, feeling a flush of pride. She still didn’t like the nickname, but she definitely liked the praise.
* * *
Peyton unlocked the door to her house and stepped inside, expecting Pickles, her Yorkshire terrier, to race over to her, but he wasn’t in the living room. She took off her gun and hung it by the door, then settled her keys and badge on the sofa table.
Marco was home. His beloved black Charger was parked in the driveway, the cover over it. He took better care of that car than anything else he owned. When she’d completed her training, he’d gotten her a Toyota Prius. She loved her little economical car, but it didn’t get a special cover or the coveted spot in the driveway closest to the front door.
Walking toward the hallway, she hesitated in the bedroom doorway. Pickles lay on the bed, but he jumped to his feet, wagging his tail when he saw her. Marco sat on the end of the bed, rubbing his left thigh. His cane stood next to him.
He looked up.
She crossed to him, bend
ing to place a kiss on his cheek. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He fixed his hands on her hips and pulled her between his legs. “How was your day?”
“Boring. How was yours?”
He slid his hands up her back, pulling her closer. “It just got better.”
“Is your leg hurting you?”
He shrugged. “A little.”
“When do you see the doctor next?”
“Friday.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“It’s fine. I’ve just been on it a lot more the last two days.”
She braced her hands on his shoulders. “Abe called today. He wants to come over on Friday and show us his wedding plans.”
“Okay.”
“I thought I’d call Jake and see if he wants to come for dinner too. Unless you want to tell him.”
“You want me to ask Jake for dinner?”
“You work with him.”
Marco gave her an arch look. “You want me to ask another man to come over for dinner?”
Peyton laughed. “It’s not a big deal.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Shesh.” Pickles pushed his way under Marco’s arm and she picked him up, cuddling him. “I thought I’d make stir fry tonight. You hungry?”
“I’m okay. I thought maybe we’d do something else right now.” He reached for the buttons on her blouse.
She stepped out of his hold. “I’m hungry, so you’re gonna have to wait.”
He rolled his eyes.
She kissed Pickles on the top of his head and handed him to Marco. Then she went to the closet and pulled out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, going into the bathroom to change. No use getting him more worked up.
“So what did you do today?” he called to her.
“Went over more files, then had a self-defense session and target practice with Radar.”
“Radar, huh?”
“Yeah, apparently it’s an appropriate nickname. He scored 100%.”
“Huh.”
Peyton stepped out of the bathroom.
“What was your score?”
“85%.”
“Not bad.”
“That’s what I thought.” She hung her suit in the closet. Her closet sported a lot more black pantsuits than she’d ever thought she’d own. “What did you do?”
“Held a meeting and then Holmes asked for your job.”
“Holmes?” She made a face.
“Hey, he says he misses you.”
She closed the closet door. “Come on. You wanna help me chop vegetables?”
“Sure.” He settled Pickles on the floor.
Peyton followed the dog to the door, then looked back at Marco.
She was surprised when he reached for the cane and used it to lever himself upright. He never used the cane around the house anymore. Rather than watch him struggle, she went to the kitchen and began pulling the vegetables out of the refrigerator and piling them on the counter.
He took a seat on the other side of the counter and she passed him the cutting board and a knife, then she pulled open the cabinet by the sink and grabbed her wok. Her eyes chanced on the empty shot glass, sitting in the sink, and she frowned. It hadn’t been there this morning.
Giving him a quick glance, she tried to rationalize it. So he had a drink when he came home. Up until six months ago, she usually had a beer when she walked through the door. It wasn’t that big of a deal, especially since he was using the leg more than he had in a long while. He wouldn’t take the pain pills they gave him, so a shot of Jack seemed like the lesser of two evils.
Grabbing a head of broccoli, she washed it. “So besides Holmes asking for my job, what else did you do today?” She passed him the broccoli and moved toward Pickles’ food bowl.
“I already fed him.” He picked up the knife and began cutting the broccoli.
Peyton exhaled, letting some of the tension leave her. He must not be hurting that bad, if he remembered to take care of Pickles. “And he went out?”
“Yep.”
That was even better news. Pickles needed to walk for at least a block before he’d do his business.
She went back to the counter and leaned on it, crossing her arms. “You didn’t answer me. What else did you do?”
He gave her a curious look. “Why the third degree?”
“I just want to know. I miss the precinct.”
He went back to cutting. “There really isn’t much to do right now. We don’t have a case and even if we did, I’m not sure what I’d be doing while they were out working it.” He set the knife down. “Are we sure we don’t want to go back to the islands?”
