GENESIS DRACONIS

STEEL DRAGON™ BOOK ONE

KEVIN MCLAUGHLIN

MICHAEL ANDERLE

This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.

Copyright © 2021 LMBPN Publishing

Cover Art by Jake @ J Caleb Design

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Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing

A Michael Anderle Production

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LMBPN Publishing

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Version 1.01, April 2022

Previously Published as part of the megabook

Steel Dragon 1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-68500-587-0

Print ISBN: 978-1-68500-588-7

THE GENESIS DRACONIS TEAM

Thanks to the Beta Team

Erika Everett, James Caplan, Crystal Wren, Larry Omans, Kelly O’Donnell, John Ashmore, Chrisa Changla, Daniel Weigert, Mary Morris

Thanks to the JIT Readers

Jeff Eaton

Dave Hicks

Micky Cocker

Tim  Adams

Jeff Goode

Dorothy Lloyd

Peter Manis

Nicole Emens

Deb Mader

Misty Roa

Jackey Hankard-Brodie

If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!

Editor

The Skyhunter Editing Team

CHAPTER ONE

Kristen Hall stepped out of her car, careful to avoid a puddle slick with oil—no easy task, considering the parking lot was more cracks than concrete. Despite being surrounded by a chain-link fence and a guard seated near the back of the building with a shotgun resting across his lap, she didn’t feel like she was in any danger. On a day like today, her family wouldn’t go anywhere else. Buddy’s Pizza offered the best food in Detroit.

She opened the door to the diminutive building and the smells of perfectly crispy crust and melted cheese washed over her. Her smile was instinctive. She loved this place.

As she stepped inside and savored the aroma, her younger brother blocked her path. “I thought police were supposed to look tough. Shouldn’t you wear a scowl with your hair in a bun or something?” Brian enveloped her in a bear hug.

Although he was taller and wider than her, she still wrapped him up and leaned back to lift his feet off the floor. “I could still wrestle you to the ground and make you eat bugs, Brian,” she whispered sweetly.

Despite being treated like a big doll, he merely grinned as she placed him on his feet. “You always were a terrible bully, but bugs off the floor at Buddy’s would still be better than your cooking.”

“Ha-ha.” She laughed dryly. Everyone in her family seemed to be able to cook except her. Even Brian, as lazy as he was, could roast a chicken and vegetables. She was basically a master of the microwave and nothing more.

Her mom approached from the back of the restaurant and threaded her way through the narrow spaces between tables. “I think you look lovely, honey.” She kissed her daughter on the cheek. “But Brian’s right, if you let that red hair of yours run loose at your new job, you’ll distract the entire force. Now, come on. Let’s go find your father. He’s holding a table like he’s pinned down.”

Kristen followed her through the crowded pizza parlor. Smiling people crammed around tiny tables with red and white tablecloths, argued over the Tigers’ latest loss, or scarfed pizza. The walls were covered with photos of celebrities who’d come to Buddy’s to do the same. Eminem, the Temptations, and even Aretha Franklin had all eaten there, and those were only some of the more famous celebrities. She had been coming here since she was a little girl. It was her family’s go-to celebration venue when her mom didn’t want to cook.

She located Frank Hall at a table in a corner, poring over the menu as if he hadn’t seen it a million times already.

Her grin wide, she shifted her posture so her feet would fall silently as she approached. “It looks like you need a spotter.” She poked her dad between the ribs with a finger.

He flinched but as soon as he heard her voice, he broke into a smile. “Aw, Kristen, now that you’re an honor grad, I can finally let my guard down.” He studied her affectionately. “You look beautiful, sweetie. The police don’t deserve you.”

Kristen pulled a chair out and sat down beside him. “They didn’t deserve you either.” This wasn’t the first time she’d had this conversation with him. He was proud of her for following in his footsteps—at least on the surface—but he was still an old cop. And he was a dad who didn’t want to see his little girl hurt, even if she was more athletic than he’d ever been.

“Yeah, well, an old baldy who won’t ever shave his mustache is a far cry from the woman you’ve become.” He threw an arm around her shoulder. “I still say you could do anything you want.”

“Being a police officer is what I want.” She raised an eyebrow. “I want to protect people and help this city become even better than it has in the last ten years. Exactly like my old man did.”

His only response was a smile. Despite his misgivings, she could see that what he felt most of all for his daughter was pride.

“Come on, can’t we get a pitcher of beer before we get into all the mushy stuff?” Brian plopped into an empty seat and gestured toward a server.

“We’re proud of you, too,” his mom said to him.

“Yeah, those high scores don’t set themselves,” Kristen quipped, unable to help herself.

He laughed. “Oh, my God, do you have any idea how you two sound? High scores? No one’s cared about a high score since pinball machines were popular.” He scratched his hair and shook his head. Brian took after his mother with brown hair and plain features. Kristen was the only one in the family with red hair or a figure, despite her eating virtually as much pizza as the rest of them.

“From the rumors I’ve heard, Kristen knows more than enough about high scores. Honor grad, huh?” Her dad beamed. “You know I barely scraped through. You’ve already done well for the family name.” He finally put the menu down as the server approached.

“We’ll have two pizzas. One pepperoni mushroom, one ham and pineapple, plus an antipasto salad,” Kristen ordered before he could speak up. “Oh, and a pitcher of something hoppy from Founder’s.”

The server nodded and vanished into the noise and hubbub of the restaurant.

Brian grinned. “At least you know how to order food.”

“It’s not her fault she likes her meat raw on the inside and blackened to a crisp on the outside.”

“Mom!” she exclaimed, shocked that her mother would say that until she remembered it was exactly what had happened the last time she’d cooked chicken.

“Nice one, Mom. Get in on the action before her and dad start going at it.” Her brother chuckled.

“Now that you’re a member of the force, you won’t have to cook ever again if you don’t want to,” her dad stated matter of factly. “Christ knows I don’t.”

He was lying, of course, and could grill a mean burger. Even that was beyond his daughter’s skill in the kitchen.

“I’m not a member yet,” Kristen reminded them. “Only a graduate.”

“A graduate with honors, honey,” her mom added quickly.

“A graduate who was hand-picked by a dragon,” Brian said incredulously. “It’s not like you won’t actually get a job.”

“I was not handpicked,” she protested.

Her parents shared a look that said they thought that was exactly what happened.

“I still think it’s insane that you bumped into one at all. You’d think I’d have seen one by now. After all, enough come through Detroit to perform or whatever.”

“Honey, you have to leave the house if you want to meet people.” Their mother turned to Brian. “Or dragons,” she added after a moment.

Kristen laughed. “Nice one, Mom!”

“But that’s kind of how it happened, right, Krissy?” Her dad leaned closer over the already cramped table. She’d told him the story so many times and yet he always wanted to hear it again.

“No. I mean, yes, I bumped into a dragon at a concert—”

“What did it look like? How big are its wings? Did it buy you a drink?” Brian winked.

“It was in human form, duh, and he was…well, handsome, obviously. We talked for a few minutes at the end of the show and he gave me a card with an address.”

“So what you’re saying is he literally handed you a job.” He had skipped every recounting of the story and preferred to spend his time working his way up leaderboards.

She shook her head. “No, not at all. I arrived there and had to take a number of tests. I still don’t know the point of half of them. There were physical activities like running on a treadmill, an obstacle course, and things like that. I enjoyed that part of it.”

“Yeah, well, no surprises there,” her brother said.

“Brian!” their mom chided. “We should be proud someone in this family is athletic. I don’t know where you get it, honey, but whoever it came from, I’m happy they gave it to you.”

For a moment, she wanted to press her on what that had meant. She sometimes said things like that—like Kristen had history that was different than the rest of them. She certainly looked different. But before she could say anything, the server returned with the salad and a pitcher of beer which broke the moment. Not that she intended to complain. She was starving.

Everyone scooped piles of salad—and didn’t skimp on the cubes of salami or cheese—onto their plates and dug in. For a moment, they simply ate and let the sounds of the cozy little pizza place wash over them. As usual, though, Brian couldn’t stay quiet for long, “So, what parts did you not like?”

“Well, I still don’t really like olives,” Kristen mumbled around a mouthful of salad.

“Not the salad, stupid—the tests. You liked the physical stuff, obviously, so what were the parts you didn’t like? Did you have to play videogames? I told you that you should’ve practiced.”

“No videogames, Brian, sorry.” She shrugged. “I honestly didn’t understand much of it. There was some weird history stuff. Questions about dragons in America during colonialism and the Civil War. All kinds of other odd things too. What was strange is that they hooked me up to monitoring devices to measure my brain waves or whatever.”

“And they were able to find some? I’m impressed, Kristen.” He grinned like a fool.

She put an elbow on the table and flexed her bicep. “Do you want to arm wrestle, or what?”

“Pizza’s here.” He evaded her question neatly because obviously, he’d lose like he did every single time.

Their server put two rectangular pizzas on the table and the Halls wasted no time in digging in. It tasted exactly like it had for her entire life—perfect. Baked on a steel pan, the crust of each square piece of pizza was perfectly crispy. A lake of sauce covered the cheesy bread and toppings and more cheese were sprinkled on top of that. It was heaven on a plate.

“So uh…did they uh…tell you anything else?” her dad asked around bites of food. Kristen shot him a look. That wasn’t really like him. Frank Hall was a direct man and always had been. When he wanted something, he demanded it, whether it was the TV remote or a crook to be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

She shrugged, swallowed another cheesy bite, and washed it down with cold beer. “Well, not really. The tests were kind of all over the place.”

“Did they let you ask questions, or did you have to fight your way out of there?” Brian had already wolfed down three slices of ham and pineapple and now reached for a fourth. She snatched it from him before he ate the whole pizza himself.

“That was the weirdest part, actually. They said I could ask anything I wanted to, so I did.”

Her brother lowered his voice. “Did you ask the big one?”

“The big one?” her dad whispered, concern in his voice.

“Yeah. Are they always smoking hot in their human form or can they choose how they look? If I could change shape, I know I wouldn’t keep this.” He slapped his round gut and laughed.

Kristen and her parents all shared a groan.

“No, I didn’t ask them about their glamor. I don’t like it when people ask why my hair’s red and curly instead of brown and straight like Mom’s, so I assumed they wouldn’t appreciate it either.”

Her dad straightened in his chair. “Did you ask to be a cop like your old man?”

“Because if you did, you’ll be in big trouble, Krissy,” her mother huffed. “I spent thirty years staying up late wondering if Frank would come home, and I don’t look forward to spending another thirty worrying about you.”

“No, I didn’t ask about joining the academy. I asked about the tests, mostly, and why they selected me. I…well, this will probably sound stupid, but I asked if they thought I was a mage or something.”

Brian spat out a bite of pizza. “You asked what?”

“Why else would they be so interested in me? Seriously, think about it. I barely bumped into this guy in a concert and suddenly, I’m doing all this crazy stuff and taking these tests. I thought there must be a reason I didn’t know about.”

“Maybe dragons like redheads.” Brian ran a finger through his brown hair and pouted his lips in a poor impersonation of her.

“Brian!” his mother snapped.

“It’s fine, Mom. They answered that question anyway. No. I’m not a mage. They almost laughed in my face when I asked it.”

Her parents shared another look.

“What?” she demanded.

“We worry about you is all, honey.” Her mother dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “I mean, two rebellions, both led by mages—”

“Marty’s right, Kris. One of those wars made Canada, for Christ’s sake. I hope you’re not a damn mage. You’d either have to serve them or… Is it true they can really breathe fire?” Her dad shook his head. Everyone had heard rumors, but dragons were rare and fairly secretive, especially about the extent of their powers, so most rumors remained exactly that—pure conjecture.

“I don’t know, Dad. Like I said, they didn’t answer most of my questions, and it’s not like the one at the concert transformed and took the time to show me his powers. They merely took more notes on what I asked. Honestly, I think that was one of the tests too.”

Brian—having devoured a fifth slice of pizza—rejoined the conversation. “Why would you be a mage, though? Doesn’t that run in families or whatever? Unless mom and dad are holding out on us, the Halls are basically normal.”

“You’re definitely not normal, Brian,” she retorted and drew a look of mock indignation from him.

“Halls aren’t magic,” their dad stated in a tone as frustratingly opaque as the dragons had been.

Kristen nodded. “That’s what the dragon said too.”

“So, then what happened? They popped you off the diodes and you felt compelled to join the police academy?” Brian gestured at the ridiculousness of his sister being selected instead of him. “They do that, right? I’ve read about it on the Internet. Compulsion or whatever.”

“No. No, not at all. They took a few minutes to look at the results, then told me I’d be a great fit for police work. It wasn’t like they forced me or whatever. Dragons aside, you guys know I’ve always wanted to be a cop like Dad.”

“Which is still not okay,” her mother said, but her voice lacked the fervor it had possessed when Kristen first applied to the academy. Marty Hall might not be happy her daughter was following her father into the force, but she’d accepted it.

Her dad reached for another slice of pizza. If they waited, Brian would eat it all. “It’ll be fine, honey. With a pretty face like that? They’ll put her on meter maid duty for a few years before they promote her to detective. Before long, she’ll run the force without so much as a scratch on her.”

As they usually did, her parents fell into their familiar patter about the job. Since she’d joined the police academy, dinner often devolved into the two of them debating her choice. She might have had second thoughts about her decision—she had always loved her parents and wanted to make them proud—but since they weren’t in agreement, she knew she couldn’t please them both. The choice was ultimately hers to make.

She’d always been athletic and wanted to help people, so being a police officer made sense. Still, she hoped her mom didn’t continue to stress eat.

Kristen’s phone buzzed in her purse and she glanced at it. Brian had already tuned out of reality and now played a game on his phone, so she knew her parents wouldn’t say anything.

“Oh, my God—Dad, it’s an email from the force. They’ve given me my first assignment,” she blurted before she’d even read the whole thing.

“That’s great, honey!” Her mom obviously tried to be enthusiastic but sounded like she didn’t think it was great at all.

“Now, Krissy, remember, the force is still a man’s world,” her dad began. She’d heard this speech before too, but beer often made him repeat himself. “I’m sure that once they see what you’re capable of, they’ll get you into more action, but there’s nothing wrong with starting out as a meter reader or a traffic cop. The force has to make money.”

She almost couldn’t hear him. Not because of the noise of the restaurant or because his words were slightly slurred, but because of the four capital letters that glared at her from the screen of her phone.

“I’ve been assigned to SWAT.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He merely blinked at her like she’d short-circuited him. “SWAT?” He looked like he’d found a rat in his beer after he’d already consumed half.

“Is that good?” her mother asked. Despite being married to a cop for more than thirty years, she still knew next to nothing about the police force and its many different departments. She’d always maintained that discussing such things at dinner was uncouth.

“Special Weapons and Tactics.” Brian didn’t look up from his game. “Nice job, Krissy.”

“No, no, Kristen. That can’t be right. It must be a mistake. I know you did great at the academy, but you don’t have the training for the SWAT team, not yet. Shit, I never even made it to SWAT.”

“Frank! Language!”

“For fuck’s sake, Marty. If Kristen’s really going to be on SWAT, it merits a few choice words.”

“I am, Dad. Look.” She passed her dad the phone and leaned back while he stared at the screen.

For a moment, he merely read in silence, obviously confused. Kristen could see his lips moving to mouth the same words she’d already read twice. He stopped reading and sat in silence for a moment as if utterly devoid of words.

“Holy crap,” he finally managed, which essentially summed up exactly how she felt.

Finally, he took a deep breath and bellowed, “Check, please!” over the din of the restaurant.

“Frank!” Her mom put a hand on her husband’s shoulder and looked around the restaurant, obviously embarrassed.

Frank shrugged. “Krissy’s supposed to be at work tomorrow morning.” He turned to her and looked her dead in the eye. “And you’ll need some rest. They say SWAT makes the academy look like kindergarten. And that’s without dragons watching.”

CHAPTER TWO

Alittle nervously, Kristen stepped from her car into the parking garage of the Detroit Police Department. She walked past police vehicles and massive slate-black SWAT vans and paused only once to check her uniform in the reflective rear windows of one of the cars. Her red hair was in a tight bun and her uniform still crisp from being starched. When she glanced at her shoes, her face reflected in the shiny leather.

She took a deep breath in an effort to silence the flutter of nerves and pressed the button for the elevator.

Her head held high, she emerged from the garage and crossed the small breezeway to the station. The Detroit river shone blue in the early morning light, and out in the water between the USA and Canada, picnickers already flocked to Belle Isle. One of the auto company’s headquarters towered nearby. To her, it looked like a giant pair of batteries held together with enormous bolts.

Despite the fact that she was right there in the flesh, a part of her couldn’t believe this was happening. Not only was she a police officer like her father, but she was also stationed there in the newly thriving downtown of her city? Her heart swelled with pride and when she entered the station, she grinned from ear to ear.

She approached a woman seated at a large antique wooden desk and introduced herself.

“Kristen Hall, reporting for duty.”

“Let’s see your orders,” the officer said and held a hand out without looking up from her computer.

In silence, she passed the woman the printed orders.

While she marveled at the desk, the officer examined her printed out email. The furniture had to be a hundred years old and was so well polished that the dark wood shone. There were a few bullet holes here and there, but they looked like they had been added decades before in a harder time. Maybe being on SWAT wouldn’t be so bad. She’d had moments when she’d questioned whether it was the right place for her, but now that she was actually there, the doubts seemed foolish.

“You’re with Sergeant Jones.” The woman finally looked at her. “Good fucking luck with that.”

“Excuse me?”

She smirked. “You’ll see. He and Butters—that’s Sergeant Goodman—are in the lounge.” She directed her past the front desk and through the innards of the station to where she would find the squad.

Kristen had thought—based on the state of the vehicles in the parking lot and the well-maintained antique in the entryway to the station—that she had been assigned to one of the more prestigious units. As she made her way through the building, however, she could see the assumption had been mistaken.

Most of the desks were piled high with paperwork—an obvious indication that the force was understaffed—and the few officers she did see barely gave her crisp uniform a second glance.

Holding cells against one wall looked almost comically out of place in the office setting. The bars were brightly polished at about chest level, no doubt from decades of prisoners’ taking hold of them while they complained to police officers about their incarceration. The sight of the cells made her realize that in the grand scheme of things, the desks and paperwork were the temporary fixtures of this space. The cells were the real reason why the building had been built there.

Beyond these and near two bathrooms that smelled like they were in need of a good scrub, she found the lounge.

She entered the dingy room and made a quick survey. The floor suggested it was long overdue for replacement and the walls faded from white to yellow as they approached the ceiling. It smelled of stale coffee and fresh donuts—which, she had to admit, wasn’t the worst smell in the world.

Sprawled on a tiny sofa was an overweight man who sucked powdered sugar from his plump, brown fingers. His uniform stretched tightly across his middle, although he didn’t look sloppy, merely round. Still, she found herself thinking back to her training. How had this man made it through all that? He had her father’s physique and Frank Hall hadn’t worked out once since he’d retired.

Another man paced near the coffee maker, his back still to her. He was skinny, but she could tell from the way he held himself that he had hidden muscles and could probably handle himself in a fight.

“Do you think this freshmen bitch is ever gonna show up?” the thin man shouted over the gurgling sounds of the coffeemaker as it transformed the last traces of fresh water into drinkable caffeine.

“That all depends, Sergeant Jones,” the larger man replied and raised his eyebrows at her in obvious embarrassment. He had a southern accent she immediately found endearing. “Did we get two new recruits or only this one?”

Sergeant Jones poured himself a cup of coffee. “Jesus, Butters, do you do anything around here besides eat this damn breakroom junk? Only one. Some woman, they said. Like I have time to put the fucking toilet seat down.”

“Jonesy!” the larger man snapped. So there really was a man named Butters? That couldn’t be right. He pushed himself to his feet and approached her with his hand extended. “I presume you are Kristen Hall. I am Sergeant Hank Goodman. Welcome.”

Jonesy startled and spilled his coffee. “She’s here? Shit, Butters why didn’t you warn me? Were you too busy stuffing that fat mouth?”

Kristen took the sergeant’s hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Sergeant Goodman.” Fortunately, he had eaten the donut with his left hand so her fingers stayed dry and she escaped having to transfer sticky sugar to her pristine uniform. She didn’t think he’d appreciate it if she’d asked for a cloth to wipe her hand.

“Butters is fine. Everyone else can’t help but use the name so I don’t expect you to call me Goodman for long anyway. This is Sergeant Jones. He prefers Jonesy.”

Kristen could tell from the way Butters raised an eyebrow that Jones did not prefer the moniker.

The other man turned and revealed no surprise at all when his gaze settled on her, despite having insulted her not once, but twice. In fact, he glared at her, sniffed twice, and flared the nostrils of his freckled nose. “Do you smell that Butters? Starched sheets and group showers. When did you leave the academy, Miss Hall? Twenty damn minutes ago?”

“Jonesy. Be proper. Clearly, Miss Hall is in the right place.”

Jonesy snorted. “I didn’t realize we was in a butcher shop. This is no place for fresh meat, sister. Get out now while your hair’s still in a nice little bun. We’ll tell them you never showed and we can all forget all about this.”

Fury immediately kindled inside her chest and she fought the urge to clench her fists. How dare he talk to her this way. She wanted to slap him across the face with her orders but knew that wouldn’t win someone like this over. And that was what she wanted—to win.

“Why should I leave? Did you suddenly realize that no one will want a rancid piece of flank steak or a record-setting turkey if I’m here?”

For a moment, neither man said a thing. They simply stared at her and both their mouths hung open in shock at her retort. Then, making it clear that the two had worked together for some time, they reacted almost in unison and began to talk. Well, Jonesy did. Butters merely laughed—a deep, hearty laugh that made her think of a Baptist church with a charismatic preacher instead of a cop who licked powdered sugar off his fingers.

Jonesy, though, was less than amused. He yelled over his companion’s laughter. “A piece of flank steak? If I was a piece of meat, I’d be a T-bone.”

Kristen had never heard such a bizarre rejoinder before. But before she could say anything about the strangeness of a man comparing himself to a piece of meat, Butters cut in, “Boney is right.”

“And what the fuck do you mean by rancid?” the skinny man continued. “It’s not like you can smell anything over those flowers you soaked in rubbing alcohol that you’re trying to pass off as perfume.”

“Thank God one of us remembered to bathe last night.” She smiled. “And it’s not perfume, actually. It’s called soap. You might want to try it sometime. They make it for uniforms too. It helps with the map of stains you’re working on.” She waggled her fingers at his chest.

He looked down and found the coffee stain she pointed at. The scowl on his face was worth everything she might have to endure as a result.

Butters threw back his head and laughed so hard that he almost plopped on the couch once again. “Miss Hall, you’ll fit in here just fine, I think.”

“Bullshit she will,” Jonesy said, still fuming. “This is SWAT, not a fucking playground. So you can throw a few fucking insults around, so what? This isn’t grade school.”

“Yeah, obviously, otherwise you’d have dropped out.” Kristen could see she wouldn’t win the man over, but she couldn’t help herself. She had been raised not to take shit from anyone and could hear her dad now, telling her not to start fights but damn well make sure she finished them. That particular maxim had been one she’d always applied to verbal sparring as well as physical confrontations.

“She has more spine than you, Butters, I’ll give her that.” He sneered at her. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re not qualified to be here.”

“I was assigned—”

“Bullshit. Someone made a mistake.” He stared at her with hard, unrelenting eyes as he continued to speak. “When I heard we were getting a grad fresh from the academy, I assumed it was an ex-military type, maybe one of them survivalist freaks. Someone with experience, not some pretty little fawn hoping to make the world a better place.”

“You know what? I hope you’re right. I hope this is some kind of mistake.” Kristen felt another wave of emotion rise within her. This time, it was fear mixed with rage. The problem was that she didn’t feel qualified either, so everything he said struck home. Still, she couldn’t let him win. “Because at least if there’s been a mistake, I won’t have to worry about my sense of dignity slowly burning away from being forced to share airspace with you.”

There was a heavy moment of silence. She could tell she’d struck a nerve but she wasn’t sorry. The man had behaved horribly and didn’t deserve her respect. He stared belligerently at her and she returned it without flinching. She wouldn’t let him see that he’d gotten to her.

“Do you have your orders?” Butters asked. His question broke the moment but didn’t ease the tension in the room at all.

“Of course I do.” She pulled out a printed copy of her orders and handed it to him.

He read it for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed, then looked at her. “Well, I must admit this is quite a surprise. Congratulations on high marks in the academy and…and, well, I guess we’ll be working together soon.” He nodded cordially at her. Although much more polite than his colleague, he didn’t look openly excited about her being there. She could understand that. Even her own father had said she was underqualified.

“Let me see that fucking piece of paper.” Jonesy snatched it from his teammate’s fingers.

“The little marks are called letters. Together, they form words,” Kristen all but purred. She’d traded insults with her brother for years. This idiot simply didn’t know what he’d gotten himself into.

“Yeah, yeah, I know what a fucking word is. Try these ones—shut the fuck up for a goddamn second and let me read.” With that, he stopped glaring at her and actually read the document in front of him.

It took some measure of control from her not to comment on how his lips moved as he read the words.

For a moment, she thought the orders might actually work and he might calm somewhat, but this proved to be wishful thinking.

“And what, you expect me to believe this shit because it’s printed on a piece of paper?” Jonesy waved the offending document around like it was hazardous to his health. “This doesn’t change a damn thing. Some bureaucrat who doesn’t know what the day in the life of an actual cop is like saw your fancy little resume and put you on SWAT. It doesn’t change the fact that a new academy grad will put the whole damn team at risk. I already have to manage Butterball’s snack breaks. Now, they want to add another liability?”

“Just because I can eat and still snipe better than anyone in the force doesn’t mean you need to take it out on Miss Hall,” the other man said.

“No more devil’s advocate, Butterball!” The skinny man practically spat the words. “Let’s go talk to the captain and get this damn mess straightened out.”

Kristen folded her arms and shrugged. “That’s fine with me.”

“Right this way, my lady.” Jonesy left the break room and she followed.

As they walked through the police station and past mountains of paperwork, framed photos of dead police officers, and the few tiny holding cells, her mind raced. She honestly didn’t like Jonesy—Sergeant Jones? She already thought of him as Jonesy, as his demeanor hadn’t exactly earned him any respect from her. He was rude and sexist and yet, part of her—not a small part either—worried that he was probably right.

She shouldn’t have these orders. She had done well in the academy, that was true, but she also knew that police work and schoolwork were quite different and that SWAT was another step beyond that. While she tried to rationalize as the man led her ever closer to the captain’s office, she constantly came up against one idea, again and again.

Did the dragons have something to do with all this? Why had they sent her to that strange testing place? And why had they recommended her for the police academy? She didn’t think it was because they knew she wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps. And if the dragons did have a hand in all this, did that mean the captain would be honored to have her on the force or furious to be jerked around by a race of beings who held themselves above humanity?

There was only one way to find out.

Jonesy knocked on the door to the captain’s office. Kristen was a little impressed that he’d actually knocked. He seemed the ‘knock down the door and ask questions later’ type of police officer.

A voice called out, “Come in.”

She walked into the office to meet her new boss and honestly felt like she was walking into a dragon’s den.

CHAPTER THREE

Despite Detroit’s recent regrowth, there was still much of the city in need of repair. Of course, that was the current line pedaled by the pawns on the city council. John Murray knew better. The city was best as it was—with new money pumping through it but still not enough to clean up every dark alley and abandoned factory.

There were more police, but despite his profession, he liked them. He really did and often argued their merits to the other members of his gang, the Breaks. For starters, police couldn’t drive half as well as anyone in his gang. As long as the gang members continued to maintain their cars, they could outrace any set of flashing lights and sirens out there. Plus, police made going downtown seem safer for the tourists, which in turn was good for business. But most importantly, they knew their place and followed orders, and that kept them to the newly gentrified parts of the city.

They left abandoned steel mills to the rats who infested them.

Murray looked at the inside of the derelict factory their contact had chosen for this meeting. A crumbling incinerator was the centerpiece of the room. Its sooty bricks reached all the way up through the cavernous space and eventually vanished beyond the ceiling. Broken steel molds and smelting buckets big enough to hide bodies lined the other walls. Shattered windows admitted more than enough light, and the aroma of generations of rats fought with the exhaust fumes from the cars idling in the middle of the factory.

Ahh…to him, these remnants of the once-great metropolis felt like home.

He decided his gang looked like they belonged in the space. The four men he’d chosen to accompany him to this meeting all wore their very finest ripped denim dotted with spikes and rivets. The Breaks were ostensibly punk rockers, but their clothes served a purpose. It was difficult to stab through rivets and wearing metal made metal detectors basically worthless.

It was, however, something of a surprise that the two men who stepped from the van across from them had chosen to meet there. They wore black suits and sunglasses despite the fading light and were—undoubtedly—merely tools.

But that was fine, all things considered. Rich tools tended to have far more money than regular folk and better toys.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t simply fuck ʼem up?” Lemar whispered to him. “We get in our cars now and run ʼem down. No fucking way that van and the asshole inside can escape.”

He considered the idea. There was something absolutely delicious about running people down in the Motor City, especially with the cars the Breaks used. All were classics and all American with steel parts that didn’t dent from something as brittle as bone. Powder-coat paint jobs that washed clean from even the most incriminating of fluids was another impressive feature.

“Keep the cars running, but let’s hear what they have to say.”

Lemar nodded.

Although Murray liked the idea of keeping their money and getting new toys, there was something about the way the two suits behaved that made him cautious. Something about how carefully they moved around the third man who’d stayed in the van made him hesitate.

Obviously, the man in the van had all the power. While the other two busied themselves with cargo, the third one had only cracked his window and exhaled a cloud of smoke. The gang leader thought it smelled like a cigar and yet part of him—the part that was still a scared little boy who’d grown up in the projects fighting for his lunch money every damn day—wondered at that smoke. Could it be…a dragon? Had the Breaks finally gotten big enough to be noticed?

The two suits came to stand in front of the door to the vehicle and framed the mostly rolled-up window. The man inside spoke, his voice deep and arrogant with its richness. He hated dudes who talked like that. “You have followed instructions and had each of your lackeys bring a vehicle. This is good.”

“You said you had supplies so the boss brought transport. Don’t act like we’re your stupid little dogs or we’ll bite,” Lemar retorted before Murray could reply, his tone a near-growl.

A deep inhalation from the man inside the van was immediately followed by a great plume of smoke that erupted from the car. It floated through the still air of the factory and surrounded the man’s head and he coughed.

“Nice trick.” Murray directed a look at his gang, then bowed. He had been right. They had been noticed. It was time to make sure the boys didn’t fuck it up. Fortunately, they all followed his lead and bowed, even Lemar. “Your excellency. Tell us, what brings your business to the Motor City?”

“Believe it or not, it’s you, Murray of the Breaks.” A smoke ring curled from the van, drifted between the suits, and dissipated lazily against his chest.

He nodded. “You flatter me, sir.” He hoped he was doing all right but really knew he was out of his league. There must be a dragon in there. The damn things lived insanely long—long enough to explain why anyone in their right mind would call him Murray of the Breaks.

“He’s civil enough,” the voice said to one of the suits, who nodded. “Let’s see if we can change all that.”

Before he could say anything—truthfully, he didn’t know what to make of that—the henchmen opened the van.

In that moment, he forgot about the stranger smoking in the passenger seat. He forgot about the derelict factory and its crumbling incinerator and even forgot to close his mouth while he stared. Inside the vehicle—lining its interior on classy little racks, in fact—was more firepower than he or anyone else in the Breaks had ever seen in their entire lives.

There was everything a man who knew the value of force and the worthlessness of pacifism could want—assault rifles, handguns, shotguns, enough body armor for the whole gang, plus a few crates that were tantalizingly labeled explosive.

Murray wished he could have said something cool or even had remained standing in stoic silence but instead, he blurted, “Holy shit,” and took a step toward the armory.

The suits made no effort to stop him.

“Please, handle the merchandise,” the voice drawled from the front seat.

He needed no second invitation and reached for an assault rifle. Although he stole a glance toward the front as he did so, it was walled off and its occupant hidden. Not that he was surprised, of course.

To his surprise, the weapon was loaded. He raised the assault rifle, took aim at one of the last few unbroken windows, and pulled the trigger. The sound of gunfire echoed through the cavernous space and the glass shattered. He grinned.

Temptation loomed and he glanced at the two suits while he made some quick mental calculations. Maybe the gang could take them. It was a bad idea if the guy inside was a dragon, but if he was merely an asshole who liked to smoke it would be doable. The windows might be bullet-proof but still, it was doable.

“A fine shot, Mr Murray,” the voice stated, and he felt his plan slipping away like a bad dream upon waking. Why had he thought they could attack these men? They hadn’t even flinched when he’d fired the weapon.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll…uh…we’ll take five of these for the boys here, some of those pistols for the rest, and all the body armor you have. Lemar, get the cash.”

The other man moved toward one of their cars but stopped when the voice spoke again.

“I’m not interested in cash, Murray of the Breaks. Not yet, anyway.”

Murray was confused. They didn’t have the cash for more and he didn’t know what the men wanted. Then it occurred to him. “We…uh… I guess we could trade a car for those guns then.”

