CHAPTER ONE
Lucky was getting too old for this shit.
Keeping his mouth shut, he waited in the shadows, where he’d spent much of his life. Georgia’s biggest idiot, dressed in a Crimson Tide T-shirt and artfully ripped blue jeans, cradled a Sig Sauer to his chest and slunk to the mouth of the alley. The stink of piss, rotting vegetables, and other things to avoid dwelling on before lunch permeated the air.
If Dumbass over there paid as much attention to his location as he did his designer jeans and costly tennis shoes, he might survive training.
Maybe.
Four doors opened onto the alley, and two heavy-duty industrial dumpsters obscured Lucky’s view of anything beyond a few feet. The perfect place for an ambush. In this neglected area of Atlanta, sure as hell, anyone lurking in the dark depths wouldn’t be selling Girl Scout cookies.
Each of the guy’s heavy footfalls grated on Lucky’s nerves. Without pausing to check his surroundings first, the guy charged into the alley. The fucking idiot!
A frustrated growl burned at the back of Lucky’s throat. Not letting it out. Nope, nope, nope. Oh, hell. He shouted, “Stop!” Time to save the total moron from himself.
And wrestle the moron’s gun away from his face. Lack of bullets made the situation safer, but Lucky never underestimated the power of stupid.
Even years spent trafficking drugs shouldn’t have earned him this kind of redemption hell. “Mr. Riley.” Lucky clenched his teeth to keep from yelling. Earning a “needs to curb asshole tendencies” on a department assessment still stung. Okay, his words, not Walter’s, but whatever. It wasn’t like he’d called anyone a worthless, incompetent asshole.
Lately.
“Can you tell me what you did wrong?”Other than thinking drug enforcement might be a suitable career.
He tried hard not to wrinkle his nose at the foul stench wafting from the alley and whatever the big, green dumpster held. Not to mention the paint thinner Riley used as cologne.
Riley stayed silent, not even bothering to blush.
Lucky spun to face the other six far-too-young recruits tagging along behind him like a pack of puppies—and equally uncontrollable. The Southeastern Narcotics Bureau wasn’t scoring the pick of the crop these days, applicant-wise.
A young woman with braces raised her hand. “He went into a situation without backup?”
Really? Lucky fought the urge to slap his palm against his face. “Is that a question or your answer?”
She flushed the shade of red Riley should be. “Both. I think.”
“Don’t answer unless you have an answer. Anybody else?”
James “Jimmy” Salters, the oldest trainee ever, stepped forward, ticking off points on his fingers. “He’s not wearing a vest. He didn’t wait for backup. He walked into a blind alley, pointed a gun at his instructor…”
Why did Salters from Virginia have to be the smartest trainee in class? He’d annoyed the hell out of Lucky when he’d posed as a nurse during Lucky’s hospitalization. Back when Lucky donated part of his liver to dear old Dad. Now he dogged Lucky’s heels.
Then again, he’d pretty much stalked Lucky at the hospital too.
The asshat wanted to date Lucky’s sister? No way, no how.
Lucky checked the time on his phone. Two more hours—if he survived. Atlanta must’ve known he’d be outside with trainees today, and offered up the suckiest weather available. Frigid moisture misted his face, and he shivered in the black leather motorcycle jacket his partner had given him for his birthday.
Birthdays. Bah. Highly overrated. Wait! What the fuck was today?
Ah, hell. Another one. Nope. Not thinking about turning a year older now.
Not when his trainees might take him out by quitting time.
He’d worn his uniform of choice for the occasion: Boots, jeans, black leather jacket, faded Guns N’ Roses T-shirt and Ray-Bans in his pocket, should a dismal as hell March decide to offer up some sunshine for a change. “Who wants to try next?”
Three of his students took a collective step backward, while one stepped forward. Death Wish Salters. Lucky should have known. He waved a hand towards the alley.
Salters grinned, unzipped his jacket and...
