“SWAT’s not like the academy.”
Jonesy smirked. “See? You’re learning already. The point, is I think you have what it takes. You were shot, but instead of tucking your tail between your legs and quitting to go be an accountant, you chose to put in extra hours. That shows resolve.”
They ran drills together after that and he set the house up with different scenarios. It was way more useful to her than her doing it on her own. For starters, she didn’t know where every hostile would be. Plus, with him beside her, every mistake she made was corrected with enough profanity to make her remember to not do it again.
“For fuck’s sake, Red. Don’t kick a door open and simply stand there. Are you waiting for some asshole to give you another one?”
“Jesus Christ on the cross, do you think every damn person without a gun is innocent? You were shot in the back by an old lady packing heat in her purse. And don’t give me that ‘she was an old lady,’ shit. I’ve seen any number of men shot by old bitches. If you bust in somewhere, you make sure every damn person gets on the fucking floor. But don’t let her break her hip in the process.”
“That was a test, and you fucking failed. If you find a suspicious package with wires sticking out of it, you don’t go MacGyver on that shit. You call Hernandez in.”
After each drill, they’d do it again. Jonesy really seemed to know what he was doing because he worked in each mistake she’d made to another drill but never the one immediately following. As a result, she had to continually absorb his profanity-laced advice and apply it not only to the next mission but all the following ones.
They worked that way for a few hours until he claimed she had begun to lag, although she’d seen him panting when they’d descended the stairs of the apartment block.
“Let’s call this shit a night. Your form’s starting to slip, and you need to be fresh for tomorrow. Go drink some water and get to bed.”
“Do you want to go get some food?” Kristen asked.
“Ain’t nowhere gonna be open this late.”
“I was thinking White Castle. I skipped dinner.”
He looked at her for a moment and finally shrugged. “Sure, let’s do it, but don’t order any fucking French fries. That shit’s only fat and carbs. Get a couple of burgers if you’re hungry. I learned that shit from watching that fat-ass Butterball. He’s practically made of French fries and soda. Eat lunch with him for a week and it’ll change your life.”
She nodded sagely as if this advice were every bit as valuable as how to properly sweep a building for hostiles.
They caravanned to the nearest White Castle—she had noticed one on the way over and had thought about it for way too long—ordered their food at the drive-through, and drove a few more blocks until they looked out across the Detroit River at the lights of Canada’s illuminated skyline.
“Holy shit, you really took my advice,” he said as he sat on the curb beside her. He took two burgers from his bag.
Kristen had ordered eight. “I get hungry.”
The man nodded and looked like he wanted to say something else, but when she began to virtually inhale her food, he shut up. Still, it was obvious from his face that he’d never seen a woman eat the way she did. She merely smiled. At least in that particular way, she would always be a Hall. No one could eat faster than her family—no one.
“It’s weird to think that across that water is a country that’s not run by humans,” she said.
Her companion shrugged. “Eh. Our country is hardly run by humans, at least that’s what I think. The fucking dragons have pulled our strings for centuries without us even knowing it. At least in Canada, it’s common knowledge that the dwarves are in control. I think the weird part is that right now, we’re looking south across a river into Canada.”
She glanced at Jonesy, who munched busily on his second burger. By this point, she had already eaten five. “Jones, thank you for this. Seriously, I really mean it.”
He shook his head and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “I’m not trying to get into your pants or anything, Red, so calm the fuck down. I don’t even like you—fucking upshot academy geek who thinks she can simply walk in here and join my damn team—but well, I’m a cop too, right? I’m only doing my part to make sure you don’t get anyone killed.”
“Well, whatever your motivation, it means a lot to me.”
His expression frozen in a half-scowl, he lobbed the last bite of his burger into the river. “I’ll get the fuck out of here before this shit gets any more like a goddamn Hallmark special. And look—don’t call me Jones, okay? Everyone’s gonna start thinking we’re friends or some shit. Call me Jonesy like the rest of those assholes.”
“You got it, Jonesy.”
Even that seemed to be too heartfelt for him as he only sneered once more at her, slid into his car, and drove away.
Kristen smiled before she started on her next burger. The man was a grouch, but he wouldn’t have bothered if he didn’t care. And if he believed in her, she knew she could do this.
Now, if she could only get Hernandez off her case…
Chapter Eleven
Drew burst into the lounge and his precipitous entry made those who’d already drunk their coffee jump. Those who hadn’t scowled. “All right, everyone. Strap your boots on and get to the van. We have a bomb threat.”
“Fuck, yes!” Hernandez pumped her fist in the air.
Kristen had completed a few days of high-intensity training and Jonesy had appeared every night to help her. This would be her first contact with hostiles since she’d been shot.
“Who’s under threat?” the skinny sergeant asked. He’d yet to have his coffee. “Because it might help them to think about how badly they need SWAT for an extra five minutes.”
“A payday loan place. There’s been a hotrod seen nearby, so we think it might be the Breaks again, even though this shit doesn’t fit their MO. Why are you still standing? If you need coffee, take it black and get in the fucking van. If you’re not loaded up in ninety seconds, I’ll replace everything in this room with decaf. Now move.” Their team leader’s tone brooked no argument.