“Fuck no, Murray,” one of the boys complained. He made a note to make sure it was his car they traded.

“You’d have to trade all five for the contents of this van and then what would you transport them all in?”

He replaced the assault rifle quickly. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you expected, but you should’ve told me you had merchandise like this. I could’ve had the boys call in some debts.”

“I’m not interested in your petty debts. They represent the past. What I’m interested in is your future. Do you know what represents the future, Murray of the Breaks?”

“Uh…no?” he stammered.

“Credit. That is what represents the future. I will supply the contents of this van to you and your gang on credit.”

“You’re uh…very generous, sir, but my old lady’s swimming in credit card debt. What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. However, you are correct in enquiring about the payments for this credit. I am—first and foremost—a businessman, so I expect to be compensated, of course.” Another plume of smoke issued from the van.

“Uh-huh.” Murray nodded and waited for the catch.

“I believe that by providing your organization with these assets, my investment will prove itself. We could dither about the price and set up a timetable with interest payments and penalties for defaults and all that nonsense. However, it would be difficult for you to fully understand the effort it took to bring these weapons here, as I’m sure it will be difficult for me to understand how exactly you might decide to use them.”

“Sir, you can bet your ass that however we decide to use these tools, our business has nothing to do with you.” Was that what the man behind the glass wanted? Plausible deniability? He could promise that. After all, promises were free, but that couldn’t be it.

“Indeed.” The man paused as he inhaled more smoke. “It seems you understand business very well, Murray of the Breaks. And I’m pleased to hear that you know the first rule of business is to mind your own.”

“But what do you want?” Lemar took a step toward the van. The suits blocked him. “There’s obviously something in it for you. What is it?”

“A man who understands the importance of time. I respect that as well. What I want is simple—to see you in action. I tire of these petty operations you’ve worked so hard at. Robbing liquor stores. Laundering stolen cars. This has got you to where you are today, but it can’t sustain your growth in the future. I want to watch you grow like the roots of an oak tree that cracks through the foundation of this city.”

“Bullshit.” Lemar spat derisively. “No one gives weapons away like this. Do you expect us to think you’re the fucking Red Cross?”

Murray’s heart dropped into his stomach. This was it then. He knew he should’ve run Lemar over. The asshole was smart but he had a fat mouth. Now, it would get them all killed at the hands of someone who could change their lives and make the Breaks into something great.

For a long moment, no one said a word. The suits didn’t step toward Lemar but none of the gang came to his defense either.

Finally, a long exhalation of smoke wafted from the van. “He’s right, of course. This isn’t charity. I want to see you grow because I want a piece of the action.”

“How much?” Lemar asked.

“Tsk, tsk, Murray of the Breaks. Once, they chopped out the tongues of those who didn’t know when it was their time to speak. Now, we must settle for more humane treatments.”

One of the suits brought a fist up and the gang member dodged, only to take a knee in his crotch from the other man. He crumpled and moaned pitifully.

Murray glanced at him. The man writhed in pain but was still conscious. He’d live. For a moment, he wished otherwise.

He turned his attention to the vehicle. How odd it was to have this conversation with cigar smoke and his own reflection. “How much of the action are we talking here? Ten percent?”

The man behind the glass laughed at that. “No! No, no, no. I would like to make my investment back within the next century, so obviously, ten percent is much too low. I want fifty.”

“I knew he was fucking crazy.” One of the Breaks laughed. “Ain’t no gang in the Midwest that can pay fifty percent.”

“Indeed. Gentlemen, it seems our demonstration went unnoticed. If you will.”

On the command from their hidden leader, the two suits marched toward the man who’d laughed.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Murray held his arms up placatingly. “We get the message loud and fucking clear. Ain’t no reason to come to blows over a little negotiating between bosses.” He snarled the last words at the scowling Breaks. “Now, it seems to me fifty percent is a tad high, but you’re right in that ten’s too low. Let’s meet somewhere in the middle. Say twenty-five. See, twenty-five percent of profits will give us enough liquidity to continue to operate our various schemes, grow our organization, and operate at the high level of efficiency that earned your attention.”

“Fifty percent,” the voice said in a voice that chilled him to the very bone.

He looked at his gang, who all attempted to look tough behind him. It was easy to tell from their faces what he knew in his heart—they were hopelessly outclassed by these guys. Whoever was in there knew who they were and what they could do, while he didn’t know a thing about him. Suddenly, letting them choose the meeting place seemed like a bad idea. Still…fifty percent?

“We can do forty, but that’s as high as—”

“Fifty. Percent.” In that moment, the sun either slipped behind a cloud or below the horizon because the room plunged into shadow and all he could see was the red ember of the cigar smoldering in the van. He suddenly felt very, very cold.

“Right. Right then. Fifty percent sounds fine,” Murray muttered.

Apparently, it had been only a cloud that had blocked the sun as the room brightened once again, although to him, the chill didn’t go away.

“It’s a pleasure doing business with you, Murray of the Breaks, and remember—I’ll be watching. Credit only functions when you work to pay it off. I expect to hear much of your organization in the future.”

Before he could respond—not that he had a clue what to say—the window rolled up to seal the man inside with his cloud of smoke.

“Let us give you a hand with all that,” he said to one of the suits, but the man didn’t even bother to respond. He simply glared at him and went about unloading the arsenal.

Rack after rack of weapons came from the vehicle.

Murray pulled the semi-recovered gang member to his feet and rejoined his men. Despite the discomfort he’d felt when talking to the man behind the glass, he couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of the arsenal before them.

“What’s the plan, boss?” Lemar wheezed, still reeling from being kneed in the crotch.

“The plan? With weapons like these, we won’t need a plan unless they call in the fucking National Guard to stop us.”

“Come on, boss, that’s not like you,” one the Breaks said. “John Murray always has something in mind.”

He snorted at that. It was true enough, after all. “It’s time to think bigger, boys. Plans were when we lived from paycheck to paycheck. Now, we’ve gone and got ourselves a proper salaried position. It’s time we got ourselves a goal.”

“So what’s your fucking goal?” Lemar said. He apparently now felt good enough to talk shit, then. Murray supposed that was good, although part of him still wanted to run the shit-talker over. But that could happen in time.

“My goal is for the Motor City to quake at the sound of my bannermens’ engines. I want to be a goddamn king, and you’ll be my princes. From now on, The Breaks make the fucking rules.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Captain Juanita Hansen barely had time to shove the file she was looking at into her desk before Jonesy entered her office and all but dragged the new recruit—Hall, that was her name—behind him.

She considered giving the man an earful for practically barging into her office—she had no doubt he would have if she hadn’t responded immediately to his knock—but decided against it. Despite her inclination, she thought it better for the recruit to see her captain do something besides chew out one of her new teammates before they had even worked together. That tended to not do much for team morale. Not that she would put his reprimand off the table. Sergeant Jones was more than capable of earning an earful, but she’d give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

So, instead of ripping into him, she gave the new recruit a moment to take in her surroundings.

Juanita had never furnished her office with fancy chairs or unusual art. She didn’t go in for expensive things, but her office wasn’t barren either. Instead of worldly pretensions, she simply let her work speak for itself.

On the walls were pictures of her working her way up through the force. There she was, smiling after chasing down her first runner. She’d fallen and broken a tooth and had always thought the blood on her face in that photo was charming in an understated kind of way. In another, she grinned from ear to ear immediately after she’d lit a thousand pounds of confiscated cocaine on fire. That little stunt had earned her a promotion and revealed the priorities of a few of the less scrupulous members of the force. Others showed her with the mayor, with her state representative, and with one of Michigan’s two senators.

The pictures were arranged in such a way that as the new recruit craned her neck to take them all in, she saw the decades-spanning career before her. When she finally locked eyes with the captain, Juanita was reasonably confident that the girl understood that the woman before her wasn’t merely an appointee with political connections but a cop who’d worked hard to earn her current position in command of all the special operations in Detroit.

Although truly—much as she hated to admit it—being a short Latina woman who’d put on a few pounds since she’d moved to working primarily behind a desk was usually enough to make people understand that she’d worked her way into this position. The few women who actually took handouts tended to look like…well, the attractive redheaded woman standing before her.

“Is there a reason why you’ve accosted me in my office when we both know you have a mountain of paperwork to catch up on?” she asked coolly. That might have counted as a reprimand for some officers, but Juanita and Jonesy both knew it was fairly tame for the captain. Some officers complained about paperwork, but she genuinely didn’t mind it as long as it was done. Paperwork was the grease that kept the engine of the Detroit Police Department running smoothly.

“Paperwork’s exactly why I’m here, Captain.” He obviously made no attempt at all to keep the hostility out of his voice. “This little princess thinks she’s SWAT because of a damn email, and I wanted her to get a reality check from the queen of protocol before she gets comfortable.”

Juanita folded her hands in front of her. “Is that why you’re still here, Jonesy? Because being on SWAT makes you comfortable?”

His expression darkened. “Damn it, Captain. Are you telling me you really did select her?”

“She has a name, you know. Use it.” It was a power move, certainly, and perhaps a little petty, but she genuinely couldn’t remember the woman’s name at the moment. Chrissy? Christina? She’d been as frustrated as he was when the orders came in and hadn’t paid as much attention to the details as she would usually have done.

That might’ve been too much, though. Jonesy turned bright red and betrayed his Welsh roots. “Sorry, ma’am. This is Kristen Hall, the new recruit who has been ordered onto our team via e-mail.” Ah…that was more like it. His words were formal enough, but the way he said “e-mail” made it sound like he was in the process of severing his own finger with a rusty hacksaw. It conjured an intriguing picture that almost made her smile.

“I’m glad you’ve made her acquaintance,” Juanita responded with a smile she normally reserved for visiting politicians. It looked good in photos but he, better than anyone, knew exactly what it meant. “It’s good to meet you, Kristen. I like to put a name to an order. Your record from the academy is impressive enough, so I’m sure you’ve realized that I’m your boss, despite us not actually ever interviewing.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Captain Hansen. My dad told me all about you.”

“Your dad is?” She hated to be rude but maybe she’d missed something in the girl’s family history.

“Frank Hall?” Kristen stammered. “He was an officer on the force for over thirty years. He’s the reason I wanted to become a police officer.”

“Ah. He never made SWAT, did he?”

“No, ma’am.”

“That explains why I haven’t heard of him.” The young woman’s face fell when she said that but it couldn’t be helped. The captain continued. “Still, it’s good to know you have some kind of expectation for what police work can be. Normally, appointees who come with your kind of references don’t have any familiarity with police work. At least you understand that there will be long days and late nights in your future.”

Kristen fidgeted for a moment before she replied, “Of course, ma’am.” It was obvious something was bothering her.

“Is there a problem?”

“Who the fuck are her references?” Jonesy interjected. Juanita had been waiting for him to interrupt. It was not Patrick Jones’ style to keep his mouth shut for long. Really, she was thankful. Him swearing meant she could tear into him without losing any face in front of Kristen.

For a moment, she considered not telling the man anything—she also liked to use silence to make him sweat—but she relented. He’d find out soon enough anyway, and better to hear it from her rather than through the grapevine. “The email I got from Dragon Special Operations made it quite clear that they wanted Kristen on SWAT and that they would not take no for an answer. Not that they ever do.”

“Dragon Special Ops?” He turned to Kristen, incredulous. “You’re telling me a fucking dragon referred you to the SWAT team? What, did one of them fuck your grandma or something and feel guilty enough to give you a job?”

“Just because the grandmothers you can afford to pay to have sex feel bad after they’re done with you doesn’t mean that’s always how it goes.” She sneered and fixed him with a challenging stare.

Juanita was careful not to let a smile show. Not many people—let alone women—could maintain verbal sparring with Jonesy, but she seemed capable enough.

“Jonesy, I’d tell you to shut the hell up, but it looks like Kristen did that already.”

“I… Damn it, Captain,” he muttered. She didn’t know if he was bewildered by the woman’s references or that a rookie had burned him with a multi-level bomb of an insult. “Dragon Special Ops? Really?”

The captain raised an eyebrow at Kristen. She didn’t want the new recruit to think she’d won. “Indeed. It seems Kristen has friends in high places.”

“With respect, Captain, I don’t. I bumped into a dragon at a concert, of all places. He told me to take some tests, and they sent me to the academy. I’d always wanted to be a cop, but I never thought I’d make SWAT, especially given my inexperience.”

She let Kristen’s statement hang in the air for a moment. From the girl’s expression, she thought she was being honest. But if she really didn’t have a connection to the dragons, there must at least be something unusual about her, but what? She was too good a cop to jump to conclusions, however. She’d give it time and let the evidence reveal itself.

What was important currently was making sure Jonesy understood that her place on his team was not up for debate. “See, Jonesy? What more could you ask for? She’s honest, down-to-earth, and doesn’t intend to have her friends light you on fire for wasting both her and your captain’s goddamn time.”

“Captain?” Before, Jonesy had looked like the flames that powered his anger had been diminished. Now, he looked like he’d had cold water tossed on him. It made her proud that she could do that to him in only a few sentences. She used to have to scream at him loudly enough for the whole building to hear to get him to shut up.

“In answer to your original question, no, Jonesy, I did not choose her to be on my force.”

“Then—”

“In answer to the question you were about to ask, yes, she is on your team.”

“But—”

“I don’t expect you to like it. But we both know I’d rather spend my morning writing parking tickets than concern myself with thinking about what you like and don’t like. What next? Do you plan to complain that Sergeant Goodman ate all the jelly-filled donuts?”

“He does eat all the jelly-filled donuts.” He huffed petulantly.

“And yet, somehow, you live with this injustice.” Juanita smiled at him. He swallowed, fear in his eyes. She continued, her voice saccharine sweet. “I expect you to live with this as well, Sergeant Jones, exactly like I expect you to get out of my office and get back to your job. And remember, Jonesy, if you don’t like it, you can always quit.” She smiled, crinkled her nose, and squinted her eyes just so.

Jonesy scowled at her. They both knew he’d never be able to go above her head with anything because when he got pissed, he cussed people out, and when she got pissed, she merely smiled until she won. So, he simply scowled and stormed out of her office, no doubt to yell at Sergeant Goodman about eating too many donuts. That was fine, though. Someone had to help the sniper keep the weight off, and his boss did not have time to babysit.

Normally, that attitude would extend to fresh recruits as well, but Juanita thought she owed the newcomer a minute—or not the girl herself exactly, but the questions that her presence called into existence. “Please, sit.” She pointed at a chair in front of her desk. “So, if you don’t know a dragon, why are you here?”

Kristen took the proffered chair. “Honestly, Captain, I hoped you’d be able to answer that question. When I told my dad I’d made SWAT, he was even more surprised than I was. He said I should have had at least a year on the force before they promoted me here. Okay, I did well in the academy—”

“Not that well. I’ve looked at your physical examinations and you were top-notch there but still, you haven’t been tested under real conditions. SWAT’s quite different than regular police work. We like to select from those with experience that applies to the position.”

“So, if it wasn’t the academy, why am I here?”

Juanita pushed herself to her feet. When Kristen moved to follow, she shook her head. “Sit.” She paced slowly through her office as she spoke. “The only clue I have is that Dragon Spec Ops want you here. But it can be tricky to get into the head of all-powerful, ancient, shapeshifting dragons.”

“Have you met one?” the girl asked. “A dragon, I mean.”

She shook her head, then walked behind Kristen as she crossed her office. “No. The closest I ever came was meeting that senator.” She gestured at the framed photo. “There were rumors he took orders directly from a dragon, but we didn’t talk about that, of course. Believe me when I say that if I knew what the dragons wanted with you—or with anything, for that matter—I wouldn’t keep it a secret. You met one, though, and you went to one of their testing facilities. What was that like?”

The captain moved to stand in front of the picture of her and the senator. She kept her back to Kristen. While she wanted the recruit to know her place, she also hoped to get her talking. Maybe there was a clue as to why she was there and she didn’t know it.

The girl shuffled in her seat. “The physical tests seemed normal enough—not that different than the police academy anyway.”

“You didn’t have to shoot an arrow into a target from a thousand paces or pull a sword from a stone?”

Kristen laughed at that. Good, Juanita thought, let her trust me more than the dragons.

“No, no feats of strength. But do you really think they would want people to do stuff like that? If you think about it, the last two times people rebelled, the dragons crushed us.”

“Us?” she asked.

“People, I mean.”

“Right.” She returned to sit in her chair when she realized she’d rather be able to read the newcomer’s face than passive-aggressively assert her power. Besides, she’d made her point. “You said the physical stuff was normal. Was there non-physical stuff that wasn’t?”

Kristen shrugged. “Maybe? I don’t know. They asked about the rebellions.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Essentially what I learned in school. That in the first rebellion, human mages made dwarves to fight against the dragons. They might have been able to stand against them since they’re stronger than people but instead, they made a deal with the dragons and they still own Canada because of it.”

“What did they say about that?” She scratched her head. That was basically what the history books said had happened.

The young woman laughed. “Nothing really. Honestly, it felt like I was taking a history test and barely passing. I got the sense that—never mind, it’s silly.”

“You got the sense that?”

Kristen straightened in her chair. “Well, like I said, this will sound silly, but I got the sense that they were fishing for details—like they thought I was hiding something from them. Like, for example, they kept asking me these weird questions about pixies.”

“Pixies?” Juanita raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, pixies. Mages made them in the second rebellion, but they failed to overthrow the dragons even worse than the attempt with the dwarves.”

“I’m familiar with the things. What did they ask about pixies?”

“At first, it was only regular things like have I seen a pixie? If so, where? What do I see them doing? Stuff like that.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, actually. Hasn’t everybody?”

It was the captain’s turn to shrug. “I suppose I’ve seen a few.”

Kristen nodded. Juanita thought she looked relieved. “Right, so have I. I’ll see them sometimes if I get out of the city or if I go to Belle Isle. Pixies like greener spaces, I guess. I told the dragons that whenever I see them, they do what pixies always do—stare at me awkwardly with their big eyes that are all one color.”

“Pixies stare at you, huh?” She tried to make the comment sound casual. In all honesty, she’d never seen a pixie sit still long enough to make out their eye color.

The girl laughed and seemed to be completely oblivious about how odd what she had admitted was. “All the time. Brian—that’s my brother—used to joke about it. This one time, we were camping and one watched us build the fire. It started yelling at us about not needing kindling.”

“Not needing kindling?”

Kristen smirked. “Yeah, that’s pixies for you, right?”

“I…suppose so,” Juanita said cautiously and filed the comment away for later. There was something to that, she was sure of it. “And you told this story to the dragons? What did they say to that?”

Her face told the captain she believed every word that she was saying—she had been in enough interrogation rooms to identify a lie when she heard one—but there was definitely something unusual going on.

“Nothing, really. They made notes and looked at each other and then asked me another question. That was really all they did for the entire interview. They asked some other questions about pixies too—like if they had ever listened to me or done magic for me, stuff like that—but of course they never have.”

“Of course not,” Juanita said. At least she could relate on that point.

Pixies were twitchy little things. She had never liked them. They could perform magic but were…odd. It was like they didn’t have the same relationship with reality that humans did, despite originally being made from people. They also didn’t have any kind of attention span. Pixies didn’t stare at people. They didn’t stare at anything because they didn’t sit still long enough. She had never heard of a pixie fixating on anything, let alone a human.

There was something unusual about this Kristen Hall, but she couldn’t say what. Pixies focusing on her was certainly odd, but that didn’t exactly explain why she’d been chosen for SWAT. She might have felt differently if Kristen was able to get the pixies to do magic for her. Imagine being able to make an enemy’s weapon turn into a stick or better yet, disappear.

Juanita took a deep breath and decided she’d do what she did for every complex case she’d ever been presented with. Pay attention, wait, and gather more evidence. She’d find out what was going on with her new recruit. Of that, she was certain. She only hoped to discover it before the dragons moved forward with whatever they were playing at.

She looked at Kristen and realized she hadn’t spoken for a few moments. The girl tried not to squirm in her seat, but—despite being singled out by dragons and pixies—she obviously felt about as awkward seated across from her boss as anyone else did.

The captain set her jaw. It was time for the ‘new kid’ speech. “Dragons or not, I want you to understand I won’t allow anyone to take it easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to—”

“Now’s the part where you listen.”

Kristen nodded. She was impressed with that. Jonesy would have already whined about being told to shut up.

“SWAT is serious,” she continued. “Lives are at stake here on a regular basis. In fact, that’s part of the job. It’s different for everyone, but you need to understand that you will see people die. Whether it’s a perp, a civilian who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or your own partner, you need to prepare yourself to face it.”

The girl kept her mouth shut, but her jaw hardened at the mention of death. That was good. The fact that she didn’t look surprised meant that she had thought about this already.

“On top of that, I expect you to stay in shape and stay sharp. I know you met Sergeant Goodman, but believe you me, his skills are the only reason I let his gut stay on my force. Sergeant Jones too. He may have a mouth on him, but he’s damn good at his job. I demand the same from you, do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain. I appreciate being held to a high standard. I excelled in the academy because they pushed me, and I’m ready to work hard here as well. I was an honor grad there, and I hope to do even better here.”

Juanita chuckled. “SWAT isn’t the academy, but if you come at it with that attitude, you might make it. Or you might wash out—which, honestly, would be fine with me.”

“Excuse me?” That had thrown her for a loop.

“If you decide this isn’t for you, you’re merely one less problem I have to deal with. Believe it or not, the city of Detroit keeps SWAT busy enough without me having to worry why Dragon Spec Ops sends me recruits I didn’t ask for.”

Kristen clenched her jaw at that. The captain didn’t let her amusement show, but she already liked the newcomer. She seemed to have a steel heart, and when exposed to heat and pressure, she used it to make her stronger rather than let it melt her away. That was a good attitude to have in the motor city and an especially good outlook for the newest member of the Detroit SWAT.

“Don’t think I want you to fail or anything like that. God knows we could always use more women on the force, but I definitely won’t do you any favors either. I’ll try to set you up for success like I have for every recruit who’s come through my office, but if you don’t step up? Well, that’s on you, not me.”

“I understand, Captain,” Kristen said. Her smiles and shrugs had given way to a hard jaw and a stubborn look on her face.

Juanita found she really liked this kid.

“All right, now let’s get out of my office and go meet the rest of the squad.”

“Yes, Captain Hansen.” She stood and followed her to the door.

They were about to leave when the older woman cleared her throat and turned to her. “And Kristen, if you see any dragons loitering around my station, tell them to keep the fuck moving and that there’s nothing to see here.”

“Yes, sir!”

CHAPTER FIVE

Kristen tried to pay attention to where they were going as Captain Hansen led her through the station, but her mind wandered constantly. Why had the dragons forced the woman to take her on at SWAT? Why had she asked her about the pixies? Dragons and pixies were facts of the world she lived in, but that didn’t mean they had anything to do with her…right?

She felt like pieces were moving and shifting all around her and yet she couldn’t see what shape they would ultimately form. It was beyond frustrating but, as the captain showed her to the squad room, she forced herself to push it all from her head. Now was not the time to wonder about dragons. She would work with the people she would meet in this room. It was their lives she would need to protect, first and foremost, and it was the people in this room who would protect her life—not any dragons and definitely not any pixies.

“You’ve already met Sergeant Jones and Sergeant Goodman,” Captain Hansen said cordially. Jonesy only scowled at her as he put a bulletproof vest on that—despite being a vest—still managed to look baggy on him. Butters merely winked at her.

She smiled. At least one person wanted her there.

Captain Hansen gestured at a tall man who was even skinnier than Jonesy. “The man with the glasses is Sergeant Jared Polanski.” He currently looked through the aforementioned glasses into a book.

“Beanpole is my spotter,” Butters said with a nod at Polanski. “And don’t let his glasses fool you. He needs them to read but has damn excellent vision when it comes to keeping me alive.”

“I simply try to do my job,” Polanski—Beanpole—said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Beanpole.” She assumed that if everyone was introduced with nicknames, she might as well use them too.

“Likewise. I look forward to us working together.”

There was at least one normal person on her team anyway. She found that to be a huge relief.

“This is Corporal Lyn Hernandez, demolitions.” Captain Hansen pointed to a woman in a tank top who pulled a long-sleeved shirt over her tattooed arms.

“What, no nickname?” Kristen said after a minute.

“No. No fucking nickname,” Hernandez retorted. “Is that what you think this is? Some kind of fucking club where we all hang out with decoder rings and jerk each other off?”

“You’ll have to pardon Hernandez,” Butters said, his calm southern accent a welcome change to the vitriol in the woman’s voice. “We think she blew her sense of humor off with C4 a few years back.”

“Fuck off, Butterball.” She turned her back to Kristen and snapped on a belt that had a few more compartments than the standard issue.

“Hernandez’s bark is worse than her bite,” Hansen whispered to Kristen. “But tread carefully. Her bite is fairly bad too. I’d have kicked her from the force a long time ago, but the woman has a way with forced entries. We have never seen a building she can’t get into.”

“Or a pair of pants.” Hernandez flicked her tongue crudely at the newcomer.

“Oh, now you’re a lesbian?” Jonesy scoffed.

“I don’t make such distinctions, Jonesy. The flesh wants what the flesh wants.”

“Are you coming on to me?” He smiled. Kristen found she preferred his scowl.

“Not if you were the last lump of flesh on earth,” his teammate returned smartly.

“You’ll get used to those two,” Captain Hansen said. “They’re both a huge pain in the ass but they mostly only insult each other so it cancels itself out.”

Kristen smiled. Jonesy and Hernandez would be tough, but at least the captain seemed to be in her corner.

“Speak for yourself, Captain. You don’t have to ride in a van with those two,” Butters interjected.

“I guess there are perks to being captain after all,” his boss said cheerfully. She turned to a young, attractive man with an athletic build. He had a square jaw, a clean haircut, and looked exactly like Kristen had thought a cop should look like when she was eleven years old. “This is Corporal Keith Wentworth. He was our rookie until you showed up.”

“Welcome to the force, rookie,” he said, proffered his hand, and proceeded to use it to attempt to crush her fingers in a vice-like handshake.

She had been raised by a cop, however, so she squeezed right back. At first, he looked impressed. Then, he squeezed harder so she did the same until finally, he flinched and released her. He rubbed his hand surreptitiously.

“The rookie thinks he’s my fucking shadow, so if you find yourself tangled on some clumsy fuck when you thought you were following me, it’s him,” Jonesy said.

“Now that she’s here, you can’t call me rookie anymore,” the other man protested.

The sergeant raised an eyebrow at him. “Red crushed your hand like the Sox do the Tigers every damn year, and you think that means your days as a rookie are over?”

“The Red Sox do not crush the Tigers,” Keith complained. “The last game was close.”

“Who gives a shit?” Jonesy shot back. “They lost.”

“No one. No one gives a shit,” said the only man in the room who had not been introduced.

“And this…” Captain Hansen walked over to the tall man with a furrowed brow and threw an arm around his shoulder—no easy task considering how short she was and how broad the man’s shoulders were. “This is your fearless squad leader, Alexander Drew. Sergeant Drew has already been briefed on the…peculiarities of your arrival, isn’t that right, Drew?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said and his gaze rested on Kristen. It was obvious to her what his opinion of her place on his team was, but at least he didn’t cuss her out about it like Jonesy and Hernandez.

The captain removed her arm from his shoulder and addressed the room. “Everyone, this is Kristen Hall, your new squadmate. Make her feel welcome and make sure she’s ready. As of this moment, she rides with you. Someone with far more brass on their uniform than me thinks she’s hot shit, so you all better make sure she makes it through the week without being shot.”

“What if she’s blown up?” Hernandez asked and almost sounded hopeful.

“Then it will be your responsibility to clean up the mess, Hernandez.”

The woman considered it. “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Cleaning up messes includes paperwork,” the captain reminded her.

The demolitions expert wrinkled her nose at that, but she only nodded. Kristen was beginning to fear paperwork.

And with that, Captain Hansen nodded to the squad and left her with her new team.

For a moment, no one said anything. She thought that was a good sign until she realized that everyone was staring at the team leader.

She was about to say something to break the silence, but Drew spoke first. “The Captain showed me the orders. They made it sound like you were fresh out of the academy.”

“Yes, sir, just graduated.”

“Were you in extracurriculars or something?”

Kristen had no idea what he was talking about. “You mean like…sports? I played soccer, volleyball, basketball, lacrosse—”

Jonesy snapped at her before anyone else could. “No! He means like were you in a marksman class? Maybe a human psychology class where you focused on talking down deranged fucking maniacs? Maybe a driving course where you learned how to dodge gunfire while one of your best friends tries to stop one of your other best friends from bleeding out in the neck?”

Kristen swallowed. “No…no, nothing like that.”

Butters came to her defense. “Jonesy, I dare say you hadn’t done any of that stuff before you got here either. We were all green once.”

“Not your plate.” Hernandez snorted at her own joke.

“Butters is right,” Drew said and inspired his team to return to silence. “Some experience can only be learned on the job. But can you tell us the difference between a covert and a dynamic entry?” He had a deeper voice than the rest of them—softer too, so he was almost hard to hear—but when he spoke, everyone on the squad stopped talking.

She thought back to the academy. “Uh…covert means you sneak while dynamic means you break the door down?”

“Lucky guess,” Hernandez said.

“Do you know how to run the wall?” Drew asked.

“That’s um…staying at a ninety-degree angle from each other when you break in?”

“We don’t break in,” Hernandez corrected waspishly, “we force entry.”

“And you’ve done that?” he asked and ignored the other woman.

“Well, no, but I’ve read about it,” she replied honestly.

“Ah. A reader. Good.” Drew turned away from her as if what he said had made sense.

Jonesy took up the challenge. “What about sectors of fire?”

“Or, uh…what does it mean if a room is green or red?” That came from Keith, who stood behind the skinny man and tried to look tough. Kristen thought maybe she could understand why everyone called him rookie.

Kristen knew that one. “Red means danger and green means safe.”

Jonesy ignored her and instead, turned to snarl at the other man. “Damn it, rookie, of course she knows that one. Anyone who has ever been to a goddamn roller-skating rink knows what red light and green light means.”

“Wait…does that mean that Sergeant Patrick Jones of the Detroit SWAT has been to a roller-skating rink?” Butters’ grin was even more massive than his belly.

“Of course I’ve been to a fucking roller-skating rink. Who hasn’t gone skating? Christ.”

“I’ve never been skating.” Hernandez’s smirk said exactly what she thought about Jonesy admitting to how he spent his free time.

“I haven’t either.” Beanpole looked up from his book and also grinned.

“We all know that if I started skating, I wouldn’t be able to stop rolling.” Butters guffawed at his own joke.

“Listen, you fucking smartass wannabes without a drop of class between you, pardon fucking me for not treating a lady to another boring night at a fucking restaurant and going out and doing something fun for a fucking change.”

“That’s enough, Jonesy.” Although Drew hadn’t raised his voice, the other man practically flinched at the sound of it. He scowled at everyone on the squad and went off to polish his gun, although Kristen thought it already looked like it was extraordinarily shiny.

That left the leader standing in front of her with a massive stack of textbooks in his hands. The muscles in his neck bulged at the weight and for a moment, she wondered if she’d be able to even lift the stack. This had to be some kind of test.

“These are for you,” Drew said and dumped the stack in her arms.

Kristen took a step back, caught her balance, and looked him in the eyes. He wasn’t smiling—he honestly didn’t seem like the type of person who ever smiled—but there was something in his gaze that was close to amusement. The stack of books really had been a test then, and not dropping it meant she’d passed.

“What do you want me to do with them?” she asked and wondered vaguely if she was about to participate in some kind of hazing ritual. Despite not having bulging muscles like he did, she most definitely worked out. The building they were in couldn’t have been more than a couple of stories. She thought she could take the steps with the books in her arms.

He frowned at her. “They’re books. Read them. Learn every word, concept, and acronym in them. You’re done when you know the information in there like your ABCs. I don’t want my team to waste time explaining how to ODS in the middle of the mission.”

“Or KISS.” Hernandez blew a kiss to Jonesy’s back.

Kristen looked at the stack of books she held. Her arms were fully extended so the lowest book was below her waist, yet the stack still came up to her chin. This would be enough reading to keep her occupied until it snowed. “By when?”

Drew looked at her without blinking. She noticed his eyes didn’t shift a little like most people’s did. His simply stared and didn’t move at all, frozen and looking as immutable as stones. “Every other person in this room learned all that before they were allowed through the door to even try for a place on a team. You have some catching up to do. A ton of catching up to do.”

She forced a smile. “So, two weeks?”

The man did not return the smile. “More like yesterday.”

Really? He had to be kidding, right? Kristen waited for an awkward moment. There was no way she could get through all this in a week, let alone a day. When he didn’t move or say anything else, she realized he was serious. Great welcome to the force, huh.

Finally, she put the stack of books on one of the benches, took a seat beside it, and took the top one of the stack. She opened it to a diagram of people breaking into an apartment and clearing it room by room. At least it would be interesting reading, she thought.

“What are you doing?” Drew asked and jerked her attention away from the diagrams.

“Getting to work.” She looked at him and again, he stared in return, his gaze as still as a boulder. “Sir,” she added and hoped that was what he’d waited for, although she very much doubted that it was.

