Da fuck? “Did you just flash me?”
Grin widening, without the faintest hint of apology, Salters turned, showing the whole class what lay beneath the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau-issued jacket. “What? I’m just showing you my vest.”
Sure enough, the guy wore a bulletproof vest over his T-Shirt,
All traces of smart-assery faded, replaced by grim determination. “You’re my backup.” Salters nodded to the second least hopeless of the crew, and also the most trigger-happy.
With a nod of her own, Robinson— a deceptively petite blonde—took up position, casting a gaze at Lucky for approval. Lucky gave none. She needed to trust her own instincts in the field. She’d tested well, outscored half the department, rookie or veteran, on the firing range, and truckers bowed in awe at the colorful insults she hurled at the least provocation.
Gun in a double-handed grip against his chest, Salters bounced from one doorway to another. He paused long enough to take a lay of the land and let the trainee-most-likely-to-take-someone-out-due-to-road-rage get into a supporting position before darting to the next door. Yeah, well he should do better than the others, since he’d already put in time with the SNB, just without formal training, and without training from a former trafficker turned drug agent.
Or on the streets of Atlanta rather than the mostly civil confines of a hospital.
Lucky’s cell phone chimed and a quick glance showed a smiley face from Johnson. Robinson and Salters completed the course, then. They returned to the group, more than a bit smug, and fist bumped each other.
Lucky huffed. The truth hurt sometimes. “Good, Mr. Salters. You and your partner might live to take on another case.” He dared not call the woman “Road Rage Robinson” to her face, a name her fellow recruits hung on her long before Lucky got the opportunity.
Though the jury hadn’t reached a verdict on Lucky’s chances of coming out of this training exercise alive. Who the hell considered him training newbies a good thing?
Oh, right. Walter. Boss man.
Lucky sent his next charge down the alley toward the end where their fictitious drug dealer doled out cellophane bags full of powdered sugar, most likely glowering at actual dealers wandering by until they tucked tail and ran.
The smart ones, anyway.
Johnson might’ve died of boredom by now since none of the trainees had reached her yet except Robinson and Salters, and they’d returned too quickly to have even started a conversation.
She could always use the idle time to paint her fingernails—or bench press a nearby Mazda.
The next contestant charged straight down the alley. Had they not watched Jimmy at all?
“Wrong!” Lucky yelled. Damn it! Why didn’t they pay attention? “The sniper just picked you off.”
If they’d been on the street for real, Lucky would have returned to the office with at least four body bags, and a lot of explaining to do.
While the class looked for imaginary bad guys, Lucky kept constant watch for a real one. He’d cost former DEA flunky Owen Landry one hell of a good-paying job, and sent quite a few pharmaceutical executives to prison.
He hadn’t won any friends in the pharma trade with his latest case.
Not to mention a few additional folks, and an embarrassment from the Southeastern Narcotics Bureau itself. The SNB sure couldn’t pick ‘em anymore. Two former criminals—well, Lucky and a guy who wasn’t really a criminal, just got caught up in something wrong—on their payroll, and the college-educated IT geek was the one to traipse down the wrong path.
Every time Lucky left the house, he watched over his shoulder. Sooner or later, he’d have hell to pay.
CHAPTER TWO
“What do you say? Put in a good word for me?” Salters followed Lucky across the parking lot under the SNB’s building. His long legs took away the option of outrunning him.
“You arenotdating my sister,” Lucky growled for possibly the millionth time since Salters had transferred from the Virginia office. Of all the trainees, Salters alone had any experience with drug enforcement. He also held a nursing degree. Lucky should say okay and let Charlotte discourage him once and for all.
But what if she said yes?
“Why not? I have a job, a car, am in the process of buying a house, don’t have any embarrassing tattoos, and no prison record. What more can you ask in a good ole Southern boy?”
What, indeed. Charlotte’s ex-husband had the last two options without benefit of the first two. When in doubt, Lucky used his father’s tried and true, fits all occasions, “Because I said so.”
Jimmy beat Lucky to the elevator and barred the way. “Oh, come on, man.”
“Have you ever been to a boxing ring?”