Everyone complied hastily. Jonesy drained his coffee, while Hernandez and Keith pushed past on their way out the door. Kristen assumed that Beanpole and Butters were already outside.
She stood quickly and turned to the door.
“Not you, Hall. You’re staying here.”
“What? No way! I’ve been training.”
“Not with bombs, you haven’t. We don’t need you. Plus, you were shot less than a week ago. I’m sure you’re still as sore as hell. It’d be better for you to wait here.”
“I’m fine, really—my bruises are all healed, look.” She yanked the collar of her shirt to down show him her lack of bruises.
He put a hand up so he wouldn’t see the skin below her neck. “Jesus, Hall, keep your shirt on. You’re grounded. That’s it.”
“I can help.”
Jonesy stepped past her. “You wanna help, Red? Fix us a nice fucking lunch. Watching Hernandez defuse bombs always gets me hungry.”
Kristen felt the words like a slap to the face. She thought Jonesy had her back and shot him a resentful glance when he walked past and she caught his eye. He mouthed the words, not yet. Just wait.
She was pissed because she had trained hard, but if he thought she should wait, she could sit this one out. After all, Drew was right. She didn’t know anything about bombs.
So, as much as it rankled, she watched them go. Orders were orders, she told herself, but that made her think.
Jonesy had told her to fix lunch. What if she made her mom’s famous chicken cacciatore as a surprise?
Her first step was to tune her radio to her team’s frequency—she needed to make sure they were okay—before she poked her head in the captain’s office.
“Captain Hansen, is it all right if I fix lunch for everyone?”
The woman didn’t so much as look up from whatever form currentl
y held her attention. “Whatever you want, Hall. As long as your paperwork’s up to date and you don’t burn the place down, I don’t really care.”
That, she decided, could be taken as a vote of confidence. If the captain was worried about her new recruit not knowing what she was doing, she surely would have given her a task to do or something to study—or she still hoped she would simply wash out. She tried not to think too much about that possibility.
Instead, she hurried to the store, purchased the chicken, pasta, and ingredients for the sauce, and set to work.
As she chopped the onions, garlic, celery, and beets for the sauce —her mom used beets for it, right? She couldn’t remember—she listened to her team over the radio.
By the time they’d reached the payday loans store, any sign of the hotrod that had driven around was long gone. The team set up a perimeter and Drew told Butters and Beanpole to keep an eye out, but neither saw any sign of the vehicle.
Hernandez made quick work of the bomb and volubly insulted whoever had made it over the radio the entire time. Although once she’d defused it, she did admit that it contained enough explosives to level a city block. Drew was pissed at that and began to lay into her for risking her life instead of letting the bomb squad handle it. She simply continued to assert that the device was so poorly put-together, it probably wouldn’t have detonated, even if she hadn’t defused it. With no other leads to follow and no sign of any hostiles, the team headed back to the station.
It would be close, but she had enough time to finish the meal.
She removed the chicken from the oven. It was a little…darker than when her mom made it, but it had only been in the oven for a few minutes so it couldn’t have burned. She boiled the pasta next but was distracted by sauce—she couldn’t seem to get the balance of spices perfect—so by the time she turned to the pasta again it was cooked well beyond al dente. Well, that was merely a weird preference her mom had. She thought the meal smelled good, and that was what mattered.
By the time her team returned, she had the meal plated. A breaded chicken breast atop a bed of pasta and freshly made sauce awaited each member of her team.
“The parmesan cheese.” She remembered the final detail and dusted everyone’s plate hastily as she heard them come down the hall.
“Did something die in here?” Hernandez entered the lounge, her nose wrinkled at the smell.
“No, ha-ha.” Kristen smiled. “I fixed lunch. My mom’s famous chicken cacciatore.”
“Blackened chicken, huh?” Butters pushed past Hernandez at the mention of food. “Normally, I think that’s better for catfish and whatnot, but I’ll try anything once, especially if it’s an heirloom recipe.” He settled at the table and eyed his plate.
“It’s a good thing we didn’t stop at that diner, huh, Jonesy?” Keith nodded at the sergeant.
“What the fuck ever, rookie. Let’s get a sense of Red’s culinary prowess before we insult Louie’s. They have the best damn corned beef in the motor city, I’m telling you.” Jonesy sat and scrutinized his plate with suspicion.
Beanpole and Drew sat down without comment, although Beanpole did poke his noodles and raise an eyebrow. She realized she had over-cooked them a little because even she knew they weren’t supposed to fall apart like that.
“How’s our health insurance?” Hernandez said as she finally sat.
“It’s fine, why?” their leader said.
“Because if I get sick from this white bitch’s weird fucking cooking, I want to make sure I’m covered.”
Kristen forced a smile. The woman hadn’t even tried it.
Butters attempted to fill a fork with pasta but had a little difficulty. It really was overdone. She could at least recognize that, but it should still taste good and that was what mattered.
“Mmm…” The rotund man chewed. “You know, I don’t think I’ve had pasta sauce with both chili powder and cinnamon.”
Jonesy laughed uproariously at that. “That’s the worst fucking thing I’ve ever heard him say about any food he’s ever eaten.”