“Today’s not a paperwork day,” he said.

Hernandez cut in, “And if it was, you can bet you’d be helping your team fill out their forms, not doing your homework.”

“I thought I needed to know all this to better serve the team,” she protested.

“Oh, you do,” Drew said and his stony visage finally chipped to reveal the barest hint of a smile. “But you have to learn the physical part of SWAT training too.”

“Lucky for you, we were about to train for five or six hours.” Jonesy smirked.

Kristen simply resigned herself to the inevitable and stood. “Well, then, let’s get to it. How bad can it be?”

CHAPTER SIX

It turned out there were many differences between covert and dynamic entries—far more than she’d dreamed of. Kristen worried that if they tried to do any more variations of a dynamic entry, her brain would collapse like the doors they repeatedly broke down.

They were outside, across town and in a training area that had a few empty buildings in it. A small house, a large house, and a tiny apartment block were all surrounded by a sweltering parking lot. Much of Detroit had been abandoned, then reclaimed as the wealthy moved back into the city. SWAT could have scooped up a few abandoned houses in actual neighborhoods, but it seemed they preferred to work in the desolate parking lot.

She knew she was merely bitter. The sweat that poured constantly was a major contributing factor to that.

Each exercise was basically the same—break in, make sure each room was clear of hostiles, secure any hostages, and get out—and yet her new squad knew endless variations on this simple theme.

“Breacher up!” Jonesy instructed.

Hernandez grunted in affirmation and pounded into the door with what Kristen could only describe as a miniature battering ram. The door flung open, which meant it was time—yet again—for her to spring into action.

She ran into the tiny house with Keith and Jonesy at her side.

“Living room’s clear!” she shouted.

“Take the kitchen, Red,” Jonesy ordered.

Without question, she obeyed, left her team behind, and entered the kitchen.

She found Butters bent over and digging around inside the fridge, his huge butt protruding into the kitchen.

“Butters? What are you doing?”

“I’m a hostage,” he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

In the next moment, she felt the hard punch and immediate sting of a rubber bullet in her shoulder.

“Ow! Fuck!” She yelped.

“You’re dead.” That was Drew. He’d played a hostile, which meant he basically hid in the house and shot at her. The man really was way too good at his job.

“The hostage?” she protested. “Butters was rooting around in the fridge. I thought he wasn’t ready.”

The team leader stood from behind the kitchen table. “Do you expect every situation we enter to have hostages on their knees with their hands behind their heads?”

“No, of course not, but digging in the fridge?”

“It does happen.” The rotund man closed the fridge. “Sometimes, a hostile demands a sandwich. Do you think a barbarian with a weapon will actually take the time to spread mayo on his own bread?”

Kristen clenched her teeth. It took everything in her power not to roll her eyes. She’d already been shot by countless rubber bullets and now, they talked to her about sandwiches?

“Reset,” Drew said.

“Haven’t we done enough?” She didn’t want to quit but felt like she had to. It had been a long, hard day and she was hot, tired, and wrung out. She could do more of this tomorrow, or the next day, or any time but now.

“That wasn’t a request.”

Wearily, she trudged to the front door. Hernandez kicked it in. Jonesy and Keith entered with her again. This time, the skinny man took the kitchen, which left a hall to the bedroom for the other two.

Shoulder to shoulder, they moved down the corridor and kicked doors in as they went, looking for Beanpole, Butters, and Drew. In an actual dynamic entry, the first two would be somewhere nearby, probably across the street—Butters with a sniper rifle and Beanpole with binoculars to watch his back—but Drew wanted them in the building today so they could more properly fuck with her.

She kicked a bathroom door open to find Beanpole sitting on a toilet.

“Hands up!”

Beanpole—his pants thankfully still at his waist—threw his hands up.

“I’m checking the next room.” Keith stepped back and was about to lift his leg when he stumbled. “Shoelace,” he yelled and crashed to the floor.

Kristen dropped to one knee. “Keith, you okay?”

When she turned, Beanpole had a handgun trained on her forehead.

“Reset!” Drew yelled.

“Oh, come on!” By now, she was truly frustrated. “A shoelace?”

“Believe it or not, that happens,” the team leader said as he stepped from the next bedroom down the hall.

“We added that to the routine thanks to the rookie.” Jonesy stepped out of the room after him.

Keith was tying his boot. “Now she’s the rookie.”

“She hasn’t botched one of these entries because she forgot to tie her shoe,” Drew said. “Now, reset.”

Again, they went back to the front door, kicked it down, and entered the house. This time, she found Beanpole with a gun to Butters’ head.

“Back off, pig!” When Beanpole gestured with his pistol, she leapt into action. She stepped low, put the hostage’s girth between her and Beanpole, then moved around him and struck the skinny man in the back of the leg hard enough to knock him to one knee.

“Good one,” he wheezed. It sounded like the wind had been pushed from him.

Drew stepped into the room. She had no idea where he’d been hiding. “You have good instincts. Now, reset.”

Back at the door, Hernandez kicked it down and Kristen entered. This time, the fridge was rigged with C4 and they all exploded.

“Reset.”

Yet again, the front door was kicked in. Kristen found two hostages—Drew and Beanpole—before she was tackled by Butters, who’d hidden behind a door like a kid playing hide and go seek.

“No hostile will do that. They’d have to know we were coming,” she complained from beneath his weight.

“It’s happened before. Reset.”

Kick down the door and race through the living room. Someone shot her through a door.

“Reset.”

Kick the door…living room…man hiding a gun behind a goddamn bouquet of flowers.

“Reset.”

Door…living room…one of her squad was struck in the head with the leg of a chair and died.

“Reset.”

Door…living room…hallway…weird smell…gas leak sparked when the hostile fired a weapon…everyone dead.

“Seriously?”

Drew nodded. She had really begun to hate his nods. “It happened once in ninety-six.”

“It was a fucking tragic one.” Jonesy grinned. “There was a pie in that oven. Apparently, the hostiles had stopped fighting and had made up, but when they heard a knock on the door, the man grabbed his gun instead of answering. Police kicked it in. He fired. Boom. I guess the pilot light was out.”

“Then it didn’t happen to SWAT,” she grumbled as she trudged yet again to the front door for another practice run.

“It didn’t happen to SWAT because we train.” Keith clenched his jaw and tried to look tough. She understood why everyone else on the team called Keith rookie—he seemed so much like a kid who tried to act like a cop instead of an actual cop—but she didn’t find it annoying like Jonesy and Drew seemed to.

“All right, ready.” Kristen sighed. They’d been at it for hours. She was exhausted but she wouldn’t quit. Not on day one and not doing an exercise the rest of the squad found to be important enough to spend a day doing.

“Let’s switch gears,” Drew said. “You’ve had enough forced entries for the day and you’ve shown some improvement.”

“I died nearly every time.”

“True. But not every time. That’s better than Keith’s first day.” From Drew, that almost seemed like a compliment. “You really do have good reflexes. That’ll get you a long way. You merely need to keep practicing these drills so the movements are second nature. You’ll get there.”

She beamed. Now that was an actual compliment.

“What is she going to suck at next?” Hernandez smirked. “Target practice? Disarming explosives?”

“Combat exercise?” Jonesy suggested wryly.

Drew considered it for a moment, then nodded. “Why not?”

They all scrambled into a SWAT van. Beanpole drove, Drew rode shotgun, and the others sat in the back. The van was blessedly air-conditioned but the ride was too short. She was so tired she almost nodded off, but before she could actually do so, they arrived at a gym.

They separated to change and Hernandez begrudgingly showed her the way to the women’s locker room.

“Don’t expect them to go easy on you because you’re a woman,” she said as they found open lockers. “They sure as shit didn’t go easy on me.”

Kristen wanted to see if that was why the woman had been so hard on her but decided this was probably not the time. Besides, “Is that why you’ve been such a bitch?” was rarely a question that went over well with anyone.

Instead, she remained silent and simply stripped her body armor off—relieved to be free of it not so much because of the weight but because her skin could now breathe—and changed quickly.

She slipped on a pair of sweats, a fresh sports bra, and a tank top, and turned to find Hernandez staring at her, slack-jawed.

Instinctively defensive, she folded her arms in front of her chest. “I don’t really care if you’re a man or a woman, sexual harassment is still sexual harassment.”

“No. It’s not that. White girls aren’t my thing, anyway.” The woman seemed genuinely dumbstruck.

“Then why the fuck were you watching me change?”

“How many times did you get hit with a rubber bullet today?” she asked.

“I don’t know. A lot?”

“Where are your bruises?”

Kristen looked at her arms. They were bruise-free. She peeked inside her tank top—she’d been hit once right above her boob and that one had hurt like hell. There wasn’t a bruise, though. “Maybe the Kevlar—”

“Kevlar is there to make sure there are bruises. Even from rubber bullets.”

She shrugged. “I’m a fast healer.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Hernandez muttered and headed to the door. “Come on, and uh…sorry for staring. I… I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine.”

“Good. If you’re fine that means I don’t have to take it easy on you.” And in an instant, her vinegar was back.

They found the rest of the squad in a large room with a padded floor. A sparring room, obviously.

“Partner up,” Drew instructed and folded his arms in front of him.

She found herself working with Keith. They went through a few light exercises, practiced a few kicks, and generally warmed up. After a few minutes, it was time to fight.

Hernandez and Jonesy went first. Kristen didn’t think she’d ever seen a fight so dirty before. Neither of the combatants had any issue with gut-shots, hair-pulling, crotch-hits, or anything else. The fight was supposed to end in a pin, but it ended in a stalemate. He had a fistful of his opponent’s hair, and she literally had him by the balls. “Nice fight, for a Mexican.” He groaned.

“We both know I would have beaten you faster if I could actually find the shriveled little blueberries you call your nuts.”

The team leader broke it up. “All right, you two, good fight. Well, good for you two anyway. Let’s see Kristen and Keith.”

Kristen hoped the way they fought was an exception, not the rule.

“Rookie vs rookie,” Butters said. Somehow, when he said it, it didn’t sound quite so bad.

Her opponent stepped into the center of the room. He put his mouthguard in and punched his gloves together.

She nodded, flexed her back, and moved to stand opposite him.

“Fight!” Drew commanded.

If Keith had any reservations about fighting a girl, he’d overcome them long before. He attacked immediately and threw a punch as soon as he was in range. She dodged and retaliated with a jab of her own, but he was taller than her and outside her reach.

He attempted another punch but she blocked it, then rocketed a leg into his ribs.

Although he grunted and stepped to the side from the impact, he wouldn’t be defeated so easily. He brought both fists down on her back with enough force to make her stumble, but she didn’t go down.

Kristen had wrestled her brother since she was a little girl. Her current opponent was obviously stronger but he did not compare in mass to Brian trying to squish the air out of her.

She used the distance between them to rush forward, stepped left to dodge his punch, and caught him on the jaw with an uppercut that was strong enough to knock the man on his ass.

Keith didn’t stay down, but he didn’t exactly get up either. He tried to push himself to his feet but fell again.

“She knocked the balance right out of him,” Butters exclaimed.

“I don’t fucking believe it,” Jonesy added as if his expletives truly contributed to the conversation.

Her opponent finally managed to get back to his feet—technically there hadn’t been a pin—but Drew called the fight for Kristen.

“Let me have a round with Red.” Jonesy licked his lips. It seemed that Hernandez had only threatened to crush his nuts. He looked formidable as he stepped in front of her and tilted his head from side to side to crack his neck.

Drew shook his head. “No way, Jonesy. You have an ax to grind. We’re not doing that today.”

Much to her surprise, though, the team leader stepped up in front of her.

She swallowed. Keith was big, shorter than Beanpole but broader too, and definitely broader than Jonesy. But compared to Drew, he looked average. This man made her feel like she faced off against a brick wall, or maybe a gorilla—or better yet, a gorilla made of bricks.

“Are you ready?” He slipped his mouthguard in.

All she could do was nod.

“I’ll give anyone three to one, any amount you want, if you put your money on the redhead.” Suddenly, there was a fistful of cash in Hernandez’s hand.

“I’ll bet fifty bucks, but you gotta give me five to one,” Butters countered.

“Done!” The woman beamed.

Kristen didn’t know whether to be flattered that Butters had put money on her or offended that he’d demanded a five to one payout to be willing to do so.

“I have twenty bucks that says Red goes down in twenty seconds,” Jonesy said and tossed cash on the mat.

“She’s a fighter.” Beanpole added a twenty to Jonesy’s. “My money says she lasts a minute.”

“Ten seconds.” Hernandez added a twenty to the pile.

“A minute thirty.” Butters winked at Kristen. “I have to hedge my bets.”

“Ready?” Drew said around his mouthguard. She didn’t know if he was asking her or Keith, who stared at the pile of money but seemed incapable of choosing a time after losing to her.

She nodded again.

Drew surged forward.

Kristen tried to use her smaller size to her advantage and bounced away on her feet, assuming he wouldn’t be as quick as she was.

She was wrong.

He swung after her and made her think of the mountain goats that—despite weighing hundreds of pounds—could balance on rock shelves only inches deep.

When she tried to tuck around him, he responded with a punch and she was forced to stop and block.

It was like being struck with a hammer fired from a cannon, except this cannon had rapid-fire mode. He punched again and again, each strike powerful and each one from a slightly different angle and she realized he was testing her defenses.

Kristen caught each blow on the back of her gloves and felt the strikes in her bones.

On his fourth punch—fifth or maybe even ninth, she couldn’t be sure—he drew back, but she could tell he was aiming for her gut.

Quick on her feet, she moved out of the way and pounded him in the kidney with every ounce of force she could muster.

Drew grunted and shoved her back with both hands.

She almost fell but managed to stay on her feet. That was a good sign. A push meant he wanted distance from her, which meant he was intimidated…maybe.

“Nice hit. You’re strong. For a girl.”

He returned to the attack. This time, she didn’t try to avoid him. Instead, she wove between his piston-like punches and delivered one of her own at his chin. He leaned back to dodge the blow, but she could see the surprise on his face. He had thought he’d had her and was surprised that she’d made it so close.

Without hesitation, she went on the offensive. She rained punches on his arms in an attempt to get past his gloves to pummel his middle, but she couldn’t find an opening.

As soon as she realized she’d overcommitted, a gloved fist collided with her ear and she stumbled.

“You’re good. Fast.”

Kristen decided she’d had quite enough of his sparse little compliments.

She rushed in and feinted a few times. Drew blocked lazily and she dropped to one knee and tried to sweep his legs out from under him.

He jumped over the kick like he’d seen it coming a mile off. Before she could get back on her feet, he shoved her from behind and she sprawled across the mat.

A mad scramble brought her back to her feet but not quickly enough. By the time her gaze settled on Drew, all she could see was a gloved fist. It caught her in the face and her feet left the floor exactly like Keith’s had.

The mat offered scant protection and before she could so much as move, he was on top of her.

Jonesy counted, “One…two…three!” It was all over.

He pushed himself off her, then reached down to help her up with a gloved hand.

“That was damned impressive,” he said after he removed his gloves and his mouthguard.

“I guess. But you won,” she mumbled.

“But you won me sixty bucks.” Butters collected the stack of money.

“You owe me fifty, Butterball, so don’t go thinking you’ll go out for a nice dinner or anything.”

Butters paid Hernandez but he didn’t seem to mind. “Ten dollars is enough for chicken and waffles. That’s one thing this city does right.”

The two began to argue about the best place to get chicken and waffles and if ten dollars really was enough to pay for it. Kristen ignored them. Her stomach felt sour. She’d honestly thought she could win.

Drew fixed her with a solemn look that held no trace of mockery. “Seriously. You have real potential. Your form is rough—obviously—but if you’re willing to put in the work, well, you might actually be able to beat me one day.”

“You never said that about me,” Keith whined.

“Because that wouldn’t be true, rookie,” Jonesy interjected.

“Honestly, though, Kristen. You might have what it takes, but it won’t be quick and it won’t be easy.” The team leader gave her a long stare. “You’ll have to put in some work.”

“Sir, there’s nothing I like about quick or easy. I joined the police because I wanted to work. My father did this job for thirty years. My goal here is to make him so proud he’ll be a little jealous.”

“Even it means having your ass kicked every day?”

Kristen grinned at that. If this was what they called an ass-kicking, she could handle it. The rubber bullets had hurt and yes, her pride had been bruised after he’d knocked her to the mat, but that didn’t mean she intended to give up.

Not now and not ever.

The dynamic entry drills had been hard, but she was ready for a challenge. The police academy had been tough, but she had still passed with flying colors. Maybe SWAT would finally present the challenge she had searched for her entire life.

“Sir, if that counts as an ass-kicking, don’t be pissed when I kick yours.”

Drew finally smiled at that—actually smiled—and slapped his gloves together. “Good. Let’s go again. Your eyes need to follow my core. That’ll help you anticipate my movements.”

They got back to work and she tried—and failed—to work his body as well as he did hers. By the time they were done—after what felt like hours later—she felt good but exhausted. Her ribs ached, and she knew that no matter how rapidly she healed, she’d feel this workout in the morning.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The decommissioned SWAT van pulled into the parking lot and made no effort to slow despite the bumpy gravel road. How Jonesy had come to possess the vehicle was something Kristen didn’t even want to guess at. She hoped that however he’d acquired it, Captain Hansen had overseen some part of the exchange. In the back of her mind, she had visions of him sneaking into a parking garage and boosting the van, but she told herself that was a fantasy. Probably.

They’d driven the old clunker for miles, ostensibly to a bar, but she could now see that she had been way off on that mark.

“I thought you said we were going for a ‘pleasant, relaxing evening.’ An airsoft range doesn’t exactly sound relaxing,” she said to Keith before the van hit a bump and she had to shove her red hair out of her face. She and Keith were in the back of the van—along with Hernandez and Butters—on a bench that ran along the side and had decidedly unimpressive seatbelts. Jonesy and Beanpole were up front.

At least she had chosen to wear jeans and flats. She’d dreamed of joining the police for years so she preferred pants to skirts anyway, but this was still something of a surprise after being invited to “happy hour” for the first Thursday on the job. She had thought her new team knew somewhere with decent drink specials.

“We’ll relax afterward,” Keith said and tried to sound tough.

“You sure didn’t,” Hernandez said. Besides the single moment in the locker room, the woman still hadn’t shown Kristen anything approaching kindness. It was vaguely comforting to see that at least she didn’t show anyone else much respect either. “Keith cried like a baby for a week. He said the welts were too painful on his pompis.” She slapped her butt—helping to translate from Spanish. The woman glared at her. “We’ll see if you do any better.”

“Do you really think I’ve never played airsoft before?” It was pure bluster, of course, but because she hadn’t didn’t mean she or anyone else had to know that.

“You look like the only exercise you did before this was Pilates and CrossFit,” Hernandez sneered.

She wasn’t exactly sure how that was an insult, but the woman chuckled as if it was so she tried to look offended.

“Don’t be scared of Hernandez. She’ll more than likely blow herself up out there,” said Butters.

“Oh, shut it, Butters. We both know you’re the easiest target to hit on the whole damn field.”

“What we all know is that —despite my love of all things fried—I’ll hit you long before you hit me.” He patted his big round stomach like it was only a joke but Kristen was eager to see the sniper in action, even if he would only use airsoft guns.

The stripped SWAT van stopped with a jerk and a moment later, Jonesy swung the door open with enough force to explain the state of disrepair his vehicle was in.

“Are you fuckers ready to rock or what?” The sergeant grinned.

“Watch your language, Jonesy, there’s a lady present,” Hernandez said and elbowed her way past Kristen as she did so.

Kristen climbed out of the back of the van. As she waited for Keith and Butters, Beanpole stepped out from the front seat.

“Are you ready to enjoy your evening?” he asked Kristen pleasantly. After a few days of working together, she already found his unceasing politeness to be at odds with everyone else.

“Battle Royale in five minutes,” a voice yelled over the PA.

“Wicked! We have enough time to get suited up,” Jonesy said as he hauled airsoft rifles from the back of the van and passed them out. “I’ll settle up with the greedy bastards while you guys get suited up. Which one of you pussies wants a canvas shirt?” He pointed toward the booth where they had to pay to use the course.

Hernandez hooked a thumb at Kristen. “White girl does.”

“Anyone else?” he asked.

Butters chuckled. “There’s no way they have my size.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Beanpole said.

“Keith?” Jonesy raised an eyebrow.

“You know I’m with you, sir. I don’t need a shirt unless you advise…that is—” Keith stammered until the other man cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. For fuck’s sake, you little kiss-ass. I’m not gonna get one so you better not either. Only Red, then?”

“I’m fine,” Kristen said quickly.

He grinned. “Are you sure? These guns are right at the legal limit. The shit stings.”

“Tell me what rules you play by,” she said, hoping there were multiple sets of rules and she didn’t sound like a total phony.

“Everyone will have ninety seconds to get to whatever position you want to be in before I come to shoot you, then it’s a free for all,” he said. “If you are hit, you raise your dead-flag so no one will shoot you while you get out of our way and make for the sidelines.” Jonesy tossed her a red bandana. “Last man standing wins.”

“Or woman,” Hernandez grouched.

“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Jonesy said and hurried off to pay for the round while the rest of the team checked their rifles and put goggles on.

A few minutes later, a claxon blared, and they all ran into the arena.

Kristen had to admit it was a cool space. About as big as a football field, the arena was filled with structures made of wooden pallets—one of which was multiple levels high—plus barrels, and even a pair of burned-out dumpsters in the center. It felt delightfully post-apocalyptic to run into the area, get away from her co-workers, and turn to try to hunt them.

Except she had never hunted anything that hunted her as well.

The claxon blared again, and the soft pop-pop-pop of airsoft rifle fire erupted in the arena. She had to dive and slide behind a pile of pallets to avoid being hit but rolled easily back to her feet. Thankfully, she’d played almost every sport there was, so sliding through the dirt was second nature to her.

She poked the barrel of her rifle out through the pallets and tried to get a feel for where everyone had gone. There were other people on the field too—teenagers, mostly, and a few hunter-types—but she didn’t really care about them as it quickly became obvious that her team was there to dominate the match.

A huge shadow moved through the upper level of one of the pallet structures. Butters?

It had to be. Anyone who approached the fort was picked off the second they raised their rifles.

Kristen would save him for later.

For now, she had to—

“Surrender!” Keith had his rifle trained on her back. He’d snuck up while she attempted to get a feel for the field.

“How does that work?” she asked and turned slowly to face him.

“You, uh…surrender?”

She smirked. Fat chance.

With the hope that she could catch him off guard, she dove into a roll and tried to bring her rifle to bear, but he had the drop on her. She had to still raise her rifle and aim while all he had to do was pull the trigger. He did so, of course, and fired dozens of tiny pellets that rocketed toward her at hundreds of feet per second.

Kristen blocked them with her gun—all of them. She simply held her weapon up and deflected the rounds until Keith—his jaw practically on the dusty ground—stopped firing.

While he stared in shock, she raised her weapon and shot him in the chest.

“Ow, shit! Okay, okay. You got me,” he said and rubbed his chest as he walked toward the side, muttering, “My fucking nipple. Ouch!”

Beyond her grin, she realized she had also learned her first lesson of airsoft. Much like an actual combat zone, it was suicide to sit still.

She didn’t know where the rest of them were, but because she knew Butters was probably in the tower, she headed that way and dodged from pallet to barrel, crouching and sprinting. It was a ton of fun. It was weird how she had basically done this all week—sprinting through cover while she infiltrated locations and pretended to face off against hostiles—and yet with a toy gun in her hand, it didn’t feel like work.

Perhaps halfway to the tower, she found more of her team.

“Fucking suck it, Beanpole!” Jonesy shouted as he leapt out of one of the dumpsters and fired at the other man, who tried to get a bead on his boss.

“Oh, dear, enough. Enough!” Beanpole protested as he was pelted with pellets.

“Hey, Sarg,” Kristen said, her weapon raised and ready.

The look on the skinny man’s face when he turned to see the force’s newest recruit already unloading pellets into his chest was priceless. It slid from shock to horror to a mere smidge of amazement before it settled into straight-up laughter.

“You fucking got me,” he said and rubbed his chest where the pellets had struck. “Two left. If you win this, you’ll officially be tougher than Keith or Hernandez.”

But she barely heard him and already ran toward the pallet tower where Butters was hiding. If she couldn’t get inside, there was no way she could beat him.

She dodged from a barrel to another stack of pallets, then low-crawled over.

Shots rang out and she scrambled behind a barrel. Damn it. He had seen her.

Still on her feet, she sprinted to the next available cover—two barrels with a third on top—but it was too far. Her opponent fired and led her expertly and Kristen—with nothing to hide behind—brought her gun up and used it once again to block the pellets.

The string of colorful profanities that erupted from the two-story pallet fort all but confirmed that the southerner was indeed in there. She didn’t think anyone else could possibly use the word “declare” with as much emotion and vitriol that he put into it.

Kristen made it to the three barrels and paused to catch her breath.

“Come on out and I’ll fry you like a battered drumstick,” Butters shouted from his hiding place.

“More like you should come to me. Isn’t that what a southern gentleman is supposed to do?” she yelled in response.

“Now why would I do a fool thing like that?”

“Because you’re cooked, Butterball.” Someone darted away from the bottom level of the fort. She had forgotten all about Hernandez. The woman dashed out from the two-story structure and laughed maniacally as what sounded like a string of firecrackers detonated inside.

Except firecrackers wouldn’t have been able to cause the entire structure to groan and finally collapse in spectacular fashion. A brilliant flash flared from the bottom floor, followed by the wood cracking loudly as the entire structure came down. Before the dust had even settled, Kristen darted in, found Butters amidst the wreckage, and aimed her rifle at his big belly. “Do you surrender?”

“Ha-ha, nope. Not to someone ʼbout to get shot in the back.”

“Shit!” She flung herself onto the pile of broken pallets beneath her as Hernandez opened fire. It had clearly been a mistake to assume that the explosives aficionado would wait for her destruction to be complete before she darted in, but she’d obviously underestimated the woman. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

But what Butters had said earlier about Hernandez was true. Despite her having the advantage, she didn’t manage to hit her. Kristen again used her weapon to block—and drew the same confused look from the woman that she’d received from everyone else who’d seen her do so—and shot her.

“Okay, Okay. You fucking got me.” Hernandez threw her death-rag up in disgust.

Kristen didn’t take any time to gloat. Instead, she turned and shot Butters.

He grunted in pain but quickly began to laugh. They both knew he deserved it because he’d been reaching for his weapon while she was otherwise occupied.

She helped him to his feet and they made their way out of the airsoft arena.

They found the owner—or manager or someone who obviously cared about the place—chewing Hernandez out. “I told you not to come back here, goddammit. We’re holding you liable for the damage you caused.”

“What damage? She knocked a bunch of fucking pallets down,” Jonesy argued.

“Those fucking pallets were insured.”

“Show us the paperwork,” Kristen said. “I’d be interested to see how that structure passed inspection.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow at her. That was as close as he’d come all week to actually saying she’d done a good job. But, as usual, he didn’t actually say anything complimentary and instead, turned to the pissed-off manager. “I have your paperwork right here,” he said and slapped a wad of twenties on the table.

“You already paid with a card for the first round…” the manager said cautiously.

“And for the second round too. This is only so you remember the night when a goddamn newbie beat what I thought was the best squad in SWAT in a private match.”

The man nodded and made no effort to count the twenties. The stack was thick enough that he didn’t need to. “This should cover the pallets—”

“It fucking better,” Hernandez said.

He scowled at her. “But it doesn’t cover her entry. We’ve been over this, Mr Jones. She can’t bring bombs in there.”

“You call those bombs? If I’d brought a bomb, you would’ve known it,” the woman protested.

“It’s fine. I was gonna sit this one out anyway. You can keep me company,” Jonesy said.

She scowled but she didn’t object.

“What do you say? Do you boys want a rematch?” Kristen asked. Despite the intense gameplay, she wasn’t really winded, merely warmed up. It felt way too good to shoot the people who’d shown her what she’d done wrong all week long.

Butters shot a look at Beanpole, who nodded. Both men looked at Keith, who glanced indecisively from one man to the other until Butters finally cleared his throat suggestively.

She understood what they had in mind before Keith did—haze the new kid and all that. That was fine with her. She’d known she’d get this kind of treatment as both a rookie and a woman but simply hadn’t thought she’d be armed when it first happened. As things stood, she almost pitied them.

“Unless you boys are chicken?”

“The only one of us who is chicken is me, and that’s simply because I ate some for lunch.” The rotund man chuckled but it sounded hollow. Oh yeah, they definitely intended to team up and take her down a peg or two—or try to, anyway.

The claxon sounded and they sprinted into the same arena. It was unchanged except for the pile of rubble at one end.

The boys immediately separated, and she had no doubt of their strategy. Butters would try to get into position while the other two attempted to distract her.

For now, she kept an eye on the sniper. He vanished among the dumpsters, some of the only cover in the arena big enough to hide his bulk completely.

The other two hastily found suitable positions. Keith ducked behind a couple of barrels and Beanpole behind a wall of pallets that in no way hid his height. She would have thought him foolish if she hadn’t known they had a deliberate intention to lure her to attack.

Well, the best way to defeat an enemy was to use their strengths as weaknesses, so Kristen played into their little ambush. She approached in a crawl until Keith caught sight of her and opened fire. Quickly, she rolled behind a pile of pallets, found a loose one, and picked it up with her left arm and wielded it like a shield.

The man gasped—actually gasped—when she held the pallet with one hand. She used the opportunity his astonishment provided to pepper him with pellets. Her accuracy was slightly out with only one hand free to fire the rifle so instead of a tight circle on his chest, she delivered the barrage to his entire torso, legs, and face.

He fell and moaned in pain.

One down. She made a mental note to get him a beer later. While her successful “kill” was satisfying, she hadn’t meant to shoot him in the face.

Beanpole fired at her before she could raise the pallet to block, and one of the pellets bounced off her arm. Did that count as a hit? It hardly hurt at all. Surely it was merely a glancing blow.

Kristen brought the pallet into position before the tall man landed any further shots but of course, that was what Butters had waited for.

A line of pellets rocketed toward her. She barely had time to drop prone and go beneath the fusillade.

“That’s downright impossible,” the sniper yelled.

She had no idea what he was talking about—the pellets hadn’t been that fast and she assumed his gun must have been low on air or something—but she didn’t waste his surprise.

On all fours, she scrambled toward Beanpole, came up in a crouch, her gun aimed, and fired at her tall teammate.

“I surrender, please! We always do this to newbies, not only girls,” he said and held his gun and his death-rag together in one hand. He touched the growing welts on his neck and chest tenderly with the other.

In that moment, she honestly didn’t care about that. She simply wanted to win and there was only one person left.

“To the death,” Butters shouted.

Kristen shook her head at his mistake. His voice had echoed, which meant this would literally be like shooting fish in a barrel.

She approached the dumpsters and found—unsurprisingly—that Butters was not positioned between them.

“Gee. I wonder where Butters is?” she said as loudly as she could without it sounding obvious.

“Right here, ya Yank—” He wasn’t able to finish. As soon as he’d darted up from the dumpster she’d already guessed he was hiding in, she sprayed his giant belly with pellets.

He immediately collapsed into his hidey-hole with a clang that rang through the arena.

The sound was quickly swallowed by Jonesy’s uproarious laughter. “That was pretty damn good, Red! I’m glad I sat that one out.”

Kristen smiled and started for the exit.

Butters caught up to her. “Hey, no fair,” he said. “You were hit.” He pointed to the welt on her arm.

“I thought you said it would hurt.”

“It does,” Beanpole said. He and Keith waited for them at the exit and both were covered in welts.

“Next time, I think I’ll go for the canvas shirt,” Keith said weakly.

Jonesy laughed even louder at that.

She merely smiled. Their antics tonight—and her success—made her think she’d make it with this team after all.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Alittle stiff, Kristen dragged herself out of bed on Friday morning. As she limped through her early-morning routine, she wondered if she was in better or worse shape than anyone she’d faced during the week.

She made her way to work, parked, and headed past the front desk and to the lounge for a dose of coffee. There hadn’t been time to make herself a cup at her apartment as she’d slept in.

Keith, Beanpole, and Butters had gathered in the lounge, all slumped together on the couch and nursing cups of coffee. Butters had a donut.

“Well, look who it is, the bringer of welts,” he said by way of greeting.

“Good morning,” she replied brightly as she selected a mug with a bulldog wearing a police hat and fixed herself a cup of coffee.

The peppy greeting had been the right response. Keith and Beanpole both glared at her and she could understand why. Their arms were basically all welts. Ah…nothing tasted as sweet as gloating with kindness.

“Be a dear and get me more coffee?” Beanpole asked her.

“It’s right there.” She nodded at the coffee maker.

“I know, I know. Forgive me for asking.” He shoved himself to his feet and groaned mightily as he did so. The movement was pained and he looked about as limber as an eighty-year-old. He bumped into Keith, who uttered an equally pitiful moan of protest.

“If I’ve bumped you, then pardon this.” Beanpole put a hand on his shoulder and used it to push himself up. The other man practically writhed in pain.

