This is the second preview chapter of my novel, Not to the Swift. You can find the original post describing the novel here, and the novel is available on my Amazon author page.

“Emmanuel’s on Faulkner, that’s great, thanks. Faulkner Drive or Faulkner Court?”

Herbert George Washington—George to everyone but his wife and mother—pounded the steering wheel of his rusty Eighty-Eight Cadillac and wove through curving suburban streets. A sign caught his eye and he slowed. “When did this road turn into Faulkner Lane? What the hell!”

To George’s building frustration, Emmanuel Hospital lay in plain sight beyond the curving roads and man-made hills of Sandalwood Heights, a wealthy and ever-expanding suburb on the south side of Stapleton. Yellow and red flowers mocked him, spelling out “Emmanuel” in an emerald background on one of the slopes ahead.

What happened to square-grid streets and simple city planning? All the curves, the gardening… Gotta pretty everything up for the rich folk, make sure they know they live somewhere better.

He pushed his round-rim glasses back up his nose, and they promptly slid back down. Even with the windows down and air rushing past, his face beaded with sweat.

The Indian Summer stole the cool breezes of autumn and replaced them with eighty-five degrees of heat and stifling humidity. The Cadillac’s air conditioning always made grinding noises after two minutes of use, so it was no help.

Another thing to get fixed someday, George thought. Maybe if this Emmanuel job goes well, I can get a recommendation for work at Westside.

Faulkner Lane wound around another bend and revealed the gate of the hospital staff parking area. Shoulda just followed the signs to the damn E.R. and found my way in from there.

George stopped at the gate and held his temporary Emmanuel Staff badge up to the scanner. The yellow arm lifted, permitting him entry.

He found a spot, grabbed his personal satchel of tools, and exited the car. Two young men in clean white coats stood near their sports cars, giving either George or his old beater furtive glances. One shook his head and muttered something George couldn’t make out.

George paused and leveled a direct glare their way. Yeah, boys, this is what happens when no one on your staff knows how to fix your dinosaur patient alarm system. You gotta call in the poor folk from downtown. But you bet I’ll take your money.

The small tuft of hair atop his head caught a light breeze, but he felt withered in the sunlight. His thick blue maintenance coveralls trapped in the afternoon heat. He clipped the badge to his chest pocket and hustled toward the staff entrance.

“Seven East? All right. I’ll send him up.” The fat white security guard put down the phone. “You’re the contractor for the Rawlins system?”

“Yessir. Like I said.” George tapped his foot and pursed his lips.

“Staff elevator’s down the hall.”

“I know where the damn elevator is, son.” He held up his badge. “How do you think I got this in the first place?”

He shared the elevator ride with two doctors, both male, one black. George leaned against the back corner and watched the lights mark each floor’s passing. He ignored the look of disdain the doctors gave him, as though he might stain the pristine walls by his mere presence.

The doctors got off on the fifth floor, and the doors lingered open long enough for George to catch their conversation. “Couldn’t they find someone more… local?”

A few expletives came to mind, but George kept his thoughts to himself. Always better that way. Let ’em think you’re a nobody, just some brother from the ‘hood, maybe a little smarter than the rest of “your kind.”

Acting that way, some people—even other African-Americans—would look down on him. But since he posed no threat, they would tolerate him too. Go along with the black jokes and the cracks about fried chicken, everybody laughs, and I keep gettin’ paid. Laugh along when they talk about gangs and drugs and what goes down in the Twenties, and no one minds me bein’ there—even though I have to drive home to that hellhole at night.

A biomedical technician with no college education, George had little hope of landing a permanent job in the troubled economy. Advancing technology and the rising intricacy of computerized components made most top-quality medical equipment incomprehensible to George. But his broad experience and photographic memory of electronic schematics helped him solve crises and malfunctions many on-staff BioMed techs declared hopeless. Over the years, he made a name for himself and earned frequent calls from the area hospitals whenever their guys couldn’t hack a job.