“It’s not that bad…” Beanpole took a bite of the chicken. “Although how you managed to burn the pork and leave it cool in the center is um…impressive.”
“She said it was chicken, not pork,” Keith pointed out.
Beanpole spat his food out. “Yeah, yeah…that explains the color.”
“Drew, I think her culinary skills are far more dangerous than taking her with us on a fucking mission.” Jonesy laughed again. He made no attempt at all to eat his food.
“Seriously though.” Hernandez nodded. “I defused enough explosives to bring the bridge down from here to Canada, but there’s no fucking way to make this plate safe.”
“Okay, okay, cut her some slack,” Drew said. Kristen smiled. At least someone liked her cooking. “The chicken must’ve been spoiled or something.”
Her face dropped. She’d just bought it.
“All in favor of going to Louie’s?” Jonesy raised his hand.
The rest of the team did as well like a table of third-graders voting on who liked pudding more than Brussel sprouts.
Everyone stood and headed to the door. She tried not to let her shoulders slump, but she felt dejected. It seemed like the ultimate failure that she couldn’t even fix lunch for her team. They’d never accept her. Well, at least she could clean up. That was the job her mom had always left for her.
She cleared their plates, wiped her chicken cacciatore into the trash, and started on the dishes.
“Hey, what are you doing?” Drew asked. Everyone else had left the room.
“Cleaning.” She tried not to let her bad mood come through but she was certain she’d failed at that too.
“Worry about all that later. The team’s going for lunch.”
“You mean…me too?”
“Yeah, of course. You’re on the team, aren’t you?”
Kristen went to lunch with a smile so wide that both Hernandez and Jonesy made sure to insult it multiple times during the meal.
Chapter Twelve
It was impossible to fall into a routine working for SWAT. The day to day demands of the job were simply too varied, and yet Kristen did her best to adapt to her new life.
Days were spent training—and training hard—while nights were spent working out and honing the skills she needed her body to understand without thought. Of course, no schedule was perfect when part of one’s job description was to pile into a van and confront assholes with weapons. Still, she became used to transitioning from break-room banter to life or death situations as well as anyone could adjust to that kind of situation.
The constant need to be ready to spring into action certainly made her more appreciative of the days when that didn’t happen. Of course, the down days were predictably spent inside sweltering, ramshackle apartment buildings and practicing breaking into rooms.
“Kristen, you take point on this one. We have a hostile who’s taken one of our officers hostage. He knows he’s surrounded so there’s no point in going quietly into the dark.” Drew’s voice crackled over the radio.
She gestured for Butters and Beanpole to watch exits. Her sign language had improved along with all her other skills. She told Hernandez to force the door and readied herself to save the massive teddy bear they used as a hostage.
“Gee, I would, but all my supplies were left at the base,” the demolitions expert protested blandly.
“Time’s wasting, Kristen. What do you do?” The team leader had obviously planned this.
A snarky retort was tempting but she wasted no more time. With a grunt, she kicked the door and splintered the wood around the two deadbolts that had locked it.
Before the door had even swung wide, she was in the room with her weapon raised. “Living room’s clear. Jonesy, get in here.”
“I’m trying. Red—waiting for the sawdust to clear.”
She waited for a few heartbeats and as soon as she heard his footsteps, she moved forward. Th
ey cleared the kitchen and started on the hallway. She kicked the first bedroom door open and it catapulted off its hinges.
“Holy shit, Red.”
“Keep up, Jonesy.” She moved on to the next room.
“If you come in here, I’ll blow the teddy bear’s goddamn brains out! Cotton stuffing all over the ceiling—do you want to live with that?” Keith hollered through the door. He played the part of the hostile and did a damn good job. He even worked a trace of terror into his voice. Drew had said that was the most dangerous thing to hear in a hostile’s voice. Fear made someone unpredictable.
From his voice, though, she could tell he stood almost directly behind the door.
That was his first mistake.
Before anyone could say anything else, she spun into a roundhouse kick and the door careened into the room. She’d already tested the hinges on the last one and found them flimsy, so she had a fairly good sense of what she could do with this one.
“Ah! Shit!” her teammate cursed from under the door.
Kristen lunged forward until she was on top and effectively pinned him beneath it.
“Nice try, but—” Before Drew could finish his sentence, she tucked into a barrel roll, snatched a pillow up from the bed, and hurled it to where she’d heard his voice come from.
A muffled whump confirmed that the pillow had struck him in the face and in the next second, she reached him. She grasped one of his arms, wrenched it behind his back, and attempted to take hold of the other.
“Yeah, right, you redheaded bitch.” He thrust an elbow at her face.
The team leader had said he believed that insulting her was an integral part of training because hostiles tended to hate cops, so it was good that she got used to it.
She agreed wholeheartedly. Being called a bitch made any guilt she might have felt for punching him in the ribs as she dropped and dodged his elbow evaporate.
He grunted at the blow, so she released the arm, then—in one of her brother Brian’s favorite moves—threw the man back over her outstretched leg and knocked his legs out from under him. He sprawled in an ungainly heap and—as the cherry on top—she drew her handgun and aimed it in his face.
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