Kristen watched the entire pathetic spectacle. She didn’t think she’d seen anyone so sore since Brian had tried out for the football team in ninth grade.

“Are you as beat as us?” Keith asked her once he had his whining under control.

“Not really, no. But I guess you have to be shot for it to hurt, right?”

Butters laughed at that. Keith and Beanpole smiled indulgently at her, but either they didn’t have the energy to laugh or they simply didn’t find her overwhelming victory very funny.

Sergeant Drew entered the lounge, frowned at the grown men on the couch, and grabbed a donut. “What the hell happened to all of you?”

She raised an eyebrow at the team, eager to hear how they’d spin this one.

“Rough night,” Keith managed as if that explained anything.

“Did you have a good time at the airsoft course?” Their leader appraised their welts and bruises. “Were other cops playing too or something?”

“We definitely faced a cop.” Butters glanced at Kristen.

“You should’ve seen these fuckers.” Jonesy burst into the room, his grin wider than she had ever imagined was possible. He swooped in front of Beanpole, who still hadn’t managed to hobble to the pot of coffee despite it being literally across the room.

“Is this your work, then?” Drew asked.

“Ha! I wish.” Jonesy fixed his coffee languidly while Beanpole tried to get past him.

“Pardon me,” the tall man said.

“Just a moment, my man.” Jonesy slapped his teammate on the back in what might have passed as a friendly gesture if the man hadn’t gasped as if he’d been stabbed.

His reaction seemed to be what the sergeant had wanted as he stepped out of the way of the coffee maker and leaned against the counter to grin at his boss. “These three numbskulls tried to triple-team Red. It was fucking epic. She fed them their asses on a goddamn silver plate.”

“Is that right?” Drew looked impressed.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Beanpole hedged.

“She’s played before,” Keith protested.

“We were beat pretty bad, yes,” Butters admitted.

“She strung them along like fish on a line.” Jonesy laughed. “It was like watching Wonder Woman—no, wait, more like Captain USA or whoever the fucker it is with the shield. She picked up this pallet and pop, pop, pop.” He mimed using a shield to block gunshots. “It was fucking wicked.”

“She was with you and Hernandez, then?” The leader’s eyes didn’t leave Kristen. He seemed to be appraising her.

“No fucking way. Hernandez blew shit up in the first round and was DQ’d. She’s probably gonna be pissed about that today, by the way. Anyway, me and her sat the second round out. It was literally Red—fresh out of the academy, first week on the force, look-at-my-beautiful-fucking-hair Red—versus three of Detroit’s finest. Well, two of its finest plus the fucking rookie.”

“I’m not the rookie.” Keith protested, but his heart wasn’t in it. Last night had proven he still had far too much to learn.

“She peppered them more than Butterball’s famous white gravy.” Jonesy laughed.

“There is such a thing as too much pepper, by the way,” the sniper added.

“I’m surprised you got them all so bad,” Drew said, but he didn’t look surprised. He looked impressed.

Kristen tried not to let herself smile too broadly. “Thank you, sir.”

“Are you paying for it in bruises today?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Not really. I was only hit once.”

“Yeah, but the day after my first time playing airsoft, I felt like someone had remodeled my thighs with ice cream scoops,” Butters said.

“Eh, I do squats and all that every day. My legs are fine.”

“Plus, you were diving around. Aren’t you bruised?” Keith asked.

It was as if the memory of her dodging him and getting back on her feet flitted across his face like a replay. It was a different dynamic but a satisfying one—to be in the station and see these people’s work faces and yet know she’d whooped them all in a sport they had far more experience in.

Kristen took a sip of coffee. “I heal quickly.”

“You don’t seem to have a mark on you,” Drew said.

“I don’t. I took a shower, had some sleep, and I’m as good as new.”

“That’s good. But I guess we haven’t pushed the training hard enough. Today, we’ll—” He fell silent when the radio on his shoulder blared to life.

“We have a ten-forty-five in progress at a pawn shop. Three hostiles and four civilians reported. One officer is down.”

“Where is it?” he asked.

The radio operator gave him the directions.

“We’re on it, but isn’t someone else closer?”

“They have firepower beyond what the police are equipped to handle. The building is locked down and officers are maintaining a perimeter until SWAT arrives.” The radio crackled.

“On our way,” Drew said. Jonesy was already running to the parking lot.

Keith and Beanpole dragged Butters to his feet. The three men groaned as they did so but not one of them complained.

“I hope you’ll do as well with real guns as you did with toys last night because you’re coming too,” their leader said to Kristen.

She nodded. Her confidence from the night before had evaporated like a cup of lemonade spilled on a sidewalk in July.

They hurried through the station toward the parking lot to find Jonesy and Hernandez already there and suited up.

“Get the fuck in,” he said.

“Everyone, armor up. Even you, Butters,” Drew ordered. “Apparently, the hostiles have heavy-duty artillery. I want helmets on the whole time unless your eye is pressed against a scope.”

Kristen snatched a bulletproof vest up.

“Dress as we drive. We have potential hostages.” The team leader climbed into the passenger seat in the front of the van.

“There’s no time to make yourself pretty, Red.” Jonesy took the driver’s seat.

She ignored him and climbed into the back of the SWAT van with Keith, Hernandez, Beanpole, and Butters. This one was in noticeably better shape than the decommissioned vehicle the team had used the night before.

The tires screeched and they lurched into motion before she’d had time to buckle up. She barely managed to snap the clip in place and avoid being hurled off the seat. Safely strapped in, she heaved a breath. They were on their way.

“Are you all right?” Butters asked as soon as they’d cleared the parking garage.

Kristen shook her head, then nodded. “I’m fine,” she blurted.

“You don’t look fine. You look chicken-shit scared,” Hernandez said as if they were about to go on a particularly exhilarating rollercoaster ride rather than face people who would try to kill them with advanced weaponry.

“Do you really think that’s appropriate right now?” Beanpole asked as they jolted over a bump.

“There’s nothing wrong with being scared.” The woman made herself sound casual. “I was scared my first time out—so scared I nearly pissed myself. That reminds me, Kristen, did you use the potty before we left?”

“Oh, hush,” Butters said.

“I’m fine. This is what we’ve trained for,” Kristen said.

“A good point.” She loved Butters. Despite only knowing him for a week, he always seemed to have her back.

That was a welcome change from Hernandez, who seemed determined to get into her head. “Yeah, but we trained in an empty building, not a pawnshop. There might be a perp waiting in there with a chainsaw.”

“Girl, hush.” The sniper huffed his irritation.

“Don’t listen to her. They’ll have guns, exactly like they always do,” Beanpole said as if that was supposed to make her feel any better.

“I remember my first time,” Keith ventured.

“When was that exactly—last week?” she quipped.

“No, not that. Last year. I had been on the force for about two weeks.”

“Oh, so we’re not talking about sex?” the woman yelled over the screech of the van’s tires as they took a turn.

He turned bright red, which inevitably made Kristen wonder what exactly Hernandez was referring to.

Kristen wanted to learn how to channel the demolition expert’s energy. Despite them being moments away from armed combat, she looked calm and in control. Although maybe she could learn to be that way without putting everyone else on edge.

Keith looked distinctly uncomfortable, but like her, he seemed to try to force himself to stay calm. “It was a liquor store hold-up. The hostile had a shotgun. You’ll never guess the value of the whiskey this guy blew to pieces.”

“A tragedy.” Butters nodded.

“I didn’t get hit, though. I managed to dodge a shot and the guy’s gun jammed. That was plain luck. I bashed his head in with a liquor bottle.”

The sniper chuckled at the story. “The mountain of paperwork on that one.”

“What about your first time?” Kristen asked Butters. She hoped the man’s sense of calm would also apply to combat stories.

“Now there was a lesson to be learned there,” he started to reply. But before he could begin the actual story, the van squealed to a halt and Jonesy yanked the back door open and yelled at everyone to get in position.

“Places, people—on the double!”

For a moment, Kristen thought Jonesy and Drew had set this all up as some kind of elaborate drill. When everyone poured from the van like ants, though, she knew this was the real deal.

They were parked in the back of a strip mall’s parking lot. Housed within were the typical businesses of low-income neighborhoods—liquor store, dollar store, a payday loans place with barred windows, a pawnshop at the end, also with barred windows, and a row of bicycles with a chain threaded through their wheels.

Butters and Beanpole immediately jogged away from the pawnshop. It occurred to her that they were panicking like she was, but then she remembered—duh—that one was their best sniper and the other his spotter and they would obviously move to higher ground—presumably on the roof of the fast-food burger joint across the street.

“Hernandez, I want you at the door. It’s plate glass, so they’ll see us coming. We’ll need a plan for that. Keith, you have my back,” Drew ordered.

“Where should I go?” Kristen asked, but that only earned a glare from him.

“Jonesy, take Kristen around back. See if there’s another exit and check if they have a getaway vehicle. I don’t want any heroes, you understand? You find an unlocked door, you let me know. Take it slow, everyone. I’m not sure what kind of firepower they have in there, but we know it's big, whatever it is.”

As if those inside had listened to his orders, gunfire erupted from the pawnshop. In less than a minute, a hail of bullets had obliterated the front of the store and the police car the Detroit Police Department had left parked there.

Kristen was amazed at how well the gun disassembled the barriers in front of it. In one moment, there was a plate glass window and in the next, it was full of holes. Spiderweb fractures raced out from the punctures before it all shattered and fell in a spectacular shower of glass.

A part of her doubted the criminals’ wisdom in destroying this wall of glass, but there were two reasons this wasn’t the tactical blunder she first thought. The first was that bars still blocked the entrance across the front of the store, where the glass had been only moments before. The second was what happened to the police car.

She would later be unable to describe the destruction of the vehicle without using the words ‘chewed up.’ To her, it looked like the car was simply devoured by bullets. Its wheels deflated and paint and glass flecked away in a fountain of destruction. One of the bullets found a home in the engine as well and steam began to spray from the now-demolished vehicle.

Its utterly wrecked state seemed to suggest that it should, by rights, have exploded.

“Consider that your warning to not go inside. These guys are packing heavy heat,” Drew said and nodded for them to go around the back.

Jonesy nodded impassively as if he’d been sent for water refills instead of possibly to his death. Kristen nodded as well, but she was shaking. Suddenly, her bulletproof vest seemed less than adequate. She tightened the strap holding her helmet on and jogged after Jonesy.

They hurried around to the back of the strip mall—fortunately, the pawnshop was on the end—and only then did her companion stop.

“That’s a baby-blue mint condition 1971 Dodge Charger parked out back,” he said.

“Yeah, so?”

“Do you know who would rob a pawn shop with a mint condition Charger?”

“Someone who’s not trying to steal much big stuff?”

“The Breaks.”

“Who?”

“A local street gang. They mostly boost cars, tear ʼem to pieces, and sell the parts. Last time I heard, the Breaks didn’t have weapons like what these fuckers have.”

“Yeah, well, last time I checked, they actually obliterated the front of a building. Should we check the door and tell Drew about the car?”

He nodded and approached the door, hugging the wall of the back of the pawnshop. Fortunately, there was no plate glass there, only good ol’ one-hundred-percent opaque brick.

As they edged forward, her teammate turned his radio on.

“Drew, we have a fucking mint baby-blue Charger back here so it’s probably the Breaks inside. We’re checking the back door now.”

He inched his hand toward the back door to the pawnshop. To both his and Kristen’s surprise, the handle turned.

It wasn’t locked, not even from the inside.

“Drew, the hen house is not secured,” he said into his radio. There was no response, only static. “Drew?”

Jonesy took his radio from his shoulder and smacked it with his hand. Obviously, he wasn’t an engineer. He seemed to know this as well and when his plan to simply thump the technology didn’t work, he turned to her and told her to try her radio instead.

Hers didn’t work either.

“Something’s jamming the system?” she asked, as weird as it sounded. Criminals jamming radio signals was not something they ever touched on in police academy.

“We’re on our own here.” Jonesy smiled. He didn’t look half as nervous as she felt.

“Should we go out front?” she asked and immediately wanted to kick herself for sounding like a coward.

Fortunately—or unfortunately depending on one’s perspective—he didn’t pick up on her fear.

“No way, Red. We have an unlocked back door. What we do is wait for the next round of assault rifle fire, the sound of breaking glass, and we go in. They’re obviously focused on the front.”

“But what if one of them is back here?”

“Then we eliminate the fucker. This is the Breaks we’re talking about. If we were driving, I’d advise caution, but these assholes don’t know a firecracker from a firefight. I don’t know where they got these guns, but there ain’t no fucking way that whoever gave them the arsenal trained them on how to use it properly.”

More gunfire erupted from inside the building. Jonesy glanced at her. “Are we ready?”

“No!”

He ignored her and flung the door open, waited for a heartbeat, and stepped into the opening with his shotgun raised.

She regretted that she only carried a pistol, but she followed him all the same.

It took a moment for her to adjust from the bright sunlight and drab tan paint of the outside of the pawnshop to the dim fluorescents and crowded space of the interior.

They were on the other side of a freight door that opened into the back of the showroom—or whatever the hell one called the makeshift corridors made by shelves crammed with guitar amps, yard equipment, TVs, and microwave ovens. From their position, they could see out the damaged front of the shop but didn’t have visuals on any hostiles.

Her teammate motioned for her to stand beside him so that when they reached the end of the little aisle they were in, they could look in both directions and cover each other. Kristen—extremely pleased with herself for reviewing the SWAT operations manuals and therefore able to understand his hand signals—moved into position. Her training and the fact that they weren’t under fire yet both helped her to feel a little calmer.

She was still definitely freaking out but was now maybe at a nine thousand, five hundred percent level instead of her earlier ten thousand.

More gunfire erupted. Inside the pawnshop, it was deafeningly loud but also confirmed that the hostiles had absolutely no idea that the two of them had infiltrated the building from the rear.

Their advantage was short-lived, however. One of the gang members spun into the front of the aisle that the two used to sneak forward and leveled a massive handgun at Jonesy.

Kristen didn’t have time to think, only to act. She felt a wave of protectiveness wash over her—this was her partner, her mentor, and maybe even her newest friend—and she body-checked him into a shelf.

“Damnit, Red!” he said as he bounced into the shelves and fell.

The hostile didn’t seem perturbed about missing his original target. He fired his cannon of a handgun into her chest instead.

She fired her weapon and in the same moment, felt the force of the hostile’s bullet strike her in the chest and tumble her forcefully.

A splash of blood confirmed that she’d hit her man, but one of the shelving racks sagged and overturned above the SWAT duo.

Not that she really noticed. The bullet felt like a freight train had pounded into her lungs. It was hard to think, let alone breathe.

“Cover your head, Red!” Jonesy shouted before he immediately disregarded his own directions and crawled on top of her. Instead of simply power tools and musical instruments falling on her, it was those plus him.

The shelves themselves connected painfully with his back and he grunted at the collision.

Apparently, the rest of the team outside had been watching. Once the shelves had fallen, she heard voices of men and women as they rushed into the pawnshop. They sounded so far away, though, and all Kristen could really hear was her own labored breathing.

“Lemar’s down! Let’s fucking go.” That had to be one of the criminals.

Two men—Kristen thought it was two but it was hard to tell while pinned under both a man and a shelf—raced past them toward the back of the store.

As soon as they were gone, Jonesy pushed himself off her and used his back to lift the shelf. Now that the crap that had been on it was all over the floor, it wasn’t particularly heavy.

That was the moment when she realized she might’ve cracked a rib. The skinny frame pushing on her should not have hurt nearly as much as it did. She gasped in pain.

He thrust the shelf over the other way. “Drew will be here in a minute. Tell him about the fucking car. We should’ve slashed the goddamn tires. That was fucking dumb of us.”

“Wait…for me,” she wheezed. It seemed that in addition to a possibly cracked rib, the gunshot had slowed her reaction time. He was her partner and she couldn’t let him run off without her, even if all she wanted to do was put her head between her knees and breathe.

“For fuck’s sake, Red. You already took a goddamn bullet for me on your first fucking week. Stay here, okay?”

“Jonesy—” Kristen gasped but he had already scrambled through the wreckage of the shop and headed to the back door.

Despite her aching chest, she shoved herself to her feet and stumbled after him.

She made it to the exit in time to see him stop firing at the retreating form of the Charger.

He reloaded his weapon as the car raced down the back of the strip mall. “The fuckers think they’re smart. They knew they couldn’t go this way or we’d blow their asses to kingdom come, but you better fucking believe Drew has that way blocked too.” He grinned.

The blue Charger raced past the back of the tan strip mall.

Suddenly, her radio blared to life. Obviously, whatever had blocked the signals was gone.

“Hostile vehicle escaping. Should be at choke point in three…two…” Before Drew could finish his countdown, an explosion detonated at the far end of the mall. It didn’t touch the getaway vehicle at all.

“Officers down. I repeat, officers down! Careful moving in. There might be more explosives.”

“Those fuckers set a trap,” Jonesy said as he watched the blue car turn onto the street and accelerate away, leaving the annihilated police vehicle behind it. A few wailing sirens followed, but Kristen knew they’d escape. The thought of that made her head swim.

Her teammate rounded on her. “You know you shouldn’t have fucking done that, Red. I have armor, too. It’s not your goddamn place to take a fucking bullet. Okay, it was brave—real fucking brave—and stupid enough for me to be impressed but it’s not something that—Red?”

Kristen tried to keep up, but it was all too much. Being shot at, almost crushed, shooting someone, and actually taking a bullet finally overwhelmed her. She sat on the curb, tried to catch her breath, and only succeeded in fainting.

CHAPTER NINE

When Kristen regained consciousness, her first order of business was an attempt to protest what her boss was doing to her, but Captain Hansen was adamant. “You’re bruised to high heaven and you have two ribs cracked in three places. You’re on leave until you can take a breath without coughing, and that’s final.”

“But Captain—” She tried to argue but that only made her cough again. Having the wind knocked out of you and cracking ribs was apparently not much good for one’s debate skills.

“My point exactly. You did well out there. I won’t risk losing you because you’re not at full strength.”

“My training—”

“Can wait. Take a few days. Call me when you can hold a conversation. That’ll still be too soon to come back but at least I’ll know you’ll be ready in a few days after that.”

She took a deep breath to protest further, but it hurt so she shut up.

Captain Hansen nodded at that, pointed her to her clothes folded on a chair in the hospital room, called her a cab, and left.

Resentful, she forced herself to dress. She wasn’t that hurt, other than not being able to really talk, or so she thought until she actually saw the injury. The entire left side of her chest—from her collarbone down past her breast, from sternum to armpit—was an enormous bruise of various colors.

Kristen touched it to find—big surprise—that it hurt like hell. She wisely decided to obey the captain’s orders and at least not call until the bruise had mostly healed. Knowing her body, that wouldn’t take long. Or she hoped so, anyway. She’d never been shot before.

Finally, she checked out of the hospital to find a cab waiting for her. He had her address but instead of agreeing to be sent home, she told the cabbie to take her to her parents’ house.

The drive took about thirty minutes from the hospital nearest the pawnshop in Eastpointe to where her family lived in Dearborn.

She tipped the driver well—both for the ride and for not bothering her with any attempts at conversation when she slumped in the back seat—and entered her parents’ garden.

In her mind, the home she grew up in was an archetypal Michigan suburban house and she had no problem with that.

A massive pine tree anchored the well-manicured front lawn. A small hedge of green mountain boxwood battled lilacs for dominance below the front window. The boxwoods were her father’s preferred landscaping plant and the lilacs were her mom’s favorite. She had always found the longstanding argument kind of cute, but currently, she found it insane to think that people could spend years arguing about the merits of various landscaping choices in the same world where people shot others and knocked shelves filled with chainsaws onto those who tried to stop them.

Kristen rang the doorbell twice in rapid succession, then once more after a moment—the family’s secret ring. She stepped into the screened-in front porch, took her shoes off, and found her dad watching the Tigers on the couch.

“Krissy, sweetie! Have you come here to bust your old man? Let’s hear you do the Miranda rights.”

“I think I’m a few steps above that,” she wheezed. It was already less painful to talk but still not easy. It mostly only hurt to take a deep breath now.

“Is that right? Did you earn some PTO or something? Well, why not get us a few brewskies and regale your old man with your first week on the force?”

She fished a few beers out of the fridge and frosty mugs from the freezer. Despite her dad working in law enforcement for years, he was not above stealing mugs from bars. “What about the game?”

“Fucking Tigers. They were up six—six goddamn runs—in the second, and now it’s the ninth and they’re down three.”

“They could still come back.” Kristen poured the beers. She poured one too fast and the foam overflowed, then froze solid as it tried to race down the outside of the ice-cold mug. As a little girl, she had always found the effect magical. She licked the outside—who was she kidding? Frozen suds would always be magical—and handed the licked mug to her dad.

“I don’t give a shit if they do come back. This should’ve been an easy win, but sloppy play put them in a hole. Serves them right. Thanks, by the way,” her dad finished sarcastically and grimaced at the tongue-print on the mug, but he didn’t reach for the other one. His kids had licked his frosty mugs since they were old enough to get them from the freezer for him.

Kristen sat on the couch beside him. He muted the TV but didn’t turn it off or turn to look at her—a classic Dad move that didn’t faze her at all.

“How’s Mom?” she asked.

“She’s fine, probably wondering what SWAT’s newest member is doing at her parents’ house in the middle of the day.”

She swallowed. “Okay, I assume Captain Hansen didn’t call you.”

Her dad belched. “Tell me what?”

Carefully, she put her beer down. “Dad…I was shot.”

Frank Hall dropped his mug and it shattered loudly in the startled silence.

“For fuck’s sake, Krissy! When? Why the fuck weren’t we notified?”

“It only happened today.” Kristen darted up and went to find a rag. “Some assholes tried to rob a pawn shop.”

“Jesus! And you’re here?” He seemed distracted and looked from her to the spilled beer as if not sure what to focus on. Kristen realized dimly that she could have given her dad a heart attack. She wisely ignored the spilled beverage and broken glass for a moment and sat again.

“Yes. It hit my Kevlar, so I’m fine. Dad, take a few deep breaths and calm down.”

He nodded. “Right, yeah. Get me an aspirin, will you?”

She stood quickly and retrieved an aspirin and a glass of water. He swallowed the pill, washed it down, and leaned back on the couch. She wiped up the beer and the glass, then took her place at her dad’s side.

“Well…what happened?” he asked. “And go slow, for Christ’s sake.”

“The important thing is that I’m fine. Okay? I am bruised fairly badly, but it should be fine in a few days.” She pulled her shirt down to show him the massive bruise on her collarbone.

“Where did you get shot? In the boob or something? Krissy, you’re beautiful but I don’t want to see that. Show your mother.”

“No, Dad, I was shot here,” Kristen pointed to the place below her collarbone, only to find the bruise had shrunk from where it had been only an hour before.

“I guess I can understand why you’re not freaking out,” her dad said hesitantly.

“But… That’s impossible. I…it was right here. I have two cracked ribs too.” She felt her ribs. They still hurt, but she realized she wasn’t short of breath anymore.

“It doesn’t look like you were shot, Krissy. It looks like you dodged a goddamn bullet. Maybe this is a sign or whatever, like your mother says.”

“A sign of what?”

“That you should ask for a different assignment. You’ve been on SWAT for a week and you’ve already been shot. There’s obviously been a mistake.”

“Dad, I saved my partner’s life today.”

“Oh, you’re telling me he wasn’t in a vest and you were?”

“No, of course he had a vest too, but if I hadn’t acted—”

“Kristen, if you’d have been a second faster or slower, you’d be dead right now.”

“I don’t know why you’re freaking out. I’m following in your footsteps and only trying to be a good cop like my dad.”

Something came over Frank’s face when she said that. A whole series of somethings really—doubt, guilt, shame, and finally, resolution when his gaze found her face again.

“Kristen…” He looked away, took a deep breath, and made himself look at her again. “I’m not your father. Not biologically, anyway.”

For a moment, she felt nothing at all. This was like when Brian had told her she’d been left at their house by pixies—it was a joke, obviously—but her dad’s expression didn’t seem to suggest humor. Besides, jokes weren’t really Frank Hall’s thing.

“Mom…had an affair?”

He snorted. “Do you think she’d go out for a slice of bacon when she could have the pork roast at home?” He rubbed his potbelly.

“Dad, are you seriously saying I’m adopted?” She pushed off the couch with her beer and began to pace.

“Yeah. Well, kind of. Look. You should probably sit for this. I don’t want to have to steal another pair of pint glasses. It’s easier to walk out with only one.”

She slammed the glass on the table and whirled on him, her hands on her hips. “What the fuck is going on? Are you telling me I’m not family?”

Frank smiled and she immediately regretted saying that. It was the same smile she’d seen when she’d first learned how to swim, or when she’d scored her first goal, and that had sent her off to prom. Whatever Frank Hall intended to say, she was certain of one thing—he was still her dad.

“No,” he told her and the steady smile she knew so well never left his face. “If there’s one thing I am certain of, it’s that you are my family.”

“Then what are you telling me? Where did I come from?”

“I honestly don’t know, Kristen.”

“You don’t know how some random baby came into your life?”

“No, I know how we found you, but I just don’t know if we’re actually family. My sister Christina brought you to us. You were still so tiny so you must have been only a few days old.”

Kristen couldn’t speak. In fact, despite her driving need to pace, all she could do was hold onto the table and attempt to stay standing.

“She asked if we could protect you.” Frank uttered a weak laugh and shook his head as he looked at her. “Your mom said yes before I could even get my head around what was happening.

“So…so I’m your niece, not your daughter?”

Her Dad—Frank? Uncle Frank? Her head was spinning—only shrugged. “I asked Christina when she’d gotten pregnant. We weren’t all that close and saw each other for the holidays and sometimes talked on the phone. But still, I think she would’ve told me if she was knocked up, you know?”

“What did she say?”

“She didn’t answer me and only told us to keep you safe. Then, as soon as she saw Marty pick you up and smile, she left.”

“You never called her?”

Frank shook his head and snorted, his go-to response when he didn’t want to cry. “She died in a car crash that same night. Some asshole ran her off the road—at least that’s what the evidence looked like to me, an experienced fucking police officer. The official report said it was an accident. It was bullshit is what it was.”

“Did you investigate?”

“I could have. I sure as shit wanted to, but Marty talked me out of it.”

“Why would she do that?”

“Because she loves you, Krissy. She loved you the moment she saw your bald little head with that weird little tuft of red hair on top of it. I was ready to raise holy hell for Christina. She was scared, Krissy, damn scared. Of what, I don’t know, and I wanted to find out. But your mom wouldn’t have it. She said we should name you Kristen in her memory and forget all about it.”

“But…but how could you? You don’t even know if she was my real mom.”

“Marty’s your real mom,” he said pleadingly as if he tried not to allow his heart to break. “She was from the moment she laid eyes on you.”

“You mean she’s my real mom despite the fact that she’s lied to me for my entire life?” she snapped.

“We both did, Krissy. We had to. Your Aunt Christina…she was as smart as they came. She studied to be an evolutionary biologist or something—I never really understood half the shit she talked about. She worked at one of the only places that didn’t shut down when Detroit hit rock bottom. Rumor was it was funded by…” He looked around as if there might be people listening in his own living room. “By dragons.”

Kristen finally sat. Her dad wasn’t actually her dad, and her mom wasn’t her mom? Kristen was their niece or…or…something. She didn’t know what to think.

“So, you can see why I’ve been nervous about all this police academy stuff and your assignment to SWAT,” Frank said. “I think maybe your mom—that is my sister Christina—was trying to protect you from the dragons for some reason. Maybe they’ve found you again and are…I don’t know, doing something to my little Krissy that I don’t like. I think that, given what’s happened, you have an opportunity to get out. Your captain will understand. Not everyone can take getting shot.”

“Yeah, but I can,” she yelled. While she hadn’t meant to lose her temper she was unable to help herself. “You’re telling me that you hid this from the world for my entire life. You let them cover up your own sister’s murder and you think I should simply walk away?”

“I can’t let you get hurt, Krissy.”

“I’m a grown woman and I’m not even your daughter. You don’t get to decide what I can and cannot do.”

“But Kristen, you are our daughter. You were from the moment we took you in.”

“Then why did you lie?”

“We didn’t feel like we had a choice. We did it to protect you.”

“Well, I don’t feel like I have a choice about sticking with SWAT.”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” he countered and his face grew red.

“Stop trying to control me.” She almost screamed the cliché of how he wasn’t her real dad but didn’t. Instead, she burst into tears and headed to the door.

“Krissy, goddammit—Kristen!” Her dad—Frank, his name was Frank fucking Hall—yelled after her. “Kristen, come back here. Please.”

Kristen shut his pleas out. Instead, she snatched up the keys to his car—a problem of the suburbs was that bars were rarely in walking distance—and got the hell out of there.

By the time she made it to the bar, the baseball game Frank had been watching was over. Normally, the Sports Bar would be full, but given that the Tigers had lost, it was mostly empty. That suited her down to the ground.

She pulled a stool out, dropped her elbows on the lacquered wood in front of her, and ordered a whiskey and a Labatt’s blue to chase.

The bartender put her drinks in front of her and opened her tab. “Cheers.”

After a curt nod of thanks, she swallowed the whiskey, followed by half the beer. Ugh. She should’ve asked for something from a higher shelf. Even with the beer to chase, the whiskey wasn’t great. She ordered another from a different bottle. Her bartender grunted a “good choice” at her selection and served her the drink.

“Now there’s a woman who knows how to drink,” a man said and gestured at her whiskey.

“Yep, well, it is one of the body’s primary functions. It’s actually fucking amazing that women know how to do it as well as men when you think about it.”

He obviously didn’t know what to do with her rebuttal, so he smiled a little nervously. She studied him openly and tried to decide how far up his own ass she should tell him to go fuck himself.

The stranger was handsome in a roguish kind of way with short, almost white, gelled hair. He had keen eyes and what she would later describe as a pointy smile. Surprisingly, he wore a blue seersucker suit, complete with the vest but no tie—a screen-printed t-shirt hid under the shirt—and his dress shoes looked like they’d been polished moments before he’d stepped into the bar.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Kristen wanted to tell him to buzz off, but something about him made her think he was something more than a creep trying to pick up a drunk woman. The suit, for starters. Creeps tended to wear clothes that were less…conspicuous. Also, she was something of a sucker for a British accent, even though he tried to hide his.

“Sure, have a seat, but if you think you’ll get me drunk, it absolutely won’t happen.”

“I saw you down that whiskey. You hardly flinched. I wouldn’t be surprised if you could breathe fire.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. It was a figure of speech, obviously—dragons were a regular touchpoint when it came to idioms as they’d shepherded human culture since the beginning, after all—but the comment coming so soon after her conversation with her dad was…well, eerie.

“Get this man two whiskeys and a Labatt’s. My tab,” she said.

“No, please—really, I insist.”

“You can get the next round if you can make it through that.”

He nodded politely and took a seat, downed the two whiskeys back to back, and sipped the Labatt’s blue. It must have been a trick of the light, but she could almost see smoke pouring out his nose as he put his beer down.

“I’m Chadwick, by the way—Chadwick Kensington.”

“Chadwick Kensington? You must be joking.”

“I’m afraid not. It can be a bit much in this day and age and indeed, this country, but there was a time where it was as a common a name as…”

Kristen looked at him. He smiled with an eyebrow raised at her. Oh, right, duh. “Kristen Hall.” She raised her beer and he did the same. “My friends call me Kristen.”

“I’ve been trying to get my friends to call me Ken.”

“Ken, I like that. But it’s not working?”

“No.” The man’s expression soured. “They insist on Chadwick, despite it being decidedly unusual.”

“Well, I’ll call you Ken, Ken.” She grinned and realized that the whiskey had set in.

“Much appreciated, Kristen. So, what brings you to a sports bar after the game is over?”

She pointed to the wall of whiskey.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Point taken. Tony, can we trouble you for another round? My tab this time.”

“Of course, Mr. Kensington.” The bartender retrieved a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet and poured them each a drink in a crystal tumbler. She had no idea the bar actually had crystal, but at least she now knew that Ken had been there before. If he turned out to be a creep, the bartender would be able to corroborate his description to the police. She paused when it occurred to her that she was the police now.

They sipped their whiskey and Kristen tried not to let her face show how good it was. It was amazing that the same ingredients—in this case, grain alcohol, treated barrels, and time—could produce products of such different quality. The whiskey she had first drunk tasted like gasoline, the next like smoke, and this one tasted of fine tobacco, chocolate, and hazelnuts, with a heat that dried the mouth and left her with the taste of oatmeal smothered with brown sugar. She was happy he had put this round on his tab. That one drink of whiskey probably cost more than all she had ever drunk in her whole life in total.

“So, what brings you here?” she asked him.

“I love the feeling of bars once people have left. You can still feel the people and sense their presence, but it’s not as loud.” He chuckled.

She decided she really didn’t know what to make of this guy but thought perhaps his appearance began to make more and more sense. The kind of guy who snubbed his nose at cheap whiskey, wore seersucker suits, and complained about noisy bars seemed like the kind who would have his ass kicked on a fairly regular basis. She was certain of one thing though—she didn’t feel threatened by him. Something about him was simply…calming.

