“You got through there in twenty-two seconds. That’s what I call frigging impressive as hell,” the man’s voice came through the speaker again. “Now get out here and tell us how the hell you did it.”
Remy chuckled and holstered his weapon, then led his teammates to the back door of the shoot house and out into the early morning sunshine, where Lieutenant Drew Thompson and the rest of the New Orleans SWAT team were waiting for them. The twenty men and two women had watched the whole thing on the monitors and were regarding them in admiration.
“Okay, so spill,” Drew said.
Tall with blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair cut military style, Drew had come up through the ranks on the Dallas SWAT team with Gage, and when Gage had been named commander, Drew had moved to New Orleans. According to Gage, Drew hadn’t been pissed or jealous Gage had gotten the job but had simply wanted to be in charge of his own team. They’d parted as friends and had stayed in touch.
“What we just did in there might look good, but some of that stuff would be impossible to do on a good portion of the calls our team in Dallas handle,” Remy said. As one of the more experienced breachers on the team, he’d volunteered to lead the training in this area. “The three breaching methods we demonstrated—the battering ram, shotgun breach, and explosive charge—all come with advantages and disadvantages.”
Remy walked over to a long table set up with all kinds of tactical breaching gear, stopping beside the battering ram that was similar to the one Brooks had used to take down the first door. “The ram is the simplest method to get through most doors, but it leaves the person using it standing in the middle of the doorway defenseless because they don’t have a weapon out.”
He moved farther down the table to a shotgun that was identical to the one on his back and held it up. “This can deal with doors that have been reinforced along the lock or hinge side, but it also exposes whoever uses it to someone firing through the door. Worse, the ammo you use, whether it’s buckshot or slug, will keep going and could hit civilians.” He placed the rifle on the table. “The same goes for the explosive breaching charge—it’s going to throw fragments everywhere when you initiate it. So, for either of those methods, you’d better know what’s on the other side of the door you’re going through, or you’re going to end up injuring, or killing, the people you’re there to save.”
That wasn’t anything the cops on the NOPD SWAT team didn’t already know. It wasn’t difficult to find a SWAT officer who didn’t live in fear of going through a door expecting to find a bad guy with a gun and instead finding a four-year-old in their pj’s.
“We’re going to spend the rest of the morning breaching all kinds of doors,” Remy continued. “But we’re not only going to worry about getting through the obstacles. We’re also going to learn where the fragment debris from different breaching techniques goes and how dangerous it can be.” He walked along the table until he came to a cardboard box filled with red balloons. He took one out and held it up. “You pop a balloon, it means you injured or killed a hostage or a teammate. Whoever pops the most balloons buys a round of beer for everyone.”
That earned Remy a couple groans, some chuckles, and more than a few grins. Every SWAT officer appreciated learning a new skill, but they also loved a little competition—especially if the loser ended up having to buy the winner beer.
“All right, you heard the man,” Drew said. “Let’s break up into teams and get to work.”
* * *
Remy was soaked with sweat by the time training ended just in time for a late lunch. As he and his pack mates sat at a picnic table behind the NOPD SWAT facility, drinking Gatorade and talking about the plan for that afternoon’s training, he realized he’d forgotten what the humidity down here on the river was like. It was so hot and sticky it was hard to believe there was a tropical storm still sitting out in the Gulf meandering around like a lost two-year-old.
But humid or not, it had been a good morning of training. On the downside, they’d probably blown through the SWAT unit’s entire budget for wood, building supplies, and training explosives for the quarter, but they’d learned more about breaching in one morning than they probably had in the past two or three years. You couldn’t put a price tag on that.
Remy and his teammates had planned to run out and grab lunch at the nearest restaurant, but Andy told them to hang around because they were cooking up something special in the facility’s kitchen. If Remy’s nose was right, that something special was sausage and crawfish gumbo with a side of rice and corn bread. He sure as hell didn’t mind waiting around for that.
“We’re going back to Bourbon Street tonight,” Max said between gulps of Gatorade. “You in?”
Remy shook his head. “Nah. I’m getting together with Triana tonight.”
Brooks grinned. “Triana, huh?”
“Yeah,” he said, trying to downplay his interest in her. He told himself it was so the guys wouldn’t rag on him, but it was more than that and he knew it. Introspection wasn’t his thing though, so he wasn’t going to waste brain cells thinking about it. “I figured we’d go out and get something to eat, catch up on old times.”
“Good for you,” Max said from the other side of the picnic table. “Considering the way you were able to pick up her scent and track her halfway across the French Quarter when none of us could even smell it, she’s obviously special. You’d be stupid not to go after her.”
Self-preservation made Remy stomp on the figurative brakes. “Whoa, slow down there. I might have crushed on Triana back in high school, but I don’t have any interest in doing anything more than hanging out and talking.”
Max, Brooks, and Zane stared at him as if he were a pig wearing a Rolex. Remy suddenly felt like shit for lying his ass off. And if the frown on Brooks’s face was any indication, the guy knew he wasn’t being honest.
He and Triana were going to hang out and talk, but that sure as hell wasn’t the only reason Remy wanted to see her tonight. The thought that they might be doing a lot more than catching up on the good old days had not only kept him from getting any sleep last night, but it had been buzzing through his head all morning too. He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d managed to focus on training.
Even after spending most of the evening with her, he still couldn’t believe the woman Triana had become. He’d been around his share of beautiful women, but none had affected him the way she did. She was so dazzling he could barely breathe when she smiled at him. Her scent was so intoxicating he’d walked around with a hard-on the whole night. And when he’d kissed her, he’d damn near lost it and shifted right there in her mother’s shop. If she’d been wearing a Little Red Riding Hood costume, he would have been more than ready to play the part of the Big Bad Wolf and eaten her up on the spot.
Walking away from her last night had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. Not that leaving had helped very much. It had been a long walk across the French Quarter, and yet he barely remembered going back to the hotel. When he’d gotten back to his room, he lay there and dreamed about her as the few remaining hours of night waned. He’d have sworn he could still smell her scent from halfway across the city, and it had nearly been his undoing. It had taken everything in him not to climb out of bed, run back to the shop, and make love to her as the sun came up.
He’d been with Triana for half the night and he already had it bad for her. Yet here he was, trying to tell the guys it was no big deal. And they weren’t buying it. Hell, it probably didn’t help that every one of them could hear his heart rate elevating simply from thinking about kissing her.
“Really?” Brooks said, eyeballing him like he knew exactly what was going on. “Sure seemed like a lot more than that. If I had to guess, I’d say it was like the two of you had an immediate, almost magical connection. After all the crazy stuff we’ve seen in the last year, you don’t think there’s a chance she could be The One for you?”
Panic shot through Remy. The One was that one-in-a-billion soul mate who existed for every werewolf out there. Even though they were supposedly as hard to find as hens’ teeth, five of his teammates had already met their mates in the past year. The odds said something like that should have been impossible, but it had happened anyway. Now, most of the other members of the Pack were essentially looking behind every tree and around every corner, wondering if their soul mates were going to show up at some point.
Remy wasn’t one of them.
He’d found love already. As far as he was concerned, he was one and done. He was completely fine hooking up with women who caught his fancy, but he never let things progress beyond that. There was no denying he and Triana had some serious chemistry going on between them, but that was a far cry from being soul mates, mythological or otherwise. Just hearing Brooks say the words The One made him feel like he was going to be ill.