George became Emmanuel Hospital’s go-to guy for all the aging equipment they didn’t want to replace. None of the higher-ups wanted to spend the money to update decades-old systems installed when the hospital was built. It cost far less to bring George in than to tear out circuits in the walls and ceilings of every floor.

Stinginess kept him working in the suburbs, and lack of funds kept him working downtown. Three days a week, he walked a mile and a half from home to Our Mother of Mercy Hospital in the Twenties. They had no money to spend on glamorous new equipment, so George earned his check by keeping their current inventory functional—all the models he grew up fixing and tearing apart, the so-called junk that places like Emmanuel would unload on the cheap whenever they bought the newest thing.

It wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t permanent, and it was painful driving all over Stapleton and its suburbs. But between George’s freelance work and the meager checks LaTasha brought home from admin work in the school district, the Washingtons were getting by.

Food on the table every night, clothes on my kids’ backs, and a roof that don’t leak on their heads when it rains. With these things, we shall be content.

He thought of the rusty Cadillac threatening to fall apart in the parking lot. Okay, with most of these things, at least.

The elevator opened to a flurry of nurses going room to room checking on patients. A white redhead doctor saw George and waved. “G-Dub! Come on, man, we need your help.”

George chuckled at the familiar address. The kids he ran with grew up into the friends who came over for poker night, and that was their name for him. Not some white guy from the Heights. But John McGarrin was a nice enough man, George figured, at least so long as the status quo held out.

The wealthy whites and affluent blacks of Sandalwood Heights were happy to welcome someone like George into their midst, so long as two things were clear:

First, the visit was for a specific temporary purpose. Can’t have too many blacks driving through the town, swarming the stores, or God forbid, moving into the neighborhood. One guy coming down from the Twenties to fix some old junk—that was fine.

Second, he had to know he would never truly fit in. As long as he went along with the mocking and ignored the whispers behind the back, as long as he understood he’d never really be “one of them” then they’d act like he was.

He brushed off the thought, flashed a grin, and entered the fray. “What up, Irish?”

“The whole thing blew up,” John said. “Lights and colors, bells and whistles, every single one went off. You should’ve seen the panic. An entire floor of patients in recovery from surgery all Code Blue at the same time. I think several doctors had to go change their pants once we figured out it was a malfunction.”

George gave the expected laugh. He looked at the system panels beside each door as they headed for the main nurse’s station. Every possible warning light burned bright.

John continued. “We cut the sound of the alarms. You can imagine that was a pain. Turns out when they put this system in, they didn’t want medical staff to ignore the warnings when patients started dying. So we might have made some extra work on severed circuits.”

“Great. You know I get extra pay for call-ins after four.”

“Whatever man, if you can fix this, you deserve it. We’ve brought in nurses from other floors to make rounds every five minutes, keeping watch on patients’ vitals and ensuring their condition isn’t worsening. Almost had a woman slip through the cracks and Code Blue before we got that started. Jeez, could you imagine the lawsuit?”

George moved behind the counter and set down his tools. “It’s probably just a blown transistor,” he said, removing a wall panel near the ground to access the alarm system. “There’s a motherboard that governs power routing to all the other circuits in here. I’ve seen this happen once before. That transistor blows, power goes through all the circuits, and every light in the place goes up like a Christmas tree.”

Nurses rushed by, disheveled and exhausted. John watched them pass then turned back to George. “Sure, electronics and crap. Whatever. You can fix it?”

George nodded. “I can fix it.”

John pointed at him and backed away. “You’re the man, G-Dub!”

“Yes I am. That’s why you keep callin’.”

“Whatcha readin’, boo?”

LaTasha Washington leaned on the doorframe watching eleven-year-old René, who lay on her stomach on the bed, her dirty-sock feet in the air, swaying back and forth.