“Feel their presence, I get that.” She took another sip of her whiskey.

“How do you mean?”

“Have you ever thought you know someone, only to find out you really don’t and that they’ve lied to you for all the time you’ve known them?”

“I must admit, I know the sensation. Tell me, is it friends or family bothering you?”

Kristen scoffed at that. “Neither? Both? I don’t know anymore, honestly. My family situation suddenly became more…complicated. Okay, I love my dad, but it turns out he’s not… Well, let’s say he’s not the man I thought he was.”

“Fathers rarely are. They’re only human, after all…mostly.”

She nodded. “You have a point, I guess. He’s not a monster.”

“Then consider yourself lucky. My father is—by virtually every definition of the word—as monstrous as they come, but at least he made me who I am.”

After a moment’s thought, she shook her head. She didn’t like it, but what he said struck home. She was who she was because of Frank, and she liked who she was—well, mostly. For one thing, she didn’t like how hard her first week of SWAT had been. Things were supposed to be easy for her but her last week had definitely not been that.

“What do you do for work, Ken?” she asked, hoping to change the subject. She could already see she’d have to apologize to Frank, and she’d have to talk to her mom too.

“Ah, Americans…never one to bandy about with simple conversation when we could talk personal economics.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Ken waved her apology away. “Please, it’s fine. I’ve grown up with means. My father made very savvy investments a long time ago, so I’ve never had to work. It’s a defense mechanism of the wealthy to avoid talking about wealth. If you like, I could regale you with tales of me sailing my yacht around the horn of Africa or of parties with prestigious English playwrights.”

“I doubt I’d know who the hell you were talking about. I don’t know any playwrights.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve at least heard of one or two of Bill’s plays, but that’s fine, I’d rather hear about what you do for a living.”

“I’m on SWAT.”

“SWAT?” Kristen couldn’t tell if he was impressed or was asking for clarification.

“Special Weapons and Tactics. You know, the police in the armored vans with the big guns.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the television programs. Is it really like it seems? Seizing caches of weapons and stopping robberies?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really know. I’ve only been on the team for a week.”

“Ah.” He sounded slightly disappointed. “So only paperwork, then?”

Her smirk crept in unbidden. “Well, earlier today…”

For some reason, she trusted him and told him all about her last week of work. The tale covered her hostile team members, her gives-no-shits boss, the headache-inducing training sessions, and taking a bullet at the end of it all. Putting it all together in one half-drunk explanation made her realize exactly how crazy it all was. She’d been there a week—a week—and so much had already happened. It made her feel like she’d slept through the police academy and indeed, most of her life.

“I honestly don’t know why it’s so hard,” she finished. “I’ve always been a star athlete. I did well in school, and for whatever reason, SWAT is somehow way harder than all that put together.”

Ken chuckled. It was a pleasant, polite kind of chuckle that mostly came through his nose. “One thing I’ve learned from my…er, position is the value of patience. Maybe you’ll need more than one week to be as good as the people who have been there for years.”

“Yeah, well, when you put it like that, it sounds obvious. I guess I need to keep training.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard to see what’s obvious in one’s own life.” He shrugged. “We often need a different perspective—a dragon’s eye view, as it were.”

“Yeah…the view from above,” she said and lost herself for a moment while she stared at the bottom of her glass and the amber liquor therein before she downed it. “Tony?” she raised her glass for a refill.

“Is that wise, Kristen?” her companion asked.

“I thought you were trying to get me drunk. Alcohol is a necessary ingredient in that formula.”

“I thought you’d decided you need to keep training. A bar isn’t exactly the best place to hone your skills.”

“My dad was a cop for thirty years and he knew how to drink.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, but isn’t this the man you say has lied to you? Are you sure you wish to follow his advice on drinking, of all things?”

“He’s still my dad.”

“But, unless you left out a crucial detail, he was never on SWAT.”

“What’s your point?”

“Me? I have no point. I merely wonder if your father found his job easy.”

“Of course he didn’t find it easy. He was a cop. In Detroit. He used to say if he was only shot at once, it was a good day.”

“And yet you expect to master SWAT—a level of intensity your own father never made it to—in a week and with the help of whiskey?” He looked tactfully into his own glass of whiskey before he finished it quickly. “Because if you are, the least I can do is get you another round.”

“No. You know what? You’re right. Tony, let me close my tab and call me a cab while you’re at it.”

The bartender nodded.

“You know what, Chadwick Kensington? Thank you.”

Ken smiled. “For what, pray tell?”

“For reminding me that this is what I’ve looked for my whole life. I’ve never backed down from anything before and there’s no point in starting now. I’ve been there a week and already took a bullet for my partner. That’s not so bad.”

“Indeed not.”

“I’ll head to my parents’ house, hope to hell my mom and dad are asleep, and pass out on the couch. Tomorrow morning, I’ll run the four miles here to get the car and burn off the hangover I’m sure will come.”

“An admirable plan. I believe that I—having a job far less demanding than yours—will have another whiskey and wish you the very best of luck.”

Kristen nodded and left the bar. Somehow, his statement made her goals that much clearer. There were people in this world who had an easy life—she’d had evidence of one such entitled person seated beside her—but she didn’t want to be one of them. She’d worked hard to be successful for her entire life and had no intention to quit now that she finally found something that was an actual challenge.

Her taxi pulled up and she gave the man directions and returned to her parents’ house. She found her dad passed out on the couch with a dozen beer bottles on the coffee table in front of him.

It reminded her that she could do better than that. For Frank’s sake, she had to.

At about the same time that Kristen fell asleep in her old bedroom, Chadwick Kensington finished his second whiskey, tipped the bartender handsomely for continuing to care for the bottle after all these decades, and stepped out of the bar.

The night was cool and absolutely perfect, with a clear sky and tendrils of mist that hugged the street despite there not being any grates spewing vapor from Detroit’s steam tunnels nearby. He considered calling a cab himself. Even after all these years of the vehicles being around, he still found it exhilarating to race along the streets like a mouse with wheels. But the night was far too beautiful to not take to the air.

He stepped into an alley, looked at the sky, and discarded his glamor. First, his head changed. His white hair grew into white horns and his skin filled with pockmarks that separated into blue scales. Then, his fingers elongated, knuckle by knuckle, and black claws grew where nails had been. His clothing changed at the same time as his skin, fissured into scales, and expanded as his body grew from the size of a man to something that could eat a man. Finally, at his full size, he spread his wings and leapt into the night sky.

Briefly, he considered flying past the Hall girl’s house to ensure that she was sleeping in preparation for another day of training but decided against it. If she saw a dragon flying through the night it might change her immediate priorities, something he didn’t want to do and especially not after how well his manipulations had gone.

After speaking to the girl, he thought the others were right. If they were, her priorities—and indeed, her entire life—would change soon enough.

CHAPTER TEN

The door flew open and thunked against the inside wall. Kristen wasted no time, rushed in, and scanned to her left and then right using the light mounted on her gun to pierce the darkness.

“Clear!”

She moved to the next room. “This is SWAT. Open the door.”

When she received no answer, she kicked the door open.

“Clear!”

In the next room, a hostile held a woman hostage with a gun to her head.

Without hesitation, she shot him between the eyes.

“Now just a fucking second.”

The voice had come from her radio and she almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn’t expected it as she knew it was after hours and she was alone in one of SWAT’s training buildings.

After a quick, deep breath, she pressed the talk button on her radio. “Who’s there?”

“Who the fuck do you think is there? It’s me, Jones.”

“Jonesy?”

“Yeah, Red, fucking Jonesy.”

Kristen scanned the room, moved quickly to the kitchen, and checked there but couldn’t locate him. She’d cleared the house, after all, so should have seen him. “Where are you?”

“I’m outside. Do you think I’m hiding in the kitchen cabinets or some shit? Come on. I’m not an idiot, especially not after the way you’ve put down cardboard cutouts.”

“How can you see me?”

“For fuck’s sake. They’re called binoculars. Have you heard of them?”

Her face flushed and no doubt turned as red as her hair. She made her way out of the house to where Jonesy walked toward her from somewhere out in the parking lot. Exactly as he’d said, he had a pair of binoculars around his neck.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Drew and Captain Hansen are right. I’m inexperienced and I don’t have a right to be here like the rest of you. I don’t know why I have this opportunity, but I don’t intend to waste it. I’ll run these drills until its muscle memory. What about you?”

He shrugged and managed a half-grin. “Sometimes, I like to come out here and shoot the windows out.” He gestured at the empty apartment block that loomed in the dark.

“But that’s police property.”

“I know. That’s what makes it perfect. They always think it’s some stupid kids taking potshots.” He laughed. “Speaking of which, you can’t take a shot like that.”

“At a building in the dark?” She had lost what he was talking about.

“No, that last shot you took inside. Someone had a hostage with a gun to their head. You can’t pop ʼem between the eyes.”

“Protocol says if you have a shot, you take it.” She was quite sure of that because she’d read the manual anytime she’d stopped her evening of training for a break.

“Yeah. You’re right—technically. But you still can’t take that shot. For starters, a hostile will see you kick the door in and all he’s gonna have to do is pull that trigger to end it.”

“Which is why I need to be faster.”

“I admire your resolve, really. I totally fucking do, but you still can’t take that shot. Even if you get to be as good a shot as Butters, you still can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because even if you make it every goddamn time, you’ll still get a hostage covered in some asshole’s brains, which is a fucking nightmare of paperwork if there ever was one.”

Kristen laughed at that. “Are you saying I should let a man go because of paperwork?”

“I mean you should think about it. If your choices are to take a shot and possibly kill some poor woman or make the shot and cover her in brains, you have to try some other options.”

“Like what?”

“SWAT’s not about one person doing the right thing. It’s about a team effort. You can’t ever take a building by yourself. That’s like a wolf running solo. That shit doesn’t happen.”

She shook her head. “I know. I know you’re right, but I don’t know what to do. I need to be better, but I can’t ask people to stay after work and help me train. I’ll simply have to continue to run the drills on my own until I’m decent.”

“That’s a fucking waste of time and we both know it.”

Finally, she sighed and nodded. He was right. This wouldn’t really work.

“Give me a second to get a vest on and we’ll run some drills together.”

Kristen looked quickly at him. He merely shrugged and cocked an eyebrow. “Jonesy, that would mean so much to me.”

“Just shut the fuck up, okay? I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for that lady who you’ll cover in brains.”

“That’s still kind of noble.”

“Ah, fuck you,” he retorted. “I told you it was a mountain of paperwork. Besides, if I can teach you to not fuck up so much, you won’t make me look bad by taking more goddamn bullets to the chest that you have no right to take.”

“Thanks, Jonesy.”

The man waved her gratitude away with a dismissive gesture. “Seriously, don’t mention it. I… Look, you have talent, okay? It’s obvious to Drew and it’s obvious to me. The way you’ve approached all this makes it damn obvious you want to graduate with honors or whatever.”

“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 down to 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 currently 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. They 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.

Drew nodded and started to smile.

Before she could question it, Keith hammered a chair onto her back. He obviously hadn’t held back at all because it splintered into pieces on her athletic frame.

The force of the blow made her stumble but she caught herself using Drew’s body instead of the ground, which earned another grunt from the man.

Kristen snagged one of the chair legs and spun to whip it into her attacker’s body. Or, at least, that was what she’d planned but instead, she caught him in the face.

“Ah!” he cried at the moment of impact and staggered back, tripped on the broken door, and crashed into the bed.

“Oh, my God—Keith, I’m so sorry!” she spluttered, finally unsure of what to do. She didn’t want to abandon the drill but she could see him holding his nose while blood streamed. Quite obviously, she’d hit him way harder than she’d intended to.

“Ith fine, ith fine,” he said, speaking through his mouth as he pinched his nose and attempted to stop the flow of blood. “Thith ith what I get for improvithing.”

She braced herself for another strike from Drew, but none was forthcoming.

The team leader merely pushed himself up from the ground—groaning as he did so, which made her feel way more proud than anyone should for punching their boss in the ribs—and told them to call off the practice session.

“Holy fucking shit, Red. That was goddamn incredible.” Jonesy nodded as he surveyed the wreckage she had left behind her. It was fairly impressive—three broken doors, a splintered chair, and two injured officers.

“Try not to break anyone’s nose next time,” Hernandez said, and Kristen frowned. Even after all these months training together, the woman still hadn’t shown her any kindness besides that one time in the locker room. “Unless it’s Jonesy’s. Someone’s gotta snap that thing back to normal.”

She grinned and relaxed. From Hernandez, that was basically a hug and a pat on the back.

“Thorry about the chair,” Keith mumbled, still pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t apologize,” Drew said and rubbed his rib where Kristen had punched him. “Hostiles often improvise, and it’s not like you hurt her. Right, Kristen?”

“I was lucky.” She shrugged. “That chair must’ve been fairly old.”

The other team members shared a look that said the chair was definitely not old.

“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. You’ve trained damn hard, and it shows. You’re faster and stronger than any woman I’ve ever met,” Drew said.

“Any woman?” Hernandez interjected. “I’ve never seen anyone—dick or no dick—fell our fearless leader with a rib punch.”

He tried not to smile at that but failed miserably. “Yeah, well, I guess Hernandez is right about that. I’ve never seen anyone outside a wrestling ring stay standing after having a chair smashed on their back.”

Kristen tried to look modest. “I told you guys I used to play sports.”

“Bullshit.” Jonesy shook his head. “You’ve put in extra hours with me every damn night—we can stop that and switch to simply getting beers by the way—and you’ve studied too. You’re better with the fucking hand signals than I am.”

Hernandez snorted. “Everyone’s better with the hand signals than you are.”

“Yeah? How’s this for a hand signal?” He extended his middle finger and stuck it in the woman’s face.

“One of my favorites. Do you want me to snap it off? You could tape it to your crotch and watch your dick double in size.”

“Enough, you two.” Drew motioned at them to cut it out. “The fact is, you’ve improved. I’ll start having you take point instead of Jonesy,” he said.

“Oh, come on. Really?” the sergeant protested.

“I’m surprised you’re complaining, to be honest. But you’re right, fair’s fair. Keith, grab that chair and smash it over Jonesy’s back. If you can stay standing, we’ll all know Kristen still has much to learn.”

“As long as we know she’s on point because she likes getting shot and having chairs broken over her. I have no fucking problems with being partnered with a meat shield.”

“Thanks, Jonesy,” she said. Like Hernandez, his compliments didn’t tend to sound like compliments but after a few months, she had learned to recognize them.

Butters’ voice spoke over the radio. “I hate to break up the lovefest, but we’re wanted back at the office. It looks like our little star has a visitor.”

“Roger. We’re heading down. Get the car running and the AC blasting,” Drew ordered.

As Kristen descended the steps of the apartment block, she beamed. She’d overcome the first challenge—proving herself to her team. Now, it was time for the altogether more difficult task of stopping criminals who wanted to shoot her instead of slow her down with chairs.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Kristen returned to the office, she immediately headed to the showers. She knew she’d done well in that last session, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hard work that made her sweat enough to soak her clothes. But before she could make it to the locker room, Captain Hansen’s voice echoed through the station from her office. “Hall, get in here.”

With a grimace—but determined to continue her so far almost perfect day—she obeyed the order.

She entered the captain’s office and immediately paused to take in the two strangers. Their presence alone was unusual, but even odder was the fact that one of them sat in Captain Hansen’s chair while the other—even more baffling—was smoking.

“Hall, meet our guests, Mr Lyra and Mrs Damos,” Hansen said. Despite having someone else in her seat, she seemed like her usual herself.

“A pleasure to meet you, Kristen Hall,” Mr Lyra drawled from the captain’s chair. He wore a black suit with a silver tie, and—the weirdest thing of all—a silk shirt with elaborate cuffs and frills on the chest that ruffled from beneath his jacket. She thought he looked like a business pirate, for want of a better expression.

Mrs Damos nodded in acknowledgment, “We’ve heard so much about you.” She wore a garish purple skirt suit with a red scarf. Either color was far too bright for the SWAT offices but together, they almost made her eyes hurt. “Captain, an ashtray?”

“Yeah, I have your damn ashtray right here,” Captain Hansen said, brought the wastepaper basket over, and held it while the woman knocked the ash from her cigarette.

Kristen had no doubt that the two guests were dragons. No one else dressed this way, for one thing. Plus, their slow and almost lethargic movements belied a hidden power. Then there was the fact that her boss allowed one of them to sit in her chair. Dragons had an aura that made most people obey their desires. Even those with strong will like Captain Hansen obeyed, albeit with an attitude and her share of grumbling. That was simply her normal demeanor.

None of this impressed her, though. “What the hell can I do for you?”

The visitors shared a look and a smile that thoroughly pissed her off.

“We simply came for an update on your progress,” Mr Lyra said and put his feet lazily on the desk.

The captain glared balefully at him, but she said nothing.

“Do you mean you came to tell me what the hell is going on?” She leveled a glare at him.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mrs Damos asked and moved closer. Her high heels—that matched her scarf—clacked irritatingly.

“You’re dragons, obviously. No one else wears frills and whatever the hell it is that you’re wearing.” She gestured to the woman’s bright colors. “So, are you here to tell me why you put me on SWAT?”

“But Kristen…” When the visitor smiled, it became apparent that her teeth were weird too. Not unattractive or anything but more like flawless and sharp. “We didn’t have a thing to do with your placement here. It was your hard work at the academy and the tests you passed that earned your place on the force. We’re simply here to inquire as to how you’re doing. The tests aren’t always accurate, unfortunately.”

“She’s doing well,” Captain Hansen volunteered, unable to resist the dragon’s request for information. “Better than expected, in fact. Hall’s performance in training is almost up to the minimum standards. And quite frankly, I don’t expect that from recruits who are dumped on my team without my permission.” She paused for a moment to glare at the dragons. It was odd to see her still trying to express herself despite the power the creatures had over her. She ostensibly treated them like the intrusive, unwelcome guests they were, and yet she didn’t protest Mr Lyra’s feet on her desk nor Mrs Damos smoking in her office.

“Well, I suppose that answers all our questions, then. Mr Lyra, shall we?”

“Indeed, Mrs Damos, we shall.”

With that, he removed his feet from the desk, stood, and smoothed his suit. Mrs Damos extinguished her cigarette on the bottom of one of her high heels—and demonstrated an incredible sense of balance—placed the butt in the wastepaper basket, and preceded him out.

“Hall, the door,” Captain Hansen ordered as she reclaimed her chair.

“Yes, sir.” Kristen closed the door to the captain’s office.

“I fucking hate those things. Being around them is like being in a damn fog. You seemed all right, though.”

“Sir?”

“Cut the shit, Hall. Who the hell are you really and what the hell did you do to attract this kind of attention? I’ve never had a dragon in my office before and now, I’ve had two. Spill it.”

“I honestly don’t know.” She tried not to shrug but failed at that endeavor. “I’ve told you everything I know. I met one at a concert, he sent me to their testing facility, then the academy, and then here.”

“So it’s a mystery?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”

“I fucking hate mysteries.” The captain took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. “And I don’t like dragons or anyone else meddling with my people.”

“Sir, does that…am I one of your people?”

“Oh, come on, Hall, you’ve been with us for months now. You’ve taken a bullet for Jonesy and somehow turned Hernandez to your side. Of course you’re one of my people.”

Kristen grinned. She honestly couldn’t help herself. “Hernandez said she likes me?”

Captain Hansen snorted. “Of course not. With Hernandez, it's more what she doesn’t say.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Your record speaks for itself. You’ve done well here, but with these dragons… I don’t want the rug pulled out from under me.”

“Me neither, sir.”

“Well, I guess we don’t have any choice but to press on, for now. You’re dismissed, Hall.”

“Yes, sir!” She turned to go but stopped when the captain cleared her throat.

“Oh, and Kristen? Take a shower. You stink.”

“Our presence didn’t affect her at all,” Mrs Damos said once they made their way out of the station.

“Indeed not,” Mr Lyra replied.

“That’s an indication that she is one of us.”

“Which is what I have said since she took our tests.”

“The results of those were inconclusive.”

“An inconclusive result means she’s not obviously human, which indicates that she must be a dragon.”

“Pah!” His companion snorted. “There have been false positives before. An inconclusive result means only that. Even if she is one of us, where did she come from? How did she come to be?”

“You ask the questions I have been asking. Do not expect me to have the answers now.” He growled his annoyance. It was a low sound more fitting to a tiger or a bear than the shape of a man, but the sound had not been made by a man at all.

“Questions swirl around her like smoke in the wind,” Mrs Damos muttered.

“Which is why the police academy was the proper choice for her. We were able to monitor her easily, and she has excelled there as few humans do.”

“And you stand by your decision to put her into SWAT?”

“Of course, I do!” He did not like being questioned. “Already, she can resist our aura. The more dangers she survives, the more her powers will manifest. If she is a dragon, her abilities will not let her die, bleeding into the gutter like a common animal.”

“And if you’re wrong? If the tests were inconclusive simply because she’s more gifted than most of her kin?”

“No one will grieve over the loss of one more human.”

Mrs Damos nodded. Trial by fire was effective at cooking meat if nothing else.

Together, the two dragons shed their human glamor and took to the sky in their true forms—a purple dragon with claws of red and a great black dragon with silver ridges that caught the wind and propelled him high above the city. The pair had ruled from the shadows since it had been founded by their kind centuries before.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Kristen left the captain’s office, Jonesy was waiting for her. “What the fuck was that about, Red?”

She pushed past him. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

He fell into step behind her. “Ah, come on, Red. Were those two motherfucking dandies friends of yours?”

“No.”

“Family, then? Perhaps a former boss?”

She reached the break room where most of the team had gathered. “I’m telling you, I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?” Butters asked.

“Who those two puffs were who just left,” Jonesy explained.

“You must have some idea,” the sniper said. “Even their outfits demand a story.”

“Dragons?” Beanpole ventured.

“Yeah, probably.” She forced herself to take a deep breath.

“Dragons, huh? And what the fuck did they want with you? Fashion advice?” Hernandez grinned.

“I was telling Jonesy I don’t know what it was all about, okay? I tried to ask them why they put me on SWAT when I’m not qualified but they didn’t tell me.”

“You weren’t qualified, but you are now.” Butters winked at her.

“Thanks, Butters. I appreciate it.”

“Maybe this is why you’re on SWAT and not working for the regular police. Your detective skills are shit.” Jonesy smirked. “You really have no guess why dragons are checking in on you, Red?”

“No, Jonesy, I really don’t.”

“Maybe she talked to them about helping her out the next time we go for a round of airsoft.”

“I don’t need help in airsoft. I whooped all of you, remember?”

Just then, Drew stepped into the room with Keith on his heels and surveyed the room. “Whatever this is about, drop it.”

“We have more important stuff to worry about,” Keith added.

“Shut the fuck up, rookie.” Despite the harsh words, Jonesy was smiling.

“You shut up, Jonesy,” the other man retorted.

“Children, enough.” The team leader’s glare finally silenced the room. “A call came in. There’s a bank robbery in progress and the hostiles are heavily armed. We’re talking serious firepower, top-notch body armor, and a bomb threat. This is as big as it gets, so gear up and meet at the van.”

“Yes, sir!” The response was unanimous and the team left to retrieve their gear.

Jonesy marched beside Drew. “Do you think it’s the Breaks?”

“Given the increase we’ve seen in activity from them lately and the weapons we saw at that pawnshop, yeah. I think so, which means no time to dawdle. No getaway car has been identified yet, but them making a break for it is the expectation.”

“Ah, fuck yeah. I have a bone to pick with those hotrod fuckers.”

“Not today, you don’t. There are hostages.”

Kristen’s heart dropped. Despite her months on the force, she hadn’t been in an actual hostage situation yet. She’d practiced forced entry into buildings with civilians but that was very different than people actually taking hostages in reality. If they messed up today, people would die—innocent people.

They scrambled into the van and drove to the bank. It was one of the nicer ones—a downtown branch on Griswold street. The lobby was on the ground floor with offices stretching into the motor city’s skyline. Classic American architecture defined the entranceway with its glass doors set behind a brick arch that was framed by unnecessary pillars that hugged the brick walls.

The bullet-shattered glass windows and two police cars that were absolutely destroyed by gunfire on either side of the stone archway added a decidedly post-apocalyptic look to the building. This kind of activity wasn’t supposed to happen in Detroit—not anymore and not since its rebirth.

“All right, listen up and look alive. We’re team A for this one. Butters and Beanpole, that means you’ll be across the street, two or three stories up. Keith, Jonesy, and Hernandez are with me. We’ll go loud and rush the front door—at least, that’s what we want it to look like. While team A holds their attention, Team B will sneak in through the back.”

“And the bomb, sir?” Hernandez asked.

“These assholes said there’s a bomb in the building, but we have no idea where. It could be in the offices above or the bank itself, or could simply be a bluff. For now, Hernandez, you’re with us. As soon as we have any intel on it, that’s where you’ll go.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about me?” Kristen asked. “Am I on team B?”

“Absolutely not. I want you in the van. You’ll bring it closer when we go in to give us a fall-back point as well as provide better cover than these police cars they have shredded.”

“But Drew, I’ve been practicing! I can go in.”

“Not today you can’t.”

“But—”

“That’s an order.”

She cursed under her breath but nodded.

“Right. Let’s go.”

Within three minutes, Butters and Beanpole confirmed they were in position for the team to move forward. Team A ran in a crouch to the police cars—everyone except for her—and drew more gunfire from inside the bank.

She sighed and put her foot on the gas to inch the van forward. More shots were fired but they pinged harmlessly off the front of the vehicle. A few months before, she might have been relieved but now, she merely found it a waste of her talents. Why had she trained so hard if they simply intended to bench her?

More shots from the bank were answered by Butters and Beanpole. The plan seemed to be working. Chatter on the radio indicated that Team B was inside and moving through the bowels of the bank.

An explosion roared over the radio and for a moment, only feedback followed it.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a voice spoke over the comms. “We have men down. A goddamn bomb went off. We…we need support. I have people bleeding all over the fucking place!”

Drew spoke over the radio. “Change of plans. We’re going in. Kristen can you—”

His words cut off abruptly, replaced by only static. She immediately thought back to the pawnshop. Hadn’t something jammed the radios then too?

Butters began to shoot in earnest and peppered the front of the bank with covering fire while Jonesy, Keith, Drew, and Hernandez moved from one of the wrecked police cars to the edges of the brick arch.

They had no sooner reached it when one of the police cars detonated. It was one hell of an explosion too, powerful enough to flip the car upside down.

Drew gestured for everyone to fall back but a volley of gunfire from inside pinned the team behind the brick walls. There was no way they could get out. Without that police car, there simply wasn’t any other cover.

“We request immediate support,” the officer from Team B said over the radio. “Mitch is coughing blood and Garcia… Garcia’s out. He needs a goddamn doctor. Maybe a fucking priest. Fuck!” Gunshots chattered in the background, followed by more static. Whatever was jamming the radio had been turned on again.

They had to act and they had to act now.

But they couldn’t, she realized with growing frustration. The entire team was pinned down and there was nothing Butters could do from his vantage point.

Another bullet from the bank pinged harmlessly off the van.

Kristen tried not to smile as a plan formed in her head. By the time she shoved the vehicle into low gear and thrust the gas pedal to the floor, she grinned like a maniac.

The armored vehicle accelerated in response and she hurtled toward the building while bullets rebounded off the armor. She was right about the space between the pillars—it wasn’t enough—and when the van tried to pass between them, it simply destroyed them completely. Obviously, they were ornamental and not load-bearing.

Beyond them was what was left of the glass windows at the front of the structure.

There was no resistance and the van careened through and released a shower of glass into the lobby, but she didn’t ease her foot off the accelerator. Gunfire continued from behind the long wooden divider that normally separated tellers from patrons of the bank and now gave the criminals cover.

Her expression grim and focused, she crashed the van through the wooden wall as well and barely lost speed until she impacted the wall behind that. This was obviously load-bearing as her forward momentum stopped abruptly.

The airbag deployed and she blacked out for a few seconds.

She opened her eyes and blinked at her surroundings before she realized dumbly that if someone had wanted to put a bullet in her head, she had provided them with a golden opportunity.

Fortunately, Team A had pushed in behind her and now had their weapons raised and trained on the robbers. It probably helped that the criminals had been even more stunned than her own teammates when she’d destroyed their cover.

“Drop the weapons, assholes, or we tell the van to back up.” That was Jonesy, her brain told her.

A clatter of weapons followed but no gunshots, so she assumed they had complied.

“The building’s secure,” Drew said into his radio. “I need EMTs in here ASAP. I have three officers in need of medical attention.”

“What if there are more bombs?” someone asked over the radio.

“These guys don’t have time.”

“This bomb is on a button trigger anyway,” Hernandez interjected. “We have the hostiles. Now get in here and save our officers.”

Footsteps echoed in the odd bubble that seemed to surround her and people ran past with stretchers. Before she could see if they returned, Drew leaned into the window.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“One. The mean one.”

“That’s right, Hall. Now get the hell out of that van.”

He helped her with the seatbelt, checked her briefly for wounds, and—finding none—proceeded to dress her down with more energy than she’d ever seen from him. “That was the stupidest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and I work with both Jones and Hernandez. You destroyed a piece of architecture that’s decades old, not to mention the antiques you turned into kindling. And then there’s the van. If the transmission is ruined, Captain Hansen will dock your pay for that. I’ve seen it before and I’ll be damned if I’d argue for anything less for someone so irresponsible.”

“Sorry, sir,” Kristen said and followed him through the trashed lobby. The van really had done a number on it. Where before, the room had been mostly intact except for the bullet holes, there was now a van-sized path of destruction from the front door to the back wall.

“Look out there.” He pointed through the hole she’d made in the front of the building.

She obeyed and looked at where the three B-team members were being loaded into ambulances. Two of them already had IVs inserted. She felt a pang of guilt. Had that been her fault?

“They’re alive because you took action. Stupid, reckless action, yes, but you saved at least three lives today, maybe more.”

Startled, she glanced quickly at him to find him smiling, his eyes moist. A tear—an actual tear—ran down his cheek. He cleared his throat. “Mitch’s wife has a baby girl due in a month. Their first. It’s all he ever fucking talks about. Now, she’ll still have a daddy, thanks to you.”

Kristen nodded, thought of her own father, and fought back tears of her own. Before she could speak, though, Drew told an EMT she might have a concussion and she was rushed to the back of an ambulance for monitoring.

They hooked her up to machines she didn’t understand and asked her questions she didn’t want to answer but at that moment, she didn’t care about any of it. She had saved lives today. After her months of training, she finally got it. This was why her dad had worked such long days and given so much of himself to his job—because saving people felt good.

For the first time since she’d joined SWAT, she didn’t question her placement or wonder about the dragon who had set her on this path. And also, for the first time, she felt like she belonged.

The EMT asked her a few more questions, but apparently satisfied, let her get out of the ambulance.

Jonesy waited for her with what she could only describe as a shit-eating grin on his face. “Fucking great work back there. I always hated the front of that butt-ugly bank.” He led her over to the rest of the team. “I think you need a new nickname, Red.”

“How about Speed Racer?” Keith smirked.

“I like it, I like it,” Butters said and rubbed his chin before he burst into song. “Go Speed Racer, go Speed Racer, go Speed Racer, go!”

“Don’t quit your day job.” Hernandez put a finger to her ear like his singing might have caused permanent damage.

“I am a little parched. Perhaps we should discuss it over a bite.” The sniper grinned.

“I got one, I got one,” Hernandez had to stop herself from laughing. “She came in like wrecking baaaaaall! Motherfucking Kristen Haaaaaall! All they wanted was to rob a bank, but they should have let her crazy ass in! Let her crazy ass in!”

Everyone laughed way too hard at that, and Kristen was forced to consider that this might be the moment that would define her career—and more importantly, who she was to her new friends.

She decided she was okay with that.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The last time John Murray had taken the Breaks to this warehouse, he had felt like he was in control. Detroit was his city, after all, and whoever the rich asshole behind the mirrored glass windows was, he would have to learn his place like rich assholes inevitably did.

But things had changed. He no longer felt in control. The last few months had started off well enough. There was nothing quite like strong artillery to make raiding pawn shops and liquor stores easy. He’d lost Lemar, which he had to admit hurt him more than he’d expected, but things had gone well—or rather, he thought morosely, well enough. But when they’d robbed that bank… It was a miracle he had even made it through that shit show to tell the tale.

Most of his gang hadn’t.

That was another reason why he no longer felt in control, despite this being the same warehouse he’d first chosen for his meeting with his armed benefactor. The Breaks were no longer the only gang present for this meeting.

He stood in front of a 1971 corvette with brown leather seats, copper paint, and chrome highlights. Behind that was a 1965 Ford Truck in blue-and-white with a brand-new engine. He’d brought the truck and hoped to fill the bed with new supplies, but looking at the other gangs present made him wonder if there would even be enough to go around.

It was bullshit, really. The Breaks had lost men—too many men—trying to prove themselves to this mysterious financier, and this was how they were rewarded?

“Where the fuck is your man, Murray?” That was Lee, leader of the Dead Reds. He picked up Chinese immigrants who were down on their luck and mostly did work with gambling, he seemed to recall. He drove a stupid tiny Honda that was more plastic than metal.

“He’ll be here,” he grumbled.

“He fucking better be,” a wannabe-thug named Marcus said. “You promised us the hook-up for the same stock you’ve been getting.”

“I didn’t promise you shit. I said I had a meeting with the guy and he wanted you there. We didn’t hook little pinky fingers like schoolgirls.”

Murray hated the man. He was covered in shitty tattoos that you could hardly make out on his dark skin and ran with the Knights, a group of crack-dealers and pill-pushers. Worse, the asshat drove a goddamn boat of a Chrysler from the eighties with dropped suspension and subwoofers he had neglected to turn off. It was less of a car and more of a traveling fucking entertainment system—a goddamn embarrassment for an American-made vehicle.

It had pissed him off to no end when the man who’d sold him the weapons had ordered him—ordered John fucking Murray—to contact the drug dealer. He didn’t want to stoop to their level but he also needed more firepower, so he’d made the damn call.

A few other gang leaders were present too, but he didn’t know their names. They were amateurs, all of them.

“He gonna show, or what?”

He scowled at Lee and returned to his corvette. He had something in the trunk for all these goddamn posers. Maybe this was a test—a last-man-standing kind of thing. He looked at his boys and was about to give them the signal when a noise from the far end of the warehouse caught everyone’s attention.

A door slid open and the black van drove in and stopped.

The man who’d opened the door to the warehouse climbed into the van and it drove forward. It turned so the passenger side faced the assembly of criminals, then stopped in the middle of the semicircle of gang leaders and their most trusted cronies.

Murray had to admit the man behind the glass had balls. Driving the van into the middle of the group was akin to a seal belly-flopping into a ring of sharks.

Exactly like before, two men dressed in black suits, ties, and sunglasses stepped out and stood on either side of the passenger door.

Again, he found himself wanting to cap these assholes. They didn’t wear armor. There was obviously no way they could fit it under their goddamn tailored suits.

“Are you here to give us some actual decent weapons this time?” He sneered.

The passenger window opened a crack and a cloud of cigar smoke poured from the gap.

“I seem to recall that I already gave you a cache of weapons, Murray of the Breaks.”

“Yeah, and we used them exactly like you fucking said. We chose bigger and bigger targets, and what did that get us?” He looked around the ring of criminals and back to the van, daring anyone to say a word. “A fucking headache, that’s what. We raid one bank—one bank—and the goddamn SWAT team showed up with armored vehicles and machine guns and snipers. We need better tools to even the odds.”

“Bullshit,” Marcus interjected. “You had your opportunity. It’s time to see if the rest of us have what it takes. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To break the Breaks?”

“You will not speak to me that way again, Marcus of the Knights,” the man said from the vehicle.

“Marcus of the Knights? What the fuck do you think this is—the round table in King Arthur’s Court?” He snorted at the members of his gang and they laughed. No one else made a sound, though, and the silence soon swallowed the Knight’s attempts to make light of the situation.

The window of the van rolled up.

The thug laughed again, although it sounded forced. “Fucking pussy.”

One of the men in black suits opened the passenger door.

Out stepped the largest man Murray had ever seen.

He was tall like a pro basketball player, and his shoulders looked like they could support the roof of a barn. His skin was tanned and his black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that somehow seemed at odds with his black goatee. He wore a black suit with a red silk shirt beneath, a tie of the identical shade of red, and black gloves with strips of red on each finger. The Breaks leader might have described the man as a giant puff if he didn’t look like he could snap anyone in the warehouse in half. In his massive hands, his cigar looked like a cigarette.

“Approach, Marcus of the Knights and Murray of the Breaks.”

Murray glanced at Marcus, who seemed about as reluctant as he felt.

“Now,” the man said and drew languidly on his cigar.

He approached and the other gang leader did as well a second later.

“Now kneel.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Marcus stood belligerently in front of the goliath of a man.

“Your superior,” he responded and kicked the man in the chest with a shiny black shoe hard enough to sprawl him on his ass.

Murray didn’t need to be told twice. He knelt.

“Now. Approach and kneel, Marcus of the Knights. Others here have made mistakes as well, yet I am one who believes in forgiveness.”

“I bet you fucking do,” the Knights leader muttered but he approached the man who’d felled him with a single kick and knelt before him. The stranger extended a hand with a massive ruby set in a gold ring. Marcus frowned but he got the message and kissed the ring.

“Your…uh, honor,” Murray stammered, unable to endure the silence. “I know we have failed you but please, give us another chance. If we have better weapons than the police, we can take whatever we want in this city.”

“Stop speaking,” the man said and he complied. “You may call me…what is the affectation of this time?” He turned to one of the men still standing in front of the van.

“Mister.”

“You may call me Mr Black.”

Murray nodded. “Yes, Mr Black.”

“I am not pleased with you because I do not like failure and you have failed me. It might be wisest and simplest to have my men simply kill you and be done with it.”

The two men opened the van, and each selected an assault rifle. Every gang member in the warehouse recoiled visibly. These weapons were military-grade, a few steps up from what the Breaks had been given before.

“We done nothing wrong,” Lee said. “Let us serve you.” Murray’s jaw almost dropped to the floor when the man approached and knelt in front of Mr Black. Lee didn’t work with anyone. The two other gang leaders followed him a few moments later. They also both approached and knelt.

“I accept your fealty but understand that those who serve me must be willing to truly serve me.”

The sound of wind swirled around Murray’s ears and a cloud moved to block the sun that came in through the windows of the derelict warehouse. Thunder boomed and shadow writhed around Mr Black. Two enormous black wings unfolded from his back, a tail of shadow whipped in the darkness, and his face—his face was too terrible to behold. It was all spikes and teeth and horns and horrible red eyes that looked like they held only hunger.

Murray tried not to think about the fact that he was merely a man made of meat and that the being before him seemed like so much more.

In the next moment, the clouds shifted, sunlight flooded the warehouse once more, and the illusion was gone. Mr Black stood before them again, seven feet of muscle and control but a human at least, or a human form anyway. Murray had wondered if the man was a dragon. Now, he knew.

“Make no mistake, if you were gobbled up by this city, no one would miss any of you. But I find that would be a waste of resources. Even with your failure, I believe you to be the best tools for the job. After all, you have sown discord and fear. Those who sit on the hidden thrones that control this city do not like the disruptions you have caused. Even in failure, you have made them begin to fly about rather than remain in their roosts. Besides, one uses the tool one possesses, not the ones one wishes one has. Isn’t that right, Murray of the Breaks?”

“Yes, Mr Black.” When the dragon didn’t speak, he hurried to continue. “And with better tools, I assure you I can lead everyone in this warehouse to take this city from the pigs and the corrupt city council.” That must be why the other gangs were there, right? So he could introduce them to the big game.

“Do not presume to know my orders, you infantile speck of a mammal.” He hadn’t yelled or raised his voice, yet the words echoed through the warehouse.

Murray’s voice caught in his throat.

“Why would I trust you to be my general when you can’t even rob a bank with the bounty I have provided you? Why feed the dog that fails to catch his dinner?”

As the man spoke, terror grew in Murray’s gut and spread into his chest. In moments, his entire body shook in fear. And he wasn’t the only one. The smell of hot piss came to his nose and he knew he wasn’t the only one who felt what he did. He’d heard that dragons could do this—that they could make a human feel a certain way—but it was one thing to hear a rumor and another entirely to feel it in your very soul.

Even if the monster before them didn’t eat him, he never wanted to feel that terror again.

“Please, sir!” He threw himself prostrate before the being of power that stood implacably. “We won’t let the police catch us off guard again. We hadn’t faced SWAT before. This time, we’ll be ready.”

“He’s had his chance, Mr Black. Please, let the Knights serve you.” Marcus too put his forehead to the concrete floor of the warehouse.

“The Dead Reds will do you great honor with the tools you gave the Breaks.” Lee also put his head to the floor.

The leaders of the other two gangs followed suit and mumbled empty promises and tried to place the blame on Murray for his failure.

“Please, sir, please,” the Breaks leader begged. “You came to us because we’re the most organized club in Detroit. Let me lead us all against the corruption in this city. Let me set the Motor City on fire for you.” He honestly had no clue exactly where the words came from, but when he said them, he believed them. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to please the man, even if it meant burning his hometown to the ground—no, especially if that meant burning his hometown to the ground

“Arise, Murray of the Breaks, and take my blessing.”

He stood slowly. Mr Black stepped toward him and cupped his face with one of his massive gloved hands.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“You will be my general.” His boss—or perhaps owner was more apt—removed his glove to reveal fingernails sharpened into points. Again, he cupped the gang leader’s face but this time, his thumb scratched a bloody line on his cheek.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you so much,” Murray stammered, startled at the sight of his own blood on the massive hand as the man stepped back to where he had stood before. One of the two men in suits handed him a handkerchief and he wiped the blood away.

“Understand that this will be the last time I reward failure because if you do not succeed, there will be no next time. There will be no pleading and no forgiveness. You will be bled, and you will be burnt.” Mr Black raised his voice and filled the cavernous warehouse with his orders. “Arise, Marcus of the Knights, and take my blessing.”

Marcus stood, and the man scratched a line on his forehead with one of his fingernails. The Knights leader thanked him for the wound.

“Arise, Lee of the Dead Reds. Arise, Hector of the Eskeletos Muertes. Arise Jane of the Stray Cats.” The gang leaders complied, and he marked each of their foreheads in turn. “I believe in each of you. With Murray at your head, I am sure you can disrupt the broken rails this city runs on. And if his leadership is lacking, I am sure one of the four of you can save me the trouble of putting this dog down.”

Murray swallowed hard as the four leaders of the other gangs in town nodded at one another. Despite the fear he was certain they all felt, they wore smiles at the idea of betrayal. They really were nothing more than animals.

“Now, come. Behold the gifts I bring thee.”

The two henchmen opened the van. The last time Murray had seen the inside of the vehicle, it had been the greatest cache of weapons he’d ever laid eyes upon. This treasure trove, however, was enough to take over a country.

There was better body armor with helmets to match, military-grade assault rifles, two heavy machine guns that he thought would look fucking fantastic mounted on top of one of his cars, and best of all, a rocket launcher.

He looked at his benefactor like a kid on Christmas morning. They couldn’t fail, not if they worked together. With this arsenal, they wouldn’t have to stop with the police, those lapdogs to the politicians. They could destroy the entire damn establishment and make the people who ran this city finally understand injustice.

Mr Black smiled, lifted the rocket launcher from its stand, and placed it in his hands. “You will have to share, Murray of the Breaks, and you must be careful. This city is a fireworks factory and I have given you the match.” Despite his words, he did not seem at all concerned about the implications of this statement. In fact, he looked even more eager than his new general felt.

For a few minutes, the man said nothing and merely smoked his cigar while the gangs loaded the weapons. In the end, Murray got one of the heavy machine guns to mount on one of his cars, plus the rocket launcher. After all, it had been put in his hands and he didn’t want to lose it. He’d agreed to share the other heavy machine gun and divide the assault rifles between all the other gangs.

But were they still other gangs? He had been put in charge, and that meant everyone there was his…as long as he didn’t fail.

“Now, go, all of you. I will return to you once the sickness that has choked this city for decades has been burned out. You will be the wildfire that cleanses the land before the rain.” Mr Black’s red eyes gleamed.

Murray nodded. He could see the vision reflected in his red eyes, and it was beautiful. The city would soon be in chaos. The gangs would wreak havoc on every corner until those in power felt the foundation of their towers of steel and concrete tremble. Together, the five gangs would make a fist that would smash the windows of this city. They’d light every business on fire. After all, only the corrupt could flourish in the Motor City. Those who were successful had only achieved that by taking from people like him.

And then, once it was all broken and burned, Mr Black would come.

And he would be there, his loyal general.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kristen parked in the parking garage, jogged down the stairs—a habit she’d picked up from training with her team—and walked into the police station.

The front desk stood empty. She approached with her hand on her hip, already reaching for a gun she hadn’t strapped on yet.

She found only a tiny web camera facing the entryway to the station. Odd, that.

Her months of training kicked in and threw her into high alert and she scanned the station quickly.

It was empty, she realized. No one shuffled paperwork or wandered to the lounge or even moved at all. Her heart began to pound. She took a deep breath and forced it to slow so she could focus and try to determine what was going on.

Cautiously, she moved deeper into the office, past the cells—which were empty too—and toward the lounge. She’d peek in there and if she found no one, she’d run like hell to the gear room, arm herself, and return to try to get to the bottom of it a little more prepared than she was right now. Could the whole force have been abducted? It couldn’t have. That was impossible, right? But what else could explain the lack of people?

A noise caught her attention from deeper in the station—hushed voices perhaps? Hostage scenarios from months of studying began to race through her mind.

After a long, slow breath, she approached the lounge in a crouch, not sure of what she’d find but knowing that she wanted to be ready for whatever it was.

She put her ear to the door but heard no more voices. There was, however, a rustle that made her think of a press of bodies.

Kristen nodded, took a deep breath, and kicked the door open.

“Surpri—”

Her momentum from kicking the door took her cleanly into a roll. She darted up and caught hold of the closest body to her. The room was dark and she couldn’t make out a damn thing, but she was determined not to let anyone get the drop on her.

“Someone, get the lights!”

The lights flickered on and she gaped at Keith, who she held firmly by the lapels.

“Uh…surprise?” He smiled.

A hasty glance around her confirmed that the entire station was crammed in there. The lounge had been decorated—well, a single banner had been hung that said Happy Birthday Chris but she would take it. They’d thrown her a surprise party.

Jonesy was already laughing. “Goddamn, rookie. You can’t make this shit up, can you? Only you could get ambushed while waiting to ambush someone.”

She released Keith and smiled. “Sorry. I thought, uh… How did you all know it was my birthday?”

“Jonesy looked in your personal file. Don’t worry. We’ve locked him out of the computers. Happy Birthday!” Drew clapped her on the back and handed her a card.

Still smiling, she looked at the card in her hand. It said, Breaking Expectations and had a picture of a wrecking ball on it.

Her smile broadened. “You guys! I don’t know what to say.”

“Thank you is the go-to when people go out of their way to do something nice,” Hernandez snarked.

“Thanks, Hernandez.” Kristen tried to put as much girlish goofiness into her voice as possible. The woman cringed, which was exactly what she had hoped for.

“All right, you assholes. There’s nothing to see here. Get yourself a piece of cake and get the hell out before we drag your asses back to the station,” Jonesy yelled at the other people in the lounge. It really was impressive how many staff members had fit in there, only for her to ruin the surprise.

People shuffled past and gave her congratulations or wished her happy birthday as they did so. She noticed the woman who normally worked the front desk, who had a tablet in her hand with a video that displayed the entrance to the station. Ah, that explained the webcam, then.

Once only her team remained, she finally served herself a piece of cake. It had presumably said Happy Birthday but apparently, whatever bakery they’d purchased it from had decent frosting because almost all the slices with letters were gone. She took the H for Hall, sat on a couch, and dug in.

“You’re lucky we’re even celebrating at all. I lost money on you, you know.” Jonesy said around a mouthful of cake.

“Is that right, Jonesy?” Hernandez interjected and her eyes gleamed. “Did all those late nights helping the wrecking ball cut in on your time on the pole?”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Hernandez?” He retorted smartly. “Male strippers don’t pole dance.”

The woman laughed. “Oh, spoken from experience then?”

“Fuck off. Just because no one would pay to see you naked doesn’t mean— You know what? Just shut up.” he glared at her and took a bite. Kristen didn’t think she’d ever seen someone look so pissed-off while eating cake. He finished chewing. “I bet you wouldn’t last a month, let alone four, Red.”

“I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, Jonesy. It means even more to me now that I know you had money riding on me washing out. I can cover that bet.”

“No, no.” He tried to wave the offer away.

“No, really, I insist.” She dug in her wallet. “What do I owe you—ten bucks? Twenty?”

“More like a hundred.” Butters chuckled.

“You bet a hundred bucks that I wouldn’t last a month?”

“Don’t look at me like that, Red. I wasn’t the only one who lost money because you turned out to be a fucking wrecking ball.”

Kristen looked at her team. They all shoved cake in their mouths and tried not to look guilty. “So, who won?”

Silence followed and everyone seemed determined not to look at anyone else.

“Seriously, though. Who bet I’d last four months?”

Awkward glances were exchanged before finally, Beanpole stood. “I bet ten weeks, but you beat me too so take the money.” He took his wallet out, withdrew a stack of cash, and thrust it into her hands.

She counted the money in disbelief. “This…this is almost a thousand dollars.”

“Happy birthday.” He nodded and moved aside quickly to help himself to another slice of cake.

“You assholes bet almost a grand that I would wash out?” She might have been pissed if she’d known about it months before, but it didn’t bother her now. After all, these people had trained her—especially Jonesy, who she had no doubt was the first to make a bet against her. They’d sweated together, been hurt together, and she had taken a bullet for one of them and saved most of their lives.

“I didn’t want to, but…well, the odds were good.” Butters shrugged.

“Bullshit, Butterball. You were the one who wanted to raise the buy-in to a hundred bucks.” Hernandez raised an eyebrow as if to challenge him to argue, but he merely hid behind his piece of cake.

“Look, honestly, if things had gone differently, I might have washed out and one of you would be all the richer.” She held the wad of money up. “Like, say for example, if Jonesy could actually take a bullet or if any of you were halfway decent at airsoft.”

Everyone laughed, especially Jonesy. “Leave it to Red to stay on the force because she got fucking shot.”

“But seriously, guys. Thank you. I know I joined the force under weird circumstances, but you still helped turn me into the officer I am today.”

“You had more potential than any of these punks. Don’t think otherwise,” Drew said and earned another round of laughter from the team.

“Still. I’m thankful. Really, from the bottom of my heart, I am. This job is damn hard, but you guys make it all worth it. It means so much to be a part of the team, even if I did have to kick down a thousand doors before I earned my place.”

“It was our pleasure to watch you fuck up so many times, Red.” Jonesy smiled.

Hernandez shrugged. “I still think you’re an uppity, privileged white bitch, but at least you’re not another privileged white male. Plus, you’re definitely better than the rookie.”

“I’m not the rookie,” Keith protested and again, the room filled with laughter.

“It’s good to be here.”

“Okay, Jesus—someone turn on the blinking light or whatever so Red knows her fucking speech is coming to a close,” Jonesy said.

Butters cleared his throat. “Kristen, if you’d truly like to thank us, promise us you’ll never cook for us again. I’ll cook any dish that’s ever been served south of Tennessee if you’ll please promise to refrain from attempting any more creations.”

Everyone collapsed at that.

“Holy shit, do you remember the smell when we got back to the station?” Hernandez held her sides and could barely speak around her laughter.

Jonesy nodded. “You thought an animal had died in the vents.” He managed to regain a little control, but that seemed to set him off again.

Kristen let it wash over as she sank into the couch. After all these months—no, it was longer than that—after years, she finally felt like she was home. These people, her new team, pushed her to succeed in ways she never had before. They challenged her, protected her, and believed in her. In her short time in SWAT, they’d already transformed from co-workers, to teammates, to friends, and now, she finally felt like they were family and that this was home.

She took a deep breath and soaked in the continued shit-talk they didn’t seem capable of stopping. The most important thing was that she was home—she was finally home—and she was committed to protecting her new family, even if she had to make Jonesy look bad and take another bullet for him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jonesy and Kristen were out in a squad car when the call came in.

“We have something happening downtown. Armed robbery.”

“Where at?” Jonesy asked.

“We don’t have a specific location yet, only multiple reports of armed gunmen. The damn phones are flooded with conflicting information.”

That in itself was odd. The dispatchers were great at pointing them in the right direction. How many calls would it take to overwhelm them?

“We’d better get back to base.” Jonesy put the car’s siren on and pressed the accelerator.

They made it a few blocks through downtown before something shattered the glass of one of the back windows.

“What the fuck was that?” he hollered and ducked involuntarily.

“I think—” Before she could answer, more gunshots clattered and the bullets pinged as they struck the passenger door to the vehicle—her door. Their impact could actually be felt through the metal. “Some asshole shot at us.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” he swore but he didn’t turn the car.

“Jonesy, shouldn’t we show these assholes whose boss? Contain the threat?” she protested.

“Listen to the damn radio, Red.” He turned it up.

“Active shooters on Grand Boulevard and Woodward. Reports coming in of hostiles at the DIA, please confirm. Requesting all units to mobilize. Repeat, all units.”

“We’re a unit, Jonesy. Where the fuck are you going?”

“It sounds like there are more than a dozen damn shooters out there and you want to take them down in a fucking police cruiser with a couple of pistols? We’re SWAT, Red. The police gotta hold these assholes until we get there.”

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. The city might not have a few minutes. If people were already shooting at police, the tipping point might have already been reached.

Jonesy sped toward the station and for once, he was silent. Instead, he cranked up the radio so they could hear it over his sirens.

“There is no apparent pattern to the attacks. Most are in the Riverton Warehouse district but there’s no focus on targets. All officers mobilize, repeat. We need all officers.”

“It sounds like a fucking warzone,” he mumbled.

Kristen tried to think of what could have triggered it all but was cut short when a copper corvette screeched around a corner and raced up beside them.

“Jonesy!”

“I know, I know!” He tried to accelerate but was no match for the corvette. It pulled easily up to the driver’s side of the police car.

Two men in denim jackets studded with spikes sat inside. The man in the passenger seat held an assault rifle the likes of which she had only ever seen in movies.

“Your days of corruption are over, you fucking pigs,” the man screamed over the roaring engines of the two racing vehicles.

He punctuated the vitriol with a fusillade aimed at their vehicle.

“Fuck!” the sergeant hollered and jerked the wheel to the right to hurtle them down another street. The corvette tried to follow but they were going too fast and the turn was too sharp. The tires screeched before the driver adjusted their course and careened on down the street they had been on before.

Even though the guy in the corvette had only a few seconds to fire, he’d obliterated the side of the police cruiser.

“The motherfuckers are packing.” Jonesy clenched his jaw as they neared the next intersection with both officers on high alert.

The corvette reappeared and fired wildly. It raced past the back of the police vehicle—the damn corvette must’ve been going ninety—and a rattle of bullets impacted the trunk.

“Red, do you think you can handle these assholes?”

“I can try.” Kristen drew her pistol, took her time, and fired. Her first three shots caught the windshield before she got lucky and hit one of the front tires.

The corvette veered to the left and gave up the pursuit.

“Nice fucking shooting, Red. I don’t know if Butters could have made that shot.”

“Yeah, well, almost being annihilated by fucking motorheads is like old hat for me now.”

“No fucking joke. Did you see any more of those assholes?”

She looked behind them. “Yeah. Holy shit, Jonesy. There are so many people on the streets back there. It looks like…it looks like a goddamn war zone.”

He responded with another push on the accelerator and the vehicle surged forward. The thought of leaving the violence behind instead of facing it head-on made her feel sick, but she knew he was right. If they went into a warzone, they needed to be better equipped.

They made it to the station in less than five minutes. She was half-surprised to find it still standing. It was close to downtown, after all, and according to the reports that flooded in, it sounded like downtown attempted to blow itself up.

Jonesy parked in front of the station and the duo raced inside.

“About fucking time. Now, saddle up!” Drew yelled at them as soon as they reached the gear room. He chucked a bulletproof vest at her and another at Jonesy. It was a small miracle they’d made it back alive and she hadn’t realized how much danger they’d been in. Thankfully, she had no time to dwell on their lucky escape and snatched a helmet, shoved it on, and tightened the chin strap while she shoved the disquieting thoughts aside.

The team raced through the station to their SWAT van. They scrambled in with Jonesy at the wheel, the team leader in the passenger seat, and the others in the back.

“What’s the plan?” the sergeant asked Drew.

He answered through the window to the back of the van so they could all hear.

“Right now, we don’t know who these assholes are or what they want. All we know is that there is a considerable number of them, they’re heavily armed, and they seem to be converging on the warehouse district. We’ve created a blockade on the bridge to Belle Isle. The big brass think they’re using the warehouse district as a staging area and that they might try to take the island and use it as a permanent base. It’d be damn hard to dig them out if that is the case because there’s only the one bridge on and off.”

“Who is telling us go to Belle Isle if the warehouse district is the focus?” Kristen asked.

“That’s above our paygrade, Hall. We’re a team and every member of a team needs to play their position. Our job is to not allow the assholes to take the island.”

They raced down Lafayette St, banked hard on East Grand, and crossed about halfway on the bridge to Belle Isle before they stopped. Three police cars were drawn up there already, plus another SWAT van. They unloaded and Jonesy turned the vehicle to join the blockade.

She sighed a breath of relief. There was no way anyone could get through that.

It was almost like her thought was some kind of bizarre trigger.

“Places, people, keep it neat and keep it clean,” Drew commanded when the gunfire started.

Fourteen members of SWAT plus seven more police officers took positions behind their vehicles and tried to hold the bridge.

It boggled her mind to think there were at least ten more SWAT blockades like this. How could that be? She knew there were gangs in Detroit, but this was ridiculous. Had they all joined forces and decided to…what? Burn the city down? It simply didn’t make sense. Gangs did things for money. This was purely destruction.

“We have forces converging on the warehouse district. All unit—”

The radio chatter was abruptly replaced with static.

“For fuck’s sake!” Drew cursed.

“What do we do?” Keith asked.

“Hold our fucking position, rookie.” Jonesy nodded toward the mainland. Three cars raced toward them. A machine gun was mounted on the roof of one of them.

Kristen braced herself for it to get within range but apparently, whoever manned the weapon had far less patience. He opened fire and sprayed the line of vehicles with bullets.

Butters delivered a clean shot into his chest and he fell from the top of the vehicle.

The other two cars continued their headlong approach. They didn’t seem to be slowing.

The car’s tires squealed as it stopped. Another man climbed out and took control of the mounted machine gun.

The sniper promptly shot him in the chest.

He stumbled but didn’t fall—bulletproof armor, obviously—so he adjusted his aim calmly and fired a perfect head-shot.

That seemed to discourage whoever else was there to try anything else but already, a mounted machine gun seemed a low priority. The other two cars now rocketed toward the blockade and their engines roared. The police officers already took potshots at the rapidly approaching vehicles, hoping to get lucky.

“Tires,” Drew ordered, and Beanpole, Keith, and Jonesy launched a concerted volley toward the car on the right. They managed to damage its front tires and it slewed to the side, pounded through the small wall on the side of the bridge, and splashed into the Detroit River.

The third vehicle collided with the front of a police car and forced the stationery vehicle into a spin while it simply continued through their blockade.

“Red, Hernandez, Jonesy, you watch those fuckers who made it through. Everyone else, we have more coming this way.”

Kristen turned to fire at the car that had broken through their barricade. She noticed in shock that two officers had been run over and immediately tried to use her radio to call for EMS. Only static met her efforts.

Rather than fall prey to her growing frustration over what she couldn’t do, she clenched her teeth and fired at the car that limped toward them. Jonesy and Hernandez also opened fire and targeted the wheels and windshield. After a moment of concentrated gunfire, it was disabled.

Two men exited, and one of them lobbed something at the blockade.

“Grenade!” the sergeant yelled and everyone flung themselves down.

The ordnance rolled under the other SWAT van and exploded. No one was hurt but the vehicle obviously wouldn’t run again.

“We have more coming,” Drew yelled and pointed across the bridge to where more cars raced toward them. These didn’t look like they belonged to the Breaks, though. One was a souped-up Honda and another a low-rider with music loud enough to be heard over the now constant crackle of gunfire.

The radio sputtered to life. “All units converge on Chene and Guoin. We’ve triangulated whatever’s interfering with our radio. Repeat, if you can hear this, there’s an abandoned warehouse on Chene and Guoin, half-covered in vines. All units—”

The broadcast was swallowed by a wave of static again.

“You heard the woman—get in the fucking van,” Drew instructed. Two SWAT teams and seven police officers obeyed but immediately encountered difficulty.

It was soon clear that they couldn’t all fit, so their team plus the other SWAT team and two regular police officers crammed in the van while the other cops took the remaining cruiser and gunned the engine.

Jonesy threw the vehicle in gear and they began the race toward the warehouse.

It was lucky that it wasn’t the Breaks who now barreled toward them. Kristen doubted that Jonesy would’ve been able to outmaneuver one of the motorheads, but since these clearly lacked the other gang’s skill and enhanced vehicles, she thought they might actually survive.

The low-rider was easy enough to lose. The sergeant merely pounded into the side of it and that was enough to ruin its suspension and render the vehicle useless.

The little Honda was trickier because of its speed. But it was also light, so it couldn’t do much to a larger armored vehicle. It swung against them a few times, but Jonesy had obviously driven in situations like this because he anticipated each strike and managed to keep them moving. Someone in the Honda was armed too, as bullets struck the side of the van, but none punched through the bulletproof armor.

Still, it was a harrowing few minutes in the back. They were crammed tightly in there, so every turn pushed her against someone. More than once, she thanked her lucky stars that whoever was in the Honda didn’t have explosives.

One lucky grenade would be enough to obliterate two SWAT teams.

“He’s behind us,” Drew shouted. “Who wants the shot?”

“I’ll take it,” one of the members of the other SWAT team yelled. Two of his teammates held his shoulders and a third opened the rear of the van.

Behind them, the Honda approached rapidly in determined pursuit while the person in the passenger seat fired an assault rifle.

The officer didn’t so much as flinch. He took aim, exhaled like he was on a gun range instead of in the back of a speeding vehicle, and fired.

He struck the driver and the Honda slewed wildly with no one at the controls.

“You’re not the only hotshot, Goodman,” the man joked.

For a moment, Kristen didn’t know who the hell he had spoken to, but she remembered that their sniper had an actual name and the man had used it.

“You’re letting out all the cold air!” Butters replied mildly and one of the shooter’s teammates swung the door shut.

They continued for another few minutes and fortunately avoided any other armed vehicles before tires squealed into an abrupt halt.

This was it. They had arrived at the warehouse.

She clenched her teeth as she made herself the promise that she would save her city, or she would die trying.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Asingle SWAT van stopped dramatically outside the warehouse.

“Should we blow it to high hell, your honor?”

For a moment, the black dragon forgot to shrug the arms of his human glamor. It was demeaning to spend so much time in human form. Worse still, he constantly had to learn their expressions and the changes in body language over the decades. It didn’t have to be like this. After all, human ranchers didn’t show this much respect to cows.

“Mr Black, your orders?”

He couldn’t even use his real name with these pathetic, short-lived rats. They couldn’t pronounce it, for starters, but there was more to the dragon who called himself Mr Black’s fake identity. It wouldn’t do for the other dragons of Detroit to find out he was the one who had stirred trouble up in their city. Not until after tonight anyway, he reminded himself—not until it was too late.

“Sir? Should I shoot the SWAT van?”

He turned to the man. Murray of the Breaks was a pathetic excuse for a leader and yet, he was the best available in this wretched excuse for a city. Still, with the weapons the dragon’s henchmen had procured, even he and his pathetic little band of petty criminals could inflict real damage on the city as long as they remained in the dragon’s aura.

“Wait,” he said.

He’d flexed his innate power for the entire night. It hadn’t taken much to push the rats who called themselves gangs over the edge. They were obviously already worthless excuses for humans, more prone to violence than the average man. A dragon’s aura—even one as powerful as him—couldn’t alter someone’s fundamental nature. A dragon couldn’t turn a saint into a sinner was an often said and fairly accurate idiom, but you could push people in the direction they were already inclined toward. Conveniently, none of these people had been saints.

The fact that it had taken so little effort to compel the gangs to attack their homeland and their own neighbors further demonstrated how badly this city needed to be razed and rebuilt. He hadn’t told them to kill or filled their hearts with rage or terror. Instead, he had simply freed them from their fear and inhibitions against harming their own kind. They had taken up arms like birds learning to fly.

But it did take concentration to exude an aura like that over multiple city blocks, and when one concentrated, one often missed things one should not otherwise miss.

Like the dragon who stepped out from the SWAT van.

Mr Black’s eyes locked on the woman who fitted a helmet over her red hair. She was a dragon. He could sense it. Her human body glowed with energy, strengthened her muscles beyond what the human frame should be capable of, honed her reflexes, and quickened her reactions. But how could there be a new player in town he hadn’t known about? Who was she, and why didn’t she use her full powers? This could ruin everything. She could literally send months of planning up in smoke.

He had planned to take this city from the two spineless worms who’d been in control for centuries but apparently, he wasn’t the only one who’d hidden in the shadows.

Whoever this dragon was masquerading as a police officer, she obviously didn’t want to reveal the full extent of her powers. If she was on the police force, she must have been undercover for some time, but why? Obviously, she must have machinations of her own—ambitions beyond the scope of what most humans dared dream—and she’d set her sights on this city.

Mr Black could use this. Tonight was to be his grand reveal but at the end of it all, it would inevitably come down to a fight—two versus one. But with another player on the board, perhaps he wouldn’t have to reveal himself. Whoever the newcomer was, she must be hiding for a reason. Perhaps she wished to rule the Motor City herself. Perhaps she worked undercover for those worms Damos and Lyra. Whatever her plans were, they clearly relied on her remaining undercover as a human.

