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.
“Fig
ht!” 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 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.”
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