“To Kill a Mockingbird. Gotta write a book report in a couple weeks for Miss Pearson. I don’t know if I like the name ‘Boo’ anymore, Mama.”

LaTasha laughed and sat down on the bed by her daughter’s softly kicking feet. She patted René’s back and cocked her head, contemplating the thoughts the classic might inspire within her innocent daughter’s mind.

“How do you like Miss Pearson?”

“I dunno,” René said, distracted. “Sometimes I think she’s trying too hard.”

LaTasha nodded, her concerns confirmed. Troops to Teachers is great and all, but how are they going to send some rich white girl down here to teach inner city kids? What does she know that my baby needs to learn? How is she supposed to relate to these children?

“She’s pretty cool though,” René continued. “Did you know she has the same name as me? Says it’s the bestest name of all. She spells it with two ‘e’s at the end, though.” René looked up at her mom. “Miss Pearson told me at the end of the year she’ll say why she likes our name so much.”

LaTasha looked over her daughter’s homework. “That’s nice, boo.”

“One time she told us about Afghanistan.”

What? “Really?”

“Yeah, we were talkin’ about drive-bys and gang fights, and someone said how scared they got when guns popped off nearby. She told us how one time their convoy got hit by an RGP or somethin’ like that.”

Jesus, have mercy. What is this woman teachin’ my baby? LaTasha sighed. “I’ll talk to her, boo. Make sure she’s teaching age-appropriate content to her class.”

“Nah, Mama, you don’t gotta. She cool. I think some of the guys that didn’t like her before gave her props.”

“She’s cool. Don’t sound like a thug. And I’m going to talk to her, it’s okay.”

“Mom, no, it’s not.” René put a finger in the book and rolled over to glare at LaTasha. Child, you better watch the tone of that look before I smack it off your face.

“You always yell at our teachers about everything, just ’cause you work at the school.”

“I do no such thing.”

“The kids call you PTA—you’re the parent in charge of teacher administration.”

Oh, that’s clever. Little brats. “Parent-Teacher Association,” LaTasha corrected.

René pleaded. “They make fun of us, Mom. Chris gets picked on at Pulaski too, he just don’t say anything to you about it. The girls in class say I’m an Oreo.”

“They can say that all they want, right up until they’re living off welfare, popping out babies. You’re going places with your life, and that means having a certain level of education.”

René rolled her eyes. She’d heard it all before. Well, I’m gonna keep saying it, child, until I see you spread your wings and fly higher than your Daddy and me.

“All right, I didn’t mean to distract you. You keep reading.” She patted René’s back once more and left to check on Chris.

She found him curled up on the bed, pencil in hand, erasing answers in an Algebra workbook. LaTasha smiled as she watched. He always sticks the tip of his tongue out on his upper lip when he’s trying to figure something out. There it is again.

“How’s it going, Little Man?”

Chris sighed without looking up. “Mom, I’m as tall as you now.”

“With a voice almost as deep as Dad’s. I know, but you’ll always be my Little Man.”

“Quadratic equations suck. When will I ever need to know this?”

“When you’re trying to get a high school diploma, with grades good enough for a scholarship to Southern Illinois, or some other college, so you can get your degree and make a living to support your family.”

“I’m gonna open a comic book shop. Don’t need quadratic equations to sell comics.”

A superhero posed on the other side of the page Chris worked on. She knew without checking that his books were full of similar drawings—aliens fighting giant robots, muscle-bound men and fake-chested supermodel women in capes and tights punching each other between math problems. It had been that way since fourth grade. Still on that dream.

“You need math to see if you’re making money or losing. You need skills to keep your employees paid and decide how much inventory to purchase.”

Chris narrowed his eyes at her and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am,” before returning to his work. “When’s Dad getting home?”

“I haven’t heard from him. He told me he got called to the south side for some big crisis, so I bet he’ll be home late. Don’t forget, you got laundry to do tonight or tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He penciled in an answer and turned the page.