It was well within his ability to ruin those plans.

There were two options he could see. He would force her to reveal herself or kill her in the process. Whatever cover she’d built would be burned away. Perhaps Damos and Lyra would see fit to deal with her themselves, thus evening the odds when he chose to finish his coup.

“Turn the radio scrambler off,” he ordered.

Murray obeyed and fidgeted nervously with the controls. The dragon could understand his concern. The last man who had operated the scrambler had messed up and let the police reveal the location of this warehouse, although it seemed that in the end, only the one police carriage had heard the call and come to investigate. Still, failure was failure. He had hurled that man from the rooftop. It seemed Murray of the Breaks understood the implications of the not-so-subtle threat.

“It’s down, sir,” the gang leader said, his hands shaking.

“Tell everyone to converge on the warehouse. I want that carriage full of officers to eat lead. I want them to be roasted alive by the weapons I have given this city.”

“Sir, if I give those orders, the police will come too.”

“Let them come. More bodies means more bullets means more carnage.” Mr Black didn’t know this hidden dragon’s game, but he knew it involved deception. He would force her to reveal herself and once he understood who she was, he would either enlist her to his side or leave her corpse in the shadows when he took this city from her.

“Breaks, Dead Reds, Knights, Eskeletos, Stray Cats—return to the roost.”

Immediately, orders came from the human police to notify their officers to go to the warehouse.

Mr Black smiled. It was a good thing he could fly. He very much doubted this building would be standing by the end of the night.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The team surveyed the warehouse before they stepped from the van. It was made of brick, about three stories tall, and in obvious disrepair. Most of the windows were broken. The walls at ground level sported graffiti, tags, and curses that had been written in spray paint over the years and never painted over. The only sections of the structure that didn’t have spray paint were covered in vines.

Kristen marveled at how truly choked the building was with creepers. It was a wonder it still stood under all that weight. Two large metal hangar-style doors on one end of the warehouse were ajar. A few smaller doors dotted the one side of the building.

“All right,” Drew said and assumed command of the van full of people. “I have no idea if anyone else heard us, which means we might not have reinforcements until after we’ve done our job.”

“What’s the plan?” one of the members of the other SWAT team asked and seemed willing to defer to his authority.

“We’ll check the side doors first. If we can get through one, your team will go in and assess the scene while we look for another door and try to flank these assholes.”

“That sounds about as smart as anything else,” the leader of the other SWAT team said. Everyone nodded. It was either that or rush in through the slightly open hangar doors, but every single person in the van felt the same way about that. The open doors could only be a trap.

“Let’s fucking do this thing,” Jonesy said.

They kicked the back of the van open and poured out.

Apparently, subterfuge was lost on the hostiles inside the building. No sooner had they stepped from the vehicle than they began to take fire. A nest of snipers on the roof seemed eager to spill blood.

“Inside—get the fuck inside,” Drew shouted and everyone in the group obeyed without question. They sprinted toward the hangar doors as shots rained from above.

They made it inside without a casualty. Kristen counted that a huge victory until she realized what they were up against.

Despite the recent gentrification of the warehouse district, the building they entered was still a crumbling reminder of Detroit’s industrial past. An assembly line of some kind snaked back and across the floor. A conveyer belt at the center of all the machinery made her think the place used to make car parts or shoes or something else relatively small. Every now and then, a workstation broke up the snaking conveyor belt. She didn’t know what any of the machines were exactly, but they looked long-unused and obsolete. A catwalk across the top of the building overlooked the entire operation. The walls were piled high with crates and other stacks dotted the floor, either abandoned there long before or moved there recently.

She leaned toward the latter because hostile gunfire clattered from all these places. Weapons teams were posted at the assembly line and the machines spaced sporadically around it, on the catwalk above them, and behind the crates spread around the factory floor.

“Get back outside,” Drew yelled. They had been right about this being a trap.

The SWAT van exploded before they could even turn to obey.

“There’s cover.” She pointed to a stack of crates perhaps twenty feet ahead and to the left.

“Follow Red!” he ordered and she surged forward.

She sprinted as fast as she could, dove, and connected hard with the concrete floor, but at least it was smooth enough to allow her to slide and crash into the crates.

Quickly, she looked behind her. Her team, the other SWAT team, and the two police officers followed, but they were slow—too slow. One of the two police officers who’d been in the van with them took a shot in the chest and crumpled. One of the SWAT was hit too but fortunately, he wore Kevlar so he only stumbled, cursed louder than the barrage of gunfire, and pushed on.

Gunshots nearby were loud enough to almost deafen her. She realized that a hostile used the same stack of crates for cover, albeit on the other side.

Kristen scurried around the edge of the crates but stopped when she came under fire. The hostiles knew she was there, then.

She glanced once more at her team.

The other cop was down too.

“Goddammit!” she cursed and rage swelled in her chest. She didn’t know either officer personally, but she knew they had friends and family and had died protecting their city from a mob of violent lunatics. No matter what, she couldn’t let their deaths be in vain.

Fully committed to her course of action, she crouched and leapt up with every ounce of strength she had. She cleared the first crate and hooked her fingers over the top of the second. Quickly, she hauled herself up and peered down at the two hostiles who’d killed two police officers.

It was a simple fact that she could shoot them and no one would blame her. They were cop-killers, after all, and heavily armed, but she chose not to. She didn’t need to, not yet. If she fired at one of the other assholes who actively tried to eliminate her team and she killed them, fine. This was different. Stupid, maybe, but different because they weren’t actually firing at present. Somehow, that made a difference.

So, instead of two quick shots, she vaulted off the top of the crate and landed between the two men. Her decision had been made none too soon as the warehouse of criminals seemed to collectively notice she had presented herself as a target when she stood on the crates. Fortunately, she had already begun her descent by the time they tried to respond.

“What the fuck?” one of the gang members managed to say before she kicked him in the face hard enough to break his nose and knock him unconscious.

The other man raised his weapon and she grasped the barrel.

For a moment, intense heat flared in the palm of her hand as she held the burnished steel but the sensation faded quickly. She yanked the weapon from the man’s hands and struck him across the face with it.

He catapulted away and struck the concrete at an awkward angle. He’d live but he’d also remember the impact for a long time.

Kristen doubled back to where her team hunkered behind the stack of crates.

“We have to split up.” Drew had to yell to be heard over the gunfire that kept them all pinned. “We need someone to draw fire—my thought is they make for the assembly line in the middle of the plant—and the other team will use the crates on the side of the warehouse as cover as they work toward the catwalk. If we can get Butters above these fuckers, we’ll be all right.”

“I’ll go with him,” Beanpole said.

“Me too,” volunteered the sniper who’d taken the shot from the back of the moving van.

“I’ll take the assembly line.” Kristen gritted her teeth.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Red, you beat me to it.” Jonesy grinned as if they’d both ordered the same kind of ice cream cone instead of having both agreed to use their bodies as bait.

“I’ll come with you two as well. Hernandez, Keith—”

The woman darted out from behind the crates and fired her assault rifle at someone on the catwalk. A scream and crash confirmed that not only had Hernandez hit her target, but she’d knocked him from his post. “Yeah, fucking yeah. We’re right behind you.”

“That means the rest of you will take the crates to the catwalk.”

“Yes, sir!” the other members of SWAT replied.

“Watch how’s it done, Red,” Jonesy said.

Hernandez, Keith, and Drew each selected a target and laid down cover fire while Jonesy sprinted toward the conveyor belts in the middle of the factory. He made it without taking a bullet from the dozen or so gunman who fired at him and immediately began a retaliatory assault.

“Keith?” Drew said between rounds of gunfire.

The other man nodded and raced toward Jonesy. While the sergeant had run in a straight line, he swerved in a zig-zag pattern, hoping to confuse the gunmen.

It was a bad plan and a burst of red erupted from his left calf. He’d been shot.

“Rookie!” Jonesy yelled but didn’t move. Too many people had him pinned down.

Kristen sprang into action. She hurtled across the open floor, caught her teammate by the collar of his Kevlar, and dragged him to their teammate.

“Holy fuck, Red. You didn’t even slow down.”

She looked at him in confusion. What he’d said was true, but the floor was smooth and Keith wasn’t that heavy. Really, it was kind of crazy that the man could think about such a dumb thing with lead raining down all around them.

“Am I gonna die?” Keith asked from under the conveyer belt.

“For fuck’s sake, rookie.” The sergeant shook his head. “They got you in the damn calf. You might bleed out in maybe nine hours, but we’ll probably all be dead by then.”

“Ready?” Drew yelled from across the floor.

Jonesy and Kristen responded by laying down a wide spray of cover fire across the room while their two teammates raced over to join them. As soon as they reached the factory machinery, they turned and joined the barrage against the hostiles.

She stole a glance at Butters and Beanpole. They’d left the crates and attempted to reach the wall. One of the SWAT team fell when the group made it perhaps halfway.

Relief that it wasn’t Butters or Beanpole surged briefly but she pushed it back, furious at herself for dismissing another man’s life.

This had to end.

“What now, sir?” she yelled at Drew.

“We keep moving, follow this belt, and try to draw their fire and eliminate as many as we can.”

It seemed clear enough and she didn’t need to be told twice. She crouched under the conveyer and when she realized there wasn’t enough height to even do that, dropped on her belly and army-crawled until she reached the next piece of machinery on the assembly line. She darted out, found a hostile reloading his weapon, and kicked him so hard in the chest that she felt ribs break under her boot.

“Nice fucking moves, Red.” Jonesy emerged from under the belt and fired at a hidden gunman. Drew and Hernandez followed.

Their distraction wouldn’t be enough, though. They only had limited space in which to move before they either ran out of cover or had to double back. The plan would only work if Butters, Beanpole, and the other snipers could make it to a proper vantage point.

Which meant they had to keep the pressure on the enemy.

Her gaze settled on three men who hid behind a nearby stack of crates.

“They’re mine,” she told Drew and sprinted toward them.

Her plan worked. Every eye in the abandoned factory found her and redirected their fire as she left cover.

Thankfully, they were too slow.

By the time the barrage started, Kristen had already careened into the stack of crates. They wouldn’t fire on their own men, which meant she could deal with these three in relative safety. Unfortunately, while the logic was sound, the hostiles disregarded what seemed obvious to her.

A maelstrom of bullets continued relentlessly. She felt something smack her head and realized that if she hadn’t worn a helmet, she’d be dead.

The men she’d targeted were already dead—killed by their own allies.

Still, the fusillade continued with no respite.

Another shot struck in her the back and she was saved again by her armor.

She couldn’t keep taking that risk, though, so she punched a hole in one of the crates. The wood splintered under her fist and she crawled inside.

Now in relative safety, she peered out. It was dumb luck that she could see all the way across the floor to where Butters, Beanpole, and the rest of the officers scaled a ladder on their way to the crosswalk.

She froze, a hand to her mouth as a silver rocket careened overhead and directly toward the group.

It struck a few rungs below Beanpole, engulfed everyone below him in flames, and shook the ladder hard enough to almost dislodge him.

Butters—already on the catwalk—turned and caught his teammate, but it was too late for the others. They’d either been obliterated or had fallen more than twenty feet onto a concrete floor. One way or the other, an entire SWAT team had been eliminated from this fight.

Which meant their plan had gone from stupid to suicidal.

At least the explosion had distracted most of the warehouse.

Kristen crawled from the crate and sprinted to her team.

“With that little stunt, I think we’re down to six hostiles,” Drew said and deliberately didn’t acknowledge that they’d lost so many of their own men. “We can finish this if we keep our heads on straight. The plan’s the same. Keep eyes off Butters and Beanpole.”

She nodded. They really had no other choice, and the sniper was a good enough shot to take out six men, of that she was certain. They could do this and would mourn the dead when they made it out alive.

The team froze and looked at one another when tires squealed and vehicles revved outside. She looked through vines that had grown over the windows of the warehouse to see car after car after car come to a halt. Men and women poured out of each one, obviously pissed-off and armed to the teeth. Suddenly, instead of being in a building with six hostiles, they were surrounded by sixty.

Her jaw clenched. It didn’t take a veteran to realize that things had become a whole shitload worse.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Drew instructed them to direct their fire at the entrance to the factory. Kristen reasoned that even this would keep the hostiles already inside sufficiently distracted so Butters could at least eliminate them without taking fire himself, but the plan wasn’t fated to work.

The problem was that there were multiple entrances to the building and the hostiles knew this. As a result, while Kristen and Jonesy peppered the entrance they’d come through with consistent fire, Drew, Keith, and Hernandez had to try to keep another group from entering the building from the opposite direction.

That worked for about thirty seconds. There were far too many crates placed around the area. To her, it was obvious that the gangs had repositioned the junk in this abandoned factory to provide maximum advantageous cover. She and the sergeant each managed to shoot an entering gang member, but too many made it behind a pile of crates and immediately returned fire.

Worse still, Drew was equally unsuccessful, so they went from barely being able to hide from six people around the room to being the targets of closer to fifty.

“We gotta get the fuck out of here!” Jonesy shouted over the now constant roar of gunfire.

“All right, here’s the plan—” His words cut off abruptly when another team burst through the door and unleashed a concerted attack on the trapped SWAT team.

“These assholes are getting close,” Jonesy warned. “That pile of crates we were at—Kristen, watch out!”

He pounded into her and time seemed to slow.

One moment, she stood and focused on the enemy.

In the next, his body shoved her hard and she fell, her gaze locked on his fully extended torso and the grimace of pain on his face.

The bullet struck him squarely in the chest.

She was so high on adrenaline that she actually saw a shockwave spread from the point of impact on his chest.

In the same breath, another bullet struck, followed by another.

Seven shots in total pummeled the man before he crash-landed, and only five of them had been blocked by the vest.

“Jonesy!” she screamed as she returned to the regular flow of time. Her gun was up and the man who shot her teammate was dead.

Kristen dropped to her knees. He looked at her and blood seemed to ooze between his teeth. One of the bullets had grazed his neck and the other under his armpit—or, at least, that was where the most blood seemed to be coming from.

“He’s going to be okay, right?” she asked and looked at Drew with wild eyes.

He didn’t answer but he didn’t need to. The set of his jaw and his cold stare told her everything she needed to know.

“He needs a fucking medic,” Keith shouted and fired at what now seemed like an unending stream of foes.

“What’s the fucking plan to save Jonesy?” Terror crept into Hernandez’s voice.

“We crawl under this conveyer belt, get as close to the door as we can, and we run for it. Then, we wait for reinforcements to get here so we can go back in for Butters and Beanpole.”

“He doesn’t have that kind of time,” she said. “I’m taking him out.”

“Hall, you’ll never make it,” Drew protested.

“The fuck I won’t.”

She had always been athletic and recently, she’d trained damn hard. Not only that, her best friend—for that was what she realized Jonesy had become—was dying. She simply scooped him up in her arms, looked at the exit, and ran.

The entire factory and the whirlwind of bullets faded to something abstract. All she could hear were her own footsteps, the sound of the bullets that struck the concrete around her feet, and Jonesy, who continued to talk despite the fact that she’d told him to shut the fuck up.

“You know you’re not supposed to carry victims like this.” He coughed. “I might have a spinal injury.” He laughed.

“I’ll get you patched up.” She hammered into a pile of crates and felt the other side of them torn to splinters as the hostiles focused their weapons on her.

“Make sure you tell Hernandez to go fuck herself at least once a day. Otherwise, she doesn’t feel appreciated.”

“Will you shut up?”

He nodded and coughed up blood. “That’s good, but you really need a ‘fuck’ in there. Otherwise, she won’t believe it.”

“You hang on,” she retorted and when there was the briefest lull in the shooting, she sprinted the rest of the way to the door. Something caught her in the back—a bullet, no doubt—but her armor enabled her to continue. Why hadn’t it protected Jonesy? Why had she failed him?

Finally, they were outside.

Vehicles of every make and model surrounded the warehouse. There seemed to be an endless variety of old hotrods, tiny street racers, boats of cars with tricked-out suspension, and even pink scooters.

Kristen wanted to slash the tires of each and every one.

Instead, she continued to run to the next ring of vehicles—police cars, SWAT vans and—blessedly—a pair of ambulances.

“We’re almost there, Jonesy. Hold on, please.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

One of the EMTs threw open the back of an ambulance when he saw her race forward with Jonesy in her arms. He directed her to lay him on a stretcher.

“He was shot!” Kristen shrieked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“In the neck.”

“We know ma’am,” another EMT said as he dressed the wound on her friend’s neck.

“And his side.”

“Ma’am, I need you to step back and let us do our job.”

“Give ʼem some fucking breathing room, Red, for fuck’s sake.”

“Sir, please don’t talk.”

“Shut the fuck up.” He laughed. “See? Like that. You gotta mean it.”

The EMTs removed his bulletproof vest and shirt to reveal a number of shitty tattoos and a hole in the left side of his body. She almost threw up when she saw the size of the injury and the dark-red blood that oozed out of the wound.

“That bad, huh?” He grinned.

One of the EMTs put a bandage over the injury. In moments, it was soaked through with blood.

“We need an IV,” the man said. “Sir, your blood type?”

“O fucking negative.”

One of the medics hurried to call that in to the hospital trauma team. She had somehow assumed they’d anticipate the need and have it with them—or that they always carried it. Kristen had no idea. She was supposed to call EMS for hostages or people who were caught in the crossfire, not need their services for her damn friend.

The other EMT poked Jonesy’s arm with a needle connected to a tube. He attached it to a bag of clear fluid. Painkillers, she hoped. The other man continued to examine the armpit wound and scowled, his face anxious.

“You did good back there, Red. Seriously. You have what it takes.” He grimaced.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t. I didn’t see that shooter until it was too late. I could’ve shot him and you’d be fine.”

“Don’t be so fucking greedy, Red. You took a bullet for me, which was a real dick move, by the way.”

“Well, you took seven for me. If taking one makes me a dick, then seven—”

“Makes me a real fucking asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole. You’re my friend.”

“Oh, cut the Hallmark crap. We’re not friends.”

“Yes, we are.”

“We’re not friends. I don’t want to get a fucking tangerine martini with you for Christ’s sake. We’re teammates…we’re partners.” He fell into a coughing fit.

“I think we have internal injuries here,” one of the EMTs said. “His BP is dropping rapidly, and the blood I can see from the side wound isn’t enough to account for that. How they could stay so calm when a man was bleeding out in their hands was utterly beyond her comprehension.

“We’re more than friends, Red. How many of your friends have you taken bullets for?”

“I don’t know. A couple?”

A joke was the wrong move. He laughed and the EMTs cursed as the bandage under his armpit shifted and he lost the pressure he’d attempted to apply.

“You need to lie still and stop talking.”

“Fuck you, you fucking pissant. I’ve seen enough men die to know that I am completely and irretrievably fucked.”

“Jonesy!” Kristen gasped.

“You thought I was gonna make it? Maybe you are the fucking rookie.”

“Jonesy, stop talking.”

“No way. Fuck you and fuck them and fuck everyone.” He laughed again. “You took a bullet for me, Red. That’s what a team is all about. We look out for each other, take care of each other, and take bullets for each other if that’s what it takes to keep each other safe.”

“But you’re not safe.”

Jonesy smirked. His bloody teeth made her shiver with real fear that she struggled to keep at bay because losing him was unthinkable. “But you are, and we both know you’re the only one who can save the rest of our team.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I knew you’d say that, but don’t worry. I won’t make you. Remember, though, the team needs you… You need to…go to them…to keep them safe… Only…only—” He coughed and it was bad this time. Flecks of blood tinged his spittle. It was only then that she realized one of his lungs must have ruptured. That was where the blood was coming from.

“Only what?”

“Only don’t get shot again… It…it fucking… It fucking sucks…”

He exhaled, his chest fell, and it never rose again.

For a moment, Kristen heard nothing but a high-pitched blare. She realized after a moment that it was the heart monitor to tell the EMTs his heart had stopped.

“We’re sorry, officer,” one of the EMTs said but she couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the sound of her failing Jonesy and the sound of his heart stopping. Her own heart had pounded in her ears in mockery while his had ceased. It was completely unfair. He shouldn’t have done that. If he hadn’t have done that—

An explosion rang out and sliced through the sorrow that threatened to grasp her by the throat and never let her go.

The people who’d killed Jonesy were still in that warehouse.

Her team was in there with them—vastly outnumbered, pinned down, and to quote Jonesy, fucked.

Kristen dragged in a breath and looked around. The SWAT teams outside the building were preparing an assault. They didn’t have time to prepare. They needed to act and do it now. Her team was in there, surrounded by a horde of damn lunatics, and the rest of the police force was out there talking about taking prisoners and zones of defense?

She wanted to scream that didn’t have time for this nonsense and needed to act.

But it was pointless. They wouldn’t, not in time.

Only she would.

Her sorrow blossomed and burned away. Rage swept in behind to fill the space. It came from the loss of her friend and it pointed itself at the bloodthirsty morons who thought they could take a city—her city—from the people who lived there.

As her fury grew, she balled her hands into fists.

It settled into an implacable determination—she wouldn’t allow these assholes to take her city, but she wouldn’t let her anger blind her, either. All those months of training had readied her for this moment. She channeled her white-hot fury into what she knew and let it cool and harden into ice.

A moment later, she ran back into the warehouse to save her friends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Someone had closed the door to the warehouse, but it didn’t matter. Kristen kicked the giant metal door with enough force to dent it and force it off its hinges.

Voices cried out in surprise, then fell silent.

Good. She’d already snuffed out the lives of two of these murderers and wounded a few others. Let them see she was unafraid.

A moment of silence settled over the space as every gun turned to aim at her. That was also good. The more they focused on her, the less they’d focus on her team.

She didn’t want to think about what she’d do if they hurt anyone else. God help them all if it was anyone on her team, but if they hurt Butters… Well, she simply wouldn’t let them.

A moment before every weapon opened fire, she sprinted forward to a stack of crates. Two hostiles were hidden on the far side. She ducked around it, picked one of them up by his throat, and let his allies shoot him in the back while he shielded her from their bullets. Despite the fact that she used one of their own as a shield, the barrage didn’t even slow. She swung his corpse at his ally with enough force to hurl them both through the crates they’d huddled behind.

Part of her wondered vaguely at the strength needed to do it, but people were trying to kill her and she let the thought leave her mind.

Her cover was destroyed, so she snatched up the lid of one of the crates and raced deeper into the building. She wielded it like a shield to intercept bullets intended to kill her. Oddly enough, she could feel that she moved faster than she’d ever done before. She couldn’t dodge bullets but she knew enough about how people used guns to keep out of their way as she sprinted toward her team.

To confuse the enemy, she alternated between direct burst and zig-zag maneuvers, which brought her closer and closer to her destination while she held the lid of the crate between her and the army of thugs. Occasionally, small jolts of pain made her think of the airsoft range. Surely getting shot hurt more than this? Maybe she had merely been grazed.

An unfamiliar instinct inside her told her to keep going. She felt a power she’d never felt before. Whatever it was, it was fueled by the loss of one of her friends and the threat of losing more. She wouldn’t let that happen. The power inside her told her that she didn’t have to.

Something caught her squarely in the chest and Kristen whirled to careen the lid of the crate across the arena. It spun, easily as fast as a circular saw, and decapitated a man. She felt nothing at the carnage. He’d tried to kill her team and got what he deserved. It had been quick, at least, which was more than she could say for Jonesy.

Two men bounded into her path, both armed with shotguns. Kristen flung herself aside, rolled, and came up behind another stack of crates. The two men tried to come around either side—she could somehow hear their voices over the gunfire—so she shoved the entire pile of crates and toppled them to crush both men and kill them instantly.

Hexagonal nuts spilled from the broken boxes and for the briefest of moments, she wondered how she’d been able to move them. Each one must have weighed close to a ton. She’d heard of people being able to tap into reserves of strength in situations like this, but it seemed beyond what should be possible. There was a power inside her, though—the same power that had always been there and that had propelled her through the police academy and had earned every trophy on her wall. Only now, she really used it.

She wondered how she knew it was there or even how to tap into it, but that wasn’t important. Not now. Her team was still in trouble and she’d use this strength she hadn’t known she’d possessed without asking unnecessary questions.

Gunshots ripped into the wooden crates she’d been hiding behind in almost the same moment that she broke from cover and ran toward the conveyer. She reached it with a headlong sprint through the middle of the warehouse and located her team. They were still crawling under the belt, following it as it snaked through the now deadly warehouse floor. They had barely made it twenty feet, and Keith was still bleeding.

“Hall, get the fuck under here,” Drew said.

“Get ready to run,” she replied and kicked the entire conveyer belt—metal frame and all—over onto its side to give the team a shield that protected them from half the warehouse as they made their exit. She would protect them from the other half and the twenty hostiles on that side.

“There are still people on the other side,” Hernandez protested. “We’ll never make it.”

“They’re mine.”

“You’re not a one-man army,” Drew blurted.

“You’re right. I’m not a man,” she replied.

Something between fear and awe entered his eyes. “We’ll go for it. Butters is still up top but we’ll be back with reinforcements to get him. Hall, you cover us and follow us out.”

“Go,” she said, took Hernandez’s assault rifle, and fired at the enemy who could still target her team effectively. They retaliated but the constant barrage of gunfire seemed to have slowed. They’d realized they couldn’t hit the redheaded warrior, so had changed tactics. That was fine with her.

Drew, Hernandez, and Keith stumbled out of the warehouse, over the damaged doors, and to safety. “Hall, come on!”

Kristen looked at the sunlight streaming into the warehouse and considered it. She might have to leave. There were too many of the criminals, and she didn’t know where Butters was. She could kill more of them—surely she could—but she didn’t know how many. What mattered wasn’t vengeance—not yet. What mattered was saving Butters.

Then, she saw the man with the rocket launcher.

He’d already aimed at her—he must have already aimed at her team—but now that she had kicked the conveyer belt on its side, he had an easy shot.

Before she could move, he launched the rocket unerringly at her. She leapt over the conveyer belt and tried to use it for cover, but barely a half-inch of steel and less of rubber padding might be able to slow bullets enough to make them non-lethal, but it wouldn’t do a damn thing against a rocket.

The last thing she saw before the heat from the explosion forced her eyes closed was her scanty barrier blown to bits and she was engulfed in flames.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kristen Hall stepped from the flames. She had thought being hit by a rocket would have hurt more but she had hardly felt it.

Curiously, she looked at her arms. The sleeves of her shirt had burned away and her skin was visible but it was different. It gleamed like polished chrome. She turned her hand and stared at it from all sides. Every speck of it was the same—shiny, gleaming metal. She looked at her chest. Her body armor was still there and her police belt, although they too were now made of steel. Her pants were mostly intact, although her shoes were gone. Steel toenails reflected a face made of metal.

I did this. Somehow, she’d turned herself and her clothes to metal. Well, most of them anyway. Obviously, she’d let the sleeves of her shirt and her shoes get burned in the explosion.

What did this mean? What was she?

A bullet struck her in the chest and her moment of self-reflection was over.

It didn’t hurt, not at all. In fact, it didn’t even dent her steel skin but it reminded her why she was there. The pathetic excuses for human beings in this warehouse had killed Jonesy.

She flinched when something struck her face. It was like being sprayed with a water hose—annoying, distracting, and uncomfortable. She held a hand up to block whatever it was, looked through the torrent, and realized it wasn’t water, but bullets. Someone was firing a mounted machine gun and its ammunition felt like water to her.

Kristen smiled. Vengeance would come easy this day.

Roused from her distraction and spurred into action, she raced forward. Her metal body didn’t slow her in the least. She didn’t feel heavy or sluggish, either. In fact, she felt great. Reflexes honed in the last few months kicked in and she moved easily as the barrage of gunfire tried to pin her down. They couldn’t even hit her, not that it would have mattered.

When she reached the vehicle with the mounted machine gun, she punched the hood simply to see what she could do. It crumpled like aluminum foil.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” The woman operating the weapon yelled and was immediately lifted into the air by a pair of chains connected to a platform. The machine gun went with her.

Kristen vaulted upward but fell short and landed on the vehicle. Her steel body crushed its roof.

More bullets pounded into her from behind and she turned to face the men on the floor. They were on her level. She’d kill them all, then get up on the catwalk and finish the job.

Someone fired another rocket.

It missed her but impacted the truck beneath her feet instead. When the crate of explosives in the bed blew up, she knew that had been the intention.

The blast was much larger than the last one. It catapulted her through the warehouse and into another pile of crates. These splintered when her steel body plowed into them and scattered their contents on the hostiles who’d hidden behind them.

They tried to flee, but they still carried their weapons. If they managed to scurry away, they’d be a threat to her friends. She struck each only once and the force of her blows was enough to end their fragile lives.

More shots ricocheted off her and she sprinted toward their source.

“We surrender!” one of the men who’d fired at her seconds before shouted.

She hesitated for a moment, unsure how to take a prisoner in the middle of this mess. The man used the opportunity to draw a pistol from the back of his waistband.

He never had a chance to fire it. She surged forward, picked him up by his shirt, and flung him across the room. He careened into another woman who’d been firing at her. She didn’t know if they’d live and honestly didn’t care.

When another volley was released from above, she looked up and located a ladder to the catwalk.

Quickly, Kristen ran to it, stepped on the bottom step, and felt it shift beneath the weight of her steel body. It held, fortunately, so she climbed steadily.

At the top, the man with the launcher attempted to load another rocket. His nerves obviously had the better of him, though, and he shook and cursed as he tried to shove the missile in place.

She picked him up as if he weighed no more than an insect and pitched him off the platform. He screamed as he fell but abruptly went silent.

Her gaze settled on the rocket and she picked it up and considered crushing it in her hand.

“Don’t. Someone might be able to use that to understand who was behind this.”

Startled, she looked at Butters. She had completely forgotten he was there and that he was the reason she had come back in. Vengeance had blinded her and almost cost her the life of a teammate. He was all right. She smiled. He was all right. A surge of relief washed over her and in a moment, her skin flickered from steel to flesh. “Where’s Beanpole?” She immediately felt guilty for not asking sooner.

“So, this is weird,” the man said and peeked over Butters’ shoulder.

At another flurry of fire, the two men both dropped to the platform and yelled at her to do the same. She ignored them—she was impervious to gunfire, after all.

Except she’d transformed from steel to flesh once again.

She held up her hand to stop the barrage of bullets and as soon as the hot slug of metal met her skin, her body transformed. Instantly, she was made of steel and the bullet bounced off.

“Stay here,” she said. “I’ve cleared the back of the warehouse. I’ll finish the job.”

Kristen expected Butters to protest but instead, he pointed ahead and to the right. “Whatever machine they have that’s blocking the radios is over there. We tried to get to it, but we’re not…uh…well, we’re not made of steel.”

“Here.” Beanpole thrust his assault rifle in her hands. She hadn’t realized she’d lost Hernandez’. She took it with a nod of thanks.

Once she’d moved past Butters and Beanpole, she watched them start down the ladder and she continued her assault on the people who’d killed Jonesy and tried to take her city from the people who called it home.

Armed with an assault rifle and protected by her steel skin, she was an unstoppable force of destruction. She turned toward every shot that struck her and returned fire. So much of her SWAT training had been about firing at hostiles while remaining behind cover but now, she didn’t have to do that. She simply turned, took aim, allowed bullets to glance off her, and fired at her attacker. Even though her aim wasn’t perfect, she found her marks after a few attempts. After all, they ducked constantly behind crates and the ruined conveyer belt and craned their necks up to see her. She stood still and breathed carefully like she was at the shooting range.

She continued forward to a branch in the crosswalk and turned to the right. Ahead of her lay a strange machine and one of the mounted machine guns. She approached while the man operating the machine gun released the full force of the weapon against her.

The bullets proved futile and simply pinged off her as she approached like harmless distractions. She reached the machine and pounded it with a steel fist. Immediately, her radio came to life with voices.

“We have radio.”

“The machine’s down. Hall destroyed it.” That voice belonged to Butters.

“I have eyes on her, Drew. She’s on the catwalk. Hostiles are unloading a machine gun into her chest.”

“Hall, get out of there!” Drew bellowed.

Kristen didn’t respond.

“I don’t think she needs to, sir,” someone said. She assumed it was one of the snipers who no doubt had eyes on her.

“Then we’ll go in.” A shout erupted from the front of the warehouse as SWAT poured into the building and assumed defensive positions near the door.

The man with the machine gun continued to fire at her. It was shocking how little she felt it and she again wondered what was happening to her. Was someone on SWAT a mage who had cast some kind of a protection spell on her? She knew next to nothing about the humans who could wield magic, but she didn’t know how else to explain this.

She was a girl from the suburbs of Detroit. Her mom and dad were normal people—except they weren’t her mom and dad, not biologically and had been entrusted with her and told to keep her safe. They’d done so and even kept her safe enough to never have to fully reveal whatever this power was inside her. Now, it was her turn to protect their city.

She stepped forward and flipped the machine that had jammed the radios off the catwalk like it was nothing more than an empty cardboard box.

The hostile maintained the machine gun fire, so she rushed forward and thrust him from the catwalk with a single kick.

“Sir, she walked into over a hundred goddamn bullets. I don’t know what we can do to help her,” said a voice over the radios. “She’s…she’s not human!”

“I don’t give a shit what she is because she’s my damn teammate. We can cover our goddamn teammate,” Drew replied. More gunshots followed. The hostiles now focused their firepower on the SWAT members who entered the warehouse.

Perhaps, if they’d surrendered, Kristen could have been talked into sparing their lives. But instead, they insisted on killing more and more people. Even in the face of defeat, they refused to lay down their arms.

The rattle of heavy machine gunfire joined the sounds of radio chatter and assault rifles. She looked ahead of her and across the catwalk that traversed the warehouse. The woman with the mounted machine gun who had escaped her earlier was there and aimed at the SWAT team.

“No!” she shouted and sprinted forward as the weapon began to fire.

The woman smiled with gleeful malice. Kristen remembered the expression from a boy she’d been in fourth grade with. He took pleasure in ripping the legs from insects. This woman’s expression was the same—satisfaction derived from the suffering of others was a sick thing, truly.

She thought of the people she’d killed but reminded herself that she’d done it because they were intent on destroying this city and her teammates and because they’d killed Jonesy. Had they deserved to die? Maybe. But was that her role? To decide who lived and who died?

No. No, it couldn’t be. Not if she wanted to think of herself as different than this woman.

“Hey!” she hollered at the hostile. “Stop now, and you live.”

“Fuck you, fucking dragon-bitch! I might not be able to kill you but I’ll bleed your friends out like the fat fucking piggies they are. We’ll burn this place down and the whole damn city will smell like bacon.” The gang member laughed maniacally and resumed her assault on the men and women below her.

Furious, she bounded forward and pushed her new abilities to their absolute limit. She ignored what the woman had called her and how much sense it made. The catwalk shook beneath as she raced forward, running faster than she’d ever thought possible.

Despite the threats to kill her friends, she still turned the machine gun on Kristen as she approached.

Exactly like the other one, it did nothing to her. She embraced the gunfire because she knew that each shot fired at her was one not fired at her teammates below.

In the span of a few heartbeats, she was inches away from the gun.

“I said stop.” She grasped the barrel and twisted it in her hands, bending the steel up back around like it was a pipe cleaner.

“Fuck you!” The woman drew a knife and darted toward her.

She vowed to herself in that moment not to become like this woman—obsessed with murder and nothing else. Her willingness to continue to kill, even in the face of obvious defeat, was disgusting.

The thought gave her pause. She honestly didn’t want to kill her—she didn’t want to kill anyone else, not unless she had to in order to protect the people she loved.

Instead of catching her by the throat or kicking her in the chest or any number of other simple maneuvers that would now be lethal because of her steel skin, she simply punched the machine gun with all her force and repeated herself. “I said, stop!”

The blow was enough to destroy the weapon like it was made of playdough rather than metal. It was also enough to sever the catwalk from whatever supports had suspended it.

The entire structure groaned, then lurched.

“Hold on!” she shouted to the woman, but she obviously didn’t have the necessary reflexes.

When the platform lurched, she jolted off the edge and plummeted to a messy death in the middle of the SWAT team.

“Get out of here!” Kristen screamed at the people below her.

“You heard her. Go!” Drew ordered the officers around him and no one argued.

As the catwalk ripped free, Detroit’s SWAT team left the building and moved clear of the falling piece of metal with moments to spare.

She rode the twisting network of platforms, railings, and ladders to the floor. Her weight was such that when she landed, she cracked the concrete.

The catwalk followed with a thunderous crash to shatter everything and release a great plume of dust.

Calmly, she stood and walked from the building.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The team waited for Kristen when she stepped out of the warehouse. Jonesy’s absence left an enormous hole in their ranks that she felt immediately.

“Hall,” Drew said by way of greeting. His voice was shaky.

“Thanks for checking that we cleared the building,” Butters said. She didn’t think she’d ever heard the jovial southerner sound angry before. Right now, he sounded furious.

She swallowed. In all the violence, she’d forgotten about getting him and Beanpole out. While she’d told herself that was why she went back in, was it true? Once inside, all she had wanted was vengeance.

“We left through one of the other exits,” Beanpole said. “A while before you crushed every man and woman in your path.”

“Seriously, Red. We’ve all eliminated a hostile in the line of duty. It comes with the fucking territory, but fuck…there’s limits, you know?” Hernandez shook her head.

“There will be an investigation into what happened here,” Drew stated and made a visible effort to return his voice to normal. “What you’ve done—”

“Was fucking rad!” Keith interjected. He was the only one of the team who’d been substantially injured. Besides Jonesy, of course. He was dead and her team was chewing her out?

“It was not,” the team leader countered. “You used a level of violence beyond anything the police would normally allow. You killed—we don’t even know how many people you killed.”

“Those thugs killed Jonesy.” Kristen could feel her rage rising again. She clenched her fists involuntarily and realized she was still in her steel skin but didn’t change it. “They intended to burn the whole damn city down. They didn’t act like people. They acted like a pack of rabid dogs.”

He nodded. “I know. Believe me, I do, and everyone here knows we would have lost even more people if you hadn’t…stepped up. But the fact remains that we had the enemies contained. They were all in that warehouse and we had them surrounded. You didn’t have to—”

“Save your asses?” she cut in.

Drew shrugged. He seemed conflicted but ultimately thankful for his life. “I’m only saying you’ve made a mess, Kristen. Captain Hansen will have to punish you. One death—even of a hostile—means a mountain of paperwork. This? Well, this is like the goddamn Rocky Mountains of paperwork.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have done it? Even after they killed Jonesy? Are you saying I should have simply let them kill Butters and Keith and you because the paperwork will be too much to deal with?”

“Fuck that!” someone yelled, an officer from another SWAT team. “Those fucking dogs killed Donnie. If you hadn’t had…uh…” The man paled when he realized he was talking to a woman with steel skin. “That is…uh, thank you, ma’am. My wife and kids will thank you too.”

“I don’t care if I’m in trouble. I did what needed to be done. I killed the people who killed one of my people.” She removed her helmet. When she did so, it turned from steel to normal.

“They didn’t all kill Jonesy,” Butters said.

“They tried to. Everyone in there was hell-bent on murder. I did what had to be done to save this town. I don’t know if any of you looked into their eyes, but I did. There was no remorse there, not in any of them. All they wanted was blood and death. I ended this conflict the only way I could.”

“Hall, that’s total horseshit.” Drew clenched his jaw. “You could have fallen back and we could have kept them bottled in there for days.”

“And how many lives would we have lost?”

“Not as many as you took.”

“Watch how you talk to her, human. You’re on the verge of setting her off again, which I don’t think any of us want.”

Drew turned to look at the person who’d interrupted. Kristen realized immediately that it was a dragon in human form. An aura poured off him and washed over her team, and they all took a slow step back. It swirled around her like water around rock. She didn’t fear these dragons any more than she had the thugs inside the building.

She looked the man in the eyes and noticed they were orange with black slits like the eyes of a snake or a crocodile.

The Dragon—Stonequest, the name on his uniform read—stood tall, unintimidated by her despite her steel skin. “Do you know who we are?”

A quick appraisal of the other three with him confirmed that none of them were people either. She wasn’t quite sure how she could tell, but she was absolutely certain these were dragons as well.

“You’re dragons. Slow ones.”

“Not merely dragons, you little runt, but Dragon SWAT.” A woman with gorgeous steel-blue eyes hissed a warning. Her eyes were framed by perfect cheekbones and extremely long, platinum-blonde hair that was tied in tight French braids. To Kristen, she looked like a princess, not a member of a SWAT team.

“Easy Heartsbane,” Stonequest said. “This one obviously doesn’t know how things work around here.”

Heartsbane only clenched her jaw at that, but she said nothing further.

Her companion continued. “Like she said, we’re Dragon SWAT. Obviously, humans could never police dragons, so that’s where we come in. We’re the law above the law. When one of us breaks the peace or catches our leaders’ attention, my team brings them in.”

“So, what will you do—breathe fire on me? In case you didn’t know, I survived a blast from a damn rocket launcher. I’m not scared of three dragons.” She stepped forward and pushed past Stonequest, still in her steel skin. “You want me? Try to take me.” She checked him with her shoulder and he took a step back to let her pass.

“She doesn’t know.” Heartsbane laughed derisively.

The two other dragons laughed as well.

“We’re not here to bring you in. You’ve done nothing wrong—at least not for a dragon.” Stonequest’s voice rolled over her like a cooling wave.

She walked on as the words sank deeper and deeper into her mind. He didn’t actually say… He couldn’t have meant that she…that Kristen Hall was… She wasn’t a dragon. Was she?

Kristen thought back to what her father had told her, about his sister working for the dragons at some kind of bioresearch lab. Her thoughts wandered to her training and how impressed everyone had been with how quickly she’d picked it all up. And she’d always been strong and fast. And then there was the matter of her steel skin. She looked at her hands. They shone in the streetlights that had come to life. But that simply meant…it meant she was a mage or something. Not that she was a dragon.

“Dragons are above ordinary police rules of engagement,” Stonequest said and raised his voice. “Those thugs killed someone you considered yours. For a dragon, that’s all the reason necessary to end a human life. An attack against someone under a dragon’s protection is a direct affront and will never be tolerated. You only did what any dragon would have done in your situation.”

Kristen stopped. “But I’m not a dragon.”

The two who hadn’t spoken shared a curious look. Heartsbane snorted and shook her head. Stonequest merely nodded. “Yes, you are. The steel skin is a sign that you are. It’s unusual, certainly—an indication that you’re different. A steel dragon, but a dragon all the same.”

“So, you are here to bring me in?” She turned to them. “Try it. I won’t go without a fight. I’ve never heard of a steel dragon and I’ll bet you’ve never fought one.” Her mind raced. Could this really be possible? Could she really be a dragon? But how could she have been one her entire life and not known it? How had she not discovered it sooner? A dragon had sent her to the academy, after all, and they’d been behind her assignment on a SWAT team. How long had they watched her?

Stonequest shook his head. “As I said, you’ve done nothing wrong. The people you killed”—he gestured to the building filled with dead thugs like they were nothing more than farm animals—“don’t matter.”

“Of course people matter!” she protested.

“Not those,” Heartsbane countered. “We heard what they tried to do to the city. They were nothing more than beasts who needed to be put down. They couldn’t have done all that themselves anyway. They must have been under the control of one of us. Monkeys don’t know how to organize—”

“Heartsbane!” Stonequest cut her tirade short. “Watch your tongue or I’ll have it out.”

She stuck her tongue out. “Oh, for fire’s sake. It would grow back in a month.”

“Then I’d have a month of quiet.”

Heartsbane regarded her leader and finally acquiesced. He focused on Kristen.

“Do you think that I… Do you think all this was my fault?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. And we’re not supposed to talk about open investigations.” He directed a sharp look at Heartsbane. “But since she already spilled the coals, I think it’s safe to say we sensed a dragon here and assumed it was responsible for what was happening. When we arrived, though, we found you. The trail of bodies you left behind does a fairly good job of convincing me that those people weren’t under your sway.”

“Then whose sway were they under?” she asked.

“We don’t know.” Stonequest didn’t shrug so much as crack his neck. He was even bigger than Drew, and—if his powers were anything like hers—was probably far stronger than he looked. “We sensed a disturbance and came here. By the time we arrived, the only aura we could sense was yours.”

“But you said I didn’t do anything wrong. Why didn’t you pursue whoever was behind this?”

“Your aura was stronger than anything else around here. If there was another dragon—and that’s still an if—he must have fled, using your own aura for cover.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you’re talking to me instead of trying to find the man, er—dragon, who tried to take this city over.”

“Whoever the snake was, he failed against an inexperienced dragon who hasn’t come into her powers yet. He’s—what’s the human expression? Small potatoes.” Heartsbane smiled way too sweetly.

“When we realized you were in there, we told our superiors and they ordered us to make contact with you. New dragons don’t simply appear out of nowhere and besides, you’ve been watched. Apparently, there was quite a betting pool on whether you were one of us or not.” Stonequest grinned and made it obvious that he had money on that bet and also which side of it he’d placed his wager on.

“I heard Damos bet an entire chest of Spanish doubloons on you being human.” One of the other two dragons laughed. “She’s gonna be pissed.”

“So what do you want from me?” Kristen asked. She clenched her fists. Okay, so maybe she was a dragon. It kind of made sense. Maybe…kind of. And on top of that, she was a steel dragon. Which apparently was unusual. Which meant if these assholes wanted a fight, they’d get one.

Stonequest shook his head and held his hands up, the palms down in a soothing way. “We’ll want you to join us eventually, once you’ve come into your powers fully. When that happens, you’ll be reassigned to Dragon SWAT. Until then, you are to remain with the human SWAT team to continue learning more and improving your skills.”

“I…you can’t simply pull my life around like I’m a puppet on a string.”

He smiled indulgently. “Kristen, who do you think put you on SWAT in the first place?”

She had nothing to say to that and besides, he had raised another question in her mind.

“What did you mean by come into my powers fully?”

“This is like talking to a child,” Heartsbane protested. But before Stonequest could reprimand her, she took a few steps back and transformed.

Wings sprouted from her back, spikes appeared down her spine, and she grew a tail. Her uniform and flesh transformed into scaly skin and for a moment, the image of a white demon stood before them—a man-sized, winged beast with scaly skin and glowing eyes—until she grew in size to become a dragon bigger than a car. Even in this form, she was beautiful. Her scales were as white as ivory, and ridges down her back caught the wind coming in off the river. With a pump of her wings, she became airborne and soared above them.

“There’s more to being a dragon than being quick and strong.”

“But my steel skin—”

“Is interesting,” Stonequest said and cut her off. “Perhaps even unique. If the world were made only of humans, you could rule, no doubt, but we are dragons who have slain dragons. As long as you are stuck in your human form, you wouldn’t stand a chance against us.”

“Bullets bounced off me,” she protested.

He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not here to threaten you, but don’t think you’re above us either. As long as you’re in this form, you are weak and cannot challenge us. All I would need to do is order Heartsbane to snatch you up and drop you in the river. Steel sinks.”

“I can change back—”

“And we could try other things. The volcanoes of Iceland aren’t terribly far for beings such as us. We could drop you in one of those. It’s not like you could fly out.”

Kristen paled.

Stonequest smiled, although it was hard to tell if it was genuine with his slitted orange eyes. “But like I said, we’re not here to threaten but to welcome. For the time being, you are to stay with the humans and continue to grow. Once you begin to realize your full potential, we’ll be in touch.”

She nodded. There really didn’t seem to be anything else she could say.

He seemed to know this as he gestured at the other two dragons behind him. They all transformed from their human shape and took to the skies.

Numbly, she watched them vanish into the night.

After a moment, she realized that the rest of her team had watched the entire exchange.

For a moment, no one spoke. Finally, Hernandez broke the silence. “And I thought I was a bitch.”

“They weren’t so tough,” Keith added and limped over to the group from the back of one of the ambulances. “Okay, yeah, they can fly and breathe fire and probably pick up a police car, but can they play airsoft?”

“I bet they wouldn’t know gumbo from jambalaya,” Butters added.

“Come on. Let’s get back to the station,” Drew said. “I heard that asshole say you’re stuck with us humans for a while, which means none of us will do your paperwork for you. After all, great powers to manifest and all that shit.”

“I don’t think he meant I had powers over paperwork,” she protested but laughed. She realized her steel skin had reverted to normal. Suddenly, she was exhausted.

“Why else would he wish you to stay with us?” Beanpole asked. “You defeated a small yet extremely well-equipped army. What more is there to learn than how to properly file a report?”

She shook her head and smiled at the insanity of it all. While she had no idea what the future held, she was glad her team would continue to be a part of it.

As soon as he had seen the police officer rise with steel skin, Mr Black had left his human form and the warehouse of gang members behind.

He’d become the black dragon, leapt across onto another nearby warehouse, and transformed into human form in a swirling cyclone of shadow and smoke. When he descended the stairs of this adjacent warehouse, his two personal guards waited for him with an armored getaway vehicle. He had expected to be successful, so it was a little frustrating when one of his men proffered a chilled bottle of champagne.

“Not tonight,” he muttered angrily at the human. “Get me out of here.”

“Sir?” The device that blocked the radios was useful when fighting coordinated human forces, but there were disadvantages like having to explain to his guards what happened.

“Another dragon was forced to reveal herself this night. In doing so, she unraveled my plans for this wretched city. Still, I don’t believe she wished to reveal her powers, and even after all these centuries, information is still the most precious currency.”

“Where to, sir?” one of them asked. The other guard offered him a cigar. The black dragon told himself he’d give that one a raise.

“Take me to my den. Her aura is giving me a headache. Also, there’s…yes, dragon SWAT will be here soon. I’d hoped to deal with their masters from a place of power, but now—with this steel dragon emerging from nowhere—I don’t wish to reveal myself yet. If I know anything about them, Dragon SWAT and their masters will try to keep the presence of this new steel dragon quiet, which suits me perfectly. After all, the dragons I know will be very interested to hear about a new player in the Motor City…very interested indeed.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Drew had not been lying about the paperwork. By the time she was halfway through with it, her right hand ached from holding a pen for three days straight. Time spent on the shooting range was less physically demanding, she’d thought morosely more than once. Worse, there was the fact that she’d had to confront the identities of all the people she’d killed.

Despite them being criminals who’d killed Jonesy, after three days of reviewing their files, she felt guilty at ending all their lives so quickly. A few of them had kids. Some had wives. More had girlfriends or boyfriends. Kristen knew all but a few of the truly wretched would be missed. Hell, even the monsters would probably be missed. Human beings were funny when it came to emotions.

But the hostiles having friends and family only made their behavior even more confusing. These had been people who had tried to take over with guns and explosives. They would have burned the whole damn city down—their own city. What compelled people to take up arms and turn them against their homes? Detroit certainly had its fair share of protests in the past, but people armed with machine guns and rocket launchers trying to entrap SWAT was a level far beyond protests that turned violent. Had a dragon made them all behave so monstrously?

She didn’t know and as far as the paperwork was concerned, it didn’t matter.

Her team leader put a hand on her shoulder and broke her from the paperwork-induced stupor. “Hey, Hall. It’s time.”

Without a word, she nodded, stood, and followed him out of the station and into a police car. Butters was in the back seat. He remained silent and simply looked at her with a stoic grimace.

Drew turned the lights on but not the sirens and pulled out. Keith eased out behind them in another cruiser with Beanpole riding shotgun and Hernandez in the back. They drove in silence for a time until they made it to the funeral parlor.

“The viewing should be over soon,” Drew said.

He was right and after a few minutes, people carrying a casket emerged from the funeral home and loaded it into a hearse. But it wasn’t an “it” they loaded. It was Jonesy.

Kristen had already been to see the body. The coroner obviously hadn’t known the man. He’d put makeup on him to cover his pockmarked face and persuaded his mouth to show a wry smile. Jonesy didn’t smile. He sneered, he scowled, and he spat, but she had only seen him smile when he cussed someone out—and he wasn’t cussing at anyone now.

The hearse pulled out and Drew followed it, leading the procession of police cars through the Motor City. She tried to keep herself from crying—they were driving in a funeral procession, after all, so there was no reason to weep yet. But when she heard Butters sobbing in the backseat, she stopped pretending like losing Jonesy didn’t hurt and let herself mourn. The tears stung at first. It was like admitting he was dead all over again, but after a minute of pain, she began to feel better. It was amazing what a human could adapt to…or a dragon, she thought dully, still in shock at what she’d learned about herself.

“He was a pig, you know?” the sniper said.

Drew nodded. “It’s Jonesy we’re talking about. Show some respect. He was a fucking pig. A goddamn fucking pig.” He stopped and dragged in a breath. “I… God, no one could curse like him, not even Hernandez.”

“Don’t mention that to her. She’s in worse shape than anyone else,” Butters mumbled.

She didn’t know how it was possible for anyone to feel worse than she did. Jonesy died because of her—he’d taken those bullets for her, and he’d died because of it. And to think that if he hadn’t jumped in the way, her steel skin probably would have stopped them anyway. “At least she didn’t kill him,” she blurted.

“Neither did you,” Drew said with a sharpness that surprised her. “A criminal with a gun did. Don’t forget that. I’ve seen too many officers blame themselves for the actions of a moron with a gun.”

“But if I hadn’t blocked that bullet in the pawnshop, maybe he wouldn’t have tried to protect me and I would’ve transformed sooner. No matter how you look at it, his death is my fault.”

“Don’t you fucking do that Hall.” His curse sounded as fierce as Jonesy’s ever had.

“But it’s true. If I had used my powers, I could have—”

“I don’t give a shit about your powers, but I guess you’re right. We all could have used a bulletproof dragon warrior a little earlier in the fight.”

“Then why are you screaming at me?”

“Don’t you dare act like Jonesy wasn’t a goddamn hero. He would’ve taken those bullets regardless of whether you’d taken any for him. He was a hero. A goddamn hero.” That cracked the man’s stoic façade. He clenched his teeth and wiped his eyes before the tears could spill from them.

“Of course he was a hero,” Butters said from the backseat. “Do you think we would’ve put up with his bullshit if he wasn’t? He was a loud, disrespectful—and if I’m totally honest—racist son of a bitch. He made more enemies than friends and was a constant pain in my ass, but damn if he wasn’t a good cop. He didn’t let that shit get in his way either. He didn’t curse out shoplifters or shoot black kids in the back like some cops do. He left his politics at home but not his damn tongue.”

“Exactly,” Drew said. “He was a fucking asshole, but he was a great fucking cop.” He shook his head and forced himself not to cry.

They arrived at the cemetery, and the six of them—Kristen, Drew, Butters, Beanpole, Hernandez, and Keith—carried Jonesy’s casket to his grave.

There were speeches and tears. She listened but all she could think about was the man about to be lowered into the grave. In the end, she threw a handful of dirt on the casket.

It almost broke her heart, but she knew Jonesy had lost people. Everyone on SWAT had lost people, so she didn’t let it overwhelm her. She’d continue to fight and keep this city safe for the people he had left behind.

Brian had refused to go to Buddy’s and instead, insisted that she pick up one of the pizzeria’s uncooked pizzas so they could eat at home.

She hadn’t minded until she’d realized that her brother had ulterior motives.

“I still don’t believe it. There is no way my sister is a dragon.”

Kristen rolled her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time. “Brian, what’s there to believe? Look.” She’d practiced changing her skin to steel and back and had gained some measure of control over it. After a deep sigh, she held her hand up in his face and turned it to metal.

He shrugged. “Big deal. So, you learned a trick. I’m not impressed.”

“It’s not a trick, Brian. Watch!” She snatched one of her mom’s kitchen knives and stabbed her palm—or she tried to anyway. The blade broke.

“You could’ve weakened the knife. And besides, I’ve seen gloves that can do that on the Internet.”

“Then you choose a knife. Stab me anywhere and see what happens.”

“If you two think you can ruin all my knives over some sibling squabble, you have another think coming,” their mother snapped. “Now, dinner is ready. Wash your hands and come to the table .”

They obeyed her, washed up, and sat at the table. Kristen felt more relaxed than she had in days. Being home felt normal again. Brian still treated her the same as he always had, and her parents? Well, they were still her mom and dad, exactly like they’d always been.

She’d been adopted but so what? She could deal with that. At the end of the day, that wasn’t what mattered most. The love and care her parents had shown her all her life were what truly counted.

“I thought dragons were supposed to have, like, super-great reflexes.” Her brother tossed an olive at her face. She batted it away.

“Brian! Don’t pester your sister,” their mom protested.

“I do have good reflexes. I beat you in everything we’ve ever played.”

“Not video games. You can’t even win at Mario Kart!”

“I can too.”

“No fucking way.”

“Brian! Language!” their mother said, venom in her glare.

“What? Dad talks that way.”

“Your father was on the police force for thirty years. He has earned the right to swear every now and then.”

“Did I hear that shit right?” Frank swaggered into the room.

Marty smiled her smile that said it was not the time to argue. “Of course you may swear, you know that, but not at the dinner table. And Kristen, you are a lady. You’d better not pick the habit up.”

“But, Marty, I’m not a lady, I’m a dragon. That’s what I’ve been telling you.” She turned her skin into steel and back to flesh.

“Mom, Kristen’s showing off,” Brian complained.

“Kristen Hall, if you call me Marty again, I will throw you out on the street and let your brother eat all your pizza.”

“That’s your name.”

“Not to you it isn’t, young lady. I don’t care if you’re a dang gold dragon, you will respect your mother,” Frank said, but the heat wasn’t in his voice. He grinned even wider than Brian did. “But, for your old man, do the silver skin thing again. It’s too cool.”

She smiled and flickered her steel again, which drew an even bigger grin from her father. Kristen shook her head. He wasn’t Frank to her and he never would be. The man was her dad and he always would be.

It made no difference to her that she was adopted. She didn’t care that this wasn’t her biological family, and—under this roof at least—she didn’t care that she was a dragon. She knew her family didn’t end here, though. Not being related by blood to these people made her new bonds with the SWAT team feel all the more important, but she would never forget where she came from.

Although, if Brian didn’t shut up, she would totally use her powers to beat him at video games.

THE STORY CONTINUES

The story continues with book two: Scales of Justice, coming soon to Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

KEVIN’S AUTHOR NOTES

OCTOBER 20, 2019

Wow, this book was a long time coming! Michael Anderle and I have talked about doing some sort of work together for ages. Finally, late last year, we realized the only way we were going to properly brainstorm ideas for a new series was if we got together in person and sat down to do the work.

Cue one airplane flight for me from my Boston home to Las Vegas! On Spirit, no less.

That actually turned out better than I’d feared. I upgraded my seat to their “extra space”, which put me in the front of the plane. It was, believe it or not, one of the more comfortable flying experiences I’ve had. A pleasant surprise, since I’d heard a lot of negative things about Spirit before.

Ah, Vegas. I’ve been out that way for author events before, but never just to meet and hang out with one person like this. Vegas can be pretty fun, it turns out, even if you have precisely zero interest in gambling. (My math skills are too good for gambling to be that much fun.) It’s a cool place. I was able to experience much more of it than I had before, thanks to Michael touring me around a bit.

Mike and I spent several days powering through a bunch of different story ideas, working them over to see which ones we both liked. I think there were concepts for at least three other series which were tabled — at least for now. Someday those other ideas might see the light of day, too.

But by day two we were already pretty set on Kristen’s story: The Steel Dragon. It hit all the right notes for both of us. We had a strong protagonist who’s a ‘fish out of water’, exploring a world that is wildly unfamiliar to her. Over the course of my visit Mike and I blocked out no less than fifteen potential storylines for the Steel Dragon series.

Once we had the rough idea down, it was time to spin out the beats for the book. That part was my job; plotting is one of my strong points, and I had a lot of fun figuring out all the trials and tribulations our hero was going to face. Once I finished the beats for each tale they went over to Michael, who sent back a draft.

Then I went over the draft and tweaked it here and there, adding a few scenes, expanding on others… The usual stuff. If I did my job right you’ll never be able to tell which scenes I wrote and which ones were straight Michael Anderle. You’ll have to let me know!

The LMBPN beta reader team was absolutely instrumental in making these stories the best they could possibly be. With their help we refined and enhanced Kristen’s tale in ways that the two of us could never have done alone. I want to shout out to those readers with a VERY special ‘thank you!’

Thanks for taking the voyage with us!

MICHAEL’S AUTHOR NOTES

OCTOBER 21, 2019

Thank you for reading this story, and perusing these author notes at the end of the book!

I’m presently flying back from Frankfurt (went there for the 2019 Frankfurt Book Fair) back to the USA. I’m somewhere over the Atlantic I’m guessing. All I can see are the white clouds below us (someone up in the cockpit mentioned we are cruising at 32,000 feet) so I have no idea where we are.

This publishing business is so vast, it is sometimes hard to comprehend all of it, but I am trying.

A little bit about my collaborator, Kevin McLaughlin.

If I was asked to name ‘one thing’ that I find unique about Kevin, it is that he has worked as a nurse and knows his stuff when it comes to medicine. This was evident one time at a convention when an author’s daughter was ill. I heard about the story in the morning (it happened the night before) and when I was getting the story I found out Kevin had visited their room and helped the child.

Since I hadn’t really associated Nursing with Kevin before (it was a factoid, but not something which was front and center for me) I remember being confused for a moment. The person I was speaking to MUST have noticed the confusion on my face and mentioned he was a nurse.

That was when it snapped into place. Of course he would know how to help!

If you get a chance to meet him, his desire to help people damn near oozes out of him.

While I want to help people, I admit I have a huge aversion to blood. Not necessarily my own (I asked for a mirror at 10 years old to watch the doctor sew up my lip that had a tree trunk slammed into it.)

But he deals with it professionally and yet retains his compassion.

Kevin was in the Army (I’m assuming for one four-year stint? I don’t know and now I’m scratching my cheek trying to figure out how come I never asked.) We used some of that knowledge creating the Steel Dragon Universe.

Now for some Behind the Fiction Dirt.

Kevin and I enjoy talking shop and stories, so it seemed like working together would be a fantastic next step. Both of us love the Indie publishing scene, great books, and telling stories so why would it be a challenge?

But, it was.

We had met a few times in person (at various 20Booksto50k events and Boston Fantasy-Fest. Plus, he and Liz took Judith and I to dinner in Boston one night as well. He’s outgoing, fun, smart and likes to laugh.

And damned opinionated.

The opinionated part had never been a real problem in our many previous conversations, so I didn’t think anything of it. Not until we tried to hammer out this story did this aspect become challenging. We tried a few times to work out the story concepts over video calls but it just wasn’t jelling for us.

So, I pitched him coming out to Vegas in (December?) of 2018 and he took a flight and we setup in a conference room and hashed out this series. It was hard, damned hard. He would come up with something and it didn’t work for me. I would come up with an idea, but it wouldn’t work for him.

By hashed out, we beat each other up with ideas and counter ideas. It was like watching a tennis match.

All day we went back and forth and I was wrung out creatively by the end of day one. Fortunately, I think we got somewhere on the big picture for Steel Dragon the last hour of the day, so that I went into day two with a bit of positivity. By the end of hours and hours of work, we had the story that is coming to your hands now.

I can say that with assurance because I know damned well Kevin wouldn’t settle. There is no give in that man at all.

;-)

If you get a chance to talk with him, do it. He is a uniquely qualified author that brings so much knowledge of the industry (including being a part of it since he was like…10 I think?)

However, out of all of the aspects I’d talk about if asked - I would point to him and say, ‘He is one of the most compassionate guys I know.’

The rest is just dressing.

BOOKS BY KEVIN MCLAUGHLIN

Steel Dragon

(with Michael Anderle)

Genesis Draconis (Book 1)

Scales of Justice (Coming soon)

Dragon’s Daughter

(with Michael Anderle)

Never A Dragon (Book 1)

Dead Dragon New tricks (Book 2)

Thicker Than Blood (Book 3)

Dragon Fire and Pixie Dust (Book 4)

The Cult of Tiamat (Book 5)

The Sum of All Magic (Book 6)

Adventures of the Starship Satori (Space Opera blended with military SF)

Finding Satori - prequel short story, available only to email list fans!

Book 1 - Ad Astra: Book 2 - Stellar Legacy

Book 3 - Deep Waters

Book 4 - No Plan Survives Contact

Book 5 - Liberty

Book 6 - Satori’s Destiny

Book 7 - Ashes of War

Book 8 - Embers of War

Book 9 - Dust and Iron

Book 10 - Clad in Steel

Book 11 - Brave New Worlds (2019)

Book 12 - Warrior’s Marque (2020)

The Ragnarok Saga (Military SF)

Accord of Fire - Free prequel short story, available only to email list fans!

Book 1 - Accord of Honor

Book 2 - Accord of Mars

Book 3 - Accord of Valor

Book 4 - Ghost Wing

Book 5 - Ghost Squadron

Book 6 - Ghost Fleet (2019)

Valhalla Online Series (A Ragnarok Saga Story)

Book 1 - Valhalla Online

Book 2 - Raiding Jotunheim

Book 3 - Vengeance Over Vanaheim

Book 4 - Hel Hath No Fury

Blackwell Magic Series (Urban Fantasy)

Book 1 - By Darkness Revealed

Book 2 - Ashes Ascendant

Book 3 - Dead In Winter

Book 4 - Claws That Catch

Book 5 - Darkness Awakes

Book 6 - Spellbinding Entanglements

By A Whisker (short story)

The Raven and the Rose - Free novelette for email list fans!

Dead Brittania Series:

Dead Brittania (short prequel story)

Book 1 - King of the Dead

Book 2 - Queen of Demons

Raven’s Heart Series (Urban Fantasy)

Book 1 - Stolen Light

Book 2 - Webs in the Dark

Book 3 - Shades of Moonlight

Other Titles:

Over the Moon (SF romance)

Midnight Visitors (Steampunk Cat short story)

Demon Ex Machina (Steampunk Cat short story)

The Coffee Break Novelist (help for writers!)

You Must Write (Heinlein’s rules for writers)

BOOKS BY MICHAEL ANDERLE

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