She sighed. “I have to admit the best part of my day was tagging Radar in the jaw. I don’t know. I guess we just have to get used to our new lives. We can’t exactly be partners again.”
He nodded.
“Unless you want to change this part of our lives.”
He reared away from her. “Whenever you say things like that, my heart damn near stops.”
She laughed and grabbed a broccoli floweret, popping it in her mouth. “Don’t worry, then,” she said, pushing away from the counter. “One thing you can definitely count on – there’s bound to be a murder soon.”
“Well, then, all my problems are over,” he quipped.
CHAPTER 3
By the time Marco sat down across from Dr. Ferguson, the precinct psychiatrist, his leg felt like someone was shoving hot needles into it. He tried to keep his face neutral, but it was difficult. He hooked the cane over the arm of the chair and extended the leg, pressing his knuckles against his thigh muscles to ease the ache.
He knew the doctor watched him, but he wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to say about it.
“You’re in pain.”
Marco glanced up at him. Really? This is what a six digit education bought you. “Yeah. My left thigh’s pretty much hamburger meat over a steel rod.”
Dr. Ferguson steepled his fingers and pressed them beneath his lower lip. He always wore perpetually out of date suits that didn’t fit him right and his blond hair was thinning on top. He had a set of watery blue eyes that seemed to pierce through to the heart of his patients. Marco had been under his scrutiny many times before. “Is the pain worse?”
“Yeah, because you made me walk five freakin’ blocks to get here.” Marco lowered his head and closed his eyes, drawing a calming breath. “Can we not talk about my leg, please?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t really care.”
“Okay. How’s the new job?”
Marco gave him a withering stare. He didn’t want to talk about the new job either. Shit. He didn’t want to talk about anything. “It’s fine.”
“Fine.”
“What’s wrong with fine?”
“It’s a signal word.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s not fine. We use euphemisms like fine to avoid what’s really bothering us.”
Marco held up a hand and let it fall. “Okay, it’s not fine. I hate it. We don’t have a case and I don’t know what to do with myself all day.”
“You mean you don’t have a murder.”
“Right.”
Dr. Ferguson tapped his fingers against his lips. “Interesting.”
Marco gave a bark of laughter. “I know what that means. To you it must seem gruesome that we don’t know what to do with ourselves when someone isn’t dead, but that’s our job. We solve murders.”
“And so you look forward to the next one?”
“No.” Marco shifted in the chair. “You can’t possibly understand. There are times like this when there’s a lull, when we don’t have a case. We dream of these times. We long for them. We want to believe that there won’t be any more murder, but the longer the period of quiet goes on, you start feeling…” He made a fist near his belly. “...anxious. You know it’s coming and you know you’re going to feel that punch in your gut when it happens.”
Dr. Fe
rguson nodded. “That makes sense. There must be a moment when you wonder if you can go through it all again.”
“Yeah, but then the training kicks in and everything hones down to a focus. You go right into that mode – clinical, professional, purposeful. Except now…” Marco caught himself. Shit. This wasn’t where he wanted to go with this guy. He looked past him out the windows.
Of course, Ferguson caught the slip. “Except now?”
Marco curled his hand into a fist on his thigh. “Except now when that case comes in, I won’t be going out with them. I’ll be staying at the precinct.”
Dr. Ferguson leaned back in his office chair.
Marco picked at a seam on his suit pants, avoiding eye contact. He hadn’t wanted to give that much of himself away, but there it was and now it hung between them like a God damn bomb about to go off.
The silence stretched away. Marco fidgeted in the chair, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to end it himself. He’d sit here for the remainder of the hour until Ferguson released him before he’d give him anything else.
The doctor rocked forward in his chair and reached for the pen resting on the yellow legal pad he kept on the table. He wrote a few notes, then settled the pen on the pad again.
“Captain D’Angelo, here’s what I’m seeing. You are what we call an alpha male. Are you familiar with the term?”
Marco glanced up at him. “Yeah.”
“In the animal kingdom, alpha males are the ones who procreate, passing on their genetic material to the greatest number of willing recipients, then they fight to maintain their virility. In modern society, however, beta males have also earned the right to procreate. Take myself for example.” He made an attempt at a smile.
Marco frowned.
Clearing his throat, he rolled the pen on the pad. “Therefore, in modern society, alpha males have been relegated to certain professions.” He held up his hand and began ticking things off on his fingers. “Cop, soldier, professional athlete, politician, CEO. Are you following me?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“These are all socially acceptable outlets for such testosterone laden individuals. The problem arises when such men age or are injured, and can no longer utilize the same outlet for their aggressive tendencies.”
Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 3