Now for the real question. “By the way, why’d you get detention today?”

She suppressed a smile at his wide eyes and open mouth. That’s right, I’m a superhero too, the All-Seeing, All-Knowing Mama. And don’t you forget it.

“I, uh…” Chris stammered. “I mouthed off to Mister Jackson. I apologized, but he made me clean the chalkboards and whiteboards as part of my discipline.”

“Good. Watch that mouth, Little Man.”

A distant sound like a pack of firecrackers broke the night’s silence. LaTasha flinched at the noise even though she knew the gunfire must be a few blocks away. Chris looked toward the window too, curiosity and trepidation playing across his face. Sporadic shots followed, then a siren wailed afar off.

“Ambulance on the way. At least it’s not in our building this time,” Chris offered.

“Thank the Lord for that.” LaTasha managed a smile for her son’s benefit. It struck her as sad that he knew the difference between the warbling police siren and the wail of an emergency vehicle. “You keep hitting that math homework. Get done so you can enjoy your weekend. I’m gonna go wait for Dad to get home, maybe give him a call to see how long it’ll be.”

“Sure thing, Mom.”

LaTasha walked toward the front of the family apartment, one large room with a cracking tile surface covering the quarter that served as the kitchen. They had a rickety dining room table with five chairs across from the kitchen stove. At the front of the apartment, two aged padded recliners faced the television and flanked the couch that had been their wedding gift from LaTasha’s parents. The lime green wallpaper peeled in several places.

She flipped on the television—some laugh-track sitcom she didn’t recognize—then sat in one of the recliners. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began her vigil. “Lord, bless Herbert wherever he is. If he’s still fixing things, bless the work of his hands. If he’s headed home, be a hedge of protection about him. Bring him home safe to me, Jesus.”

The peace Bishop Simms preached about took a long time in coming that night.

This is the first preview chapter of my novel, Not to the Swift. You can find the original post describing the novel here, and the novel is available on my Amazon author page.

“Okay, Chris, soon as the bell rings and Mister Jax blows the whistle, make a break for the alley.” Jamal grinned, the light in his eyes a warning that trouble was brewing.

Over a hundred teens milled about in the open yard of Pulaski High, separated into clusters by cliques based on race, gang affiliation, or social status. The two freshmen stood near the schoolyard fence.

On the other side of Lincoln Street, three men stood in the alley, puffs of smoke wafting around their faces. One of them beckoned Jamal with a wave.

Chris looked back toward the double doors of the school. Already some of the nerds gathered, working on homework, waiting to get back to class. When Jamal wasn’t around, Chris would join them and get a head start on the next day’s projects. But Jamal always had something else in mind if he wasn’t busy with his connections or getting high in some dark corner of the school.

“Yo, you with me or not?” Jamal rocked on his feet, eager to escape the afternoon’s classes. His thick arms and chest made him look big and slow, but he could sprint like a jackrabbit. Once again, Chris shoved down disappointment at his own awkward, lanky frame.

“Yeah, man,” Chris said. “I’m with you.”

“Then wake up, bruh, this is serious. These guys promised me a set to work, Eighteenth South, from Madison to Nelson. And I’m bringin’ you in with me. We play this right, we can make serious bank.”

“If we don’t get caught ditching.”

“Man, screw that,” Jamal said with a soft shove at Chris’s shoulder. “Wastin’ time in a stuffy room, solving for x or talkin’ about white dudes hundreds of years ago. That ain’t gettin’ you nowhere fast. My boy Lamar got stacks-a-cash for us—if we get out there and move his product. This is big time, bruh.”

Chris scoffed.

“Okay, okay, true enough. This is a step to the big time. Lamar see us doin’ good work, he’ll maybe hook you up with your own set next to mine. Then we makin’ double what we get at the start.” Jamal looked across the yard at the school doors and Mister Jackson, called “Jax” by the students. The teacher was well out of earshot. “How’s that for some math in real life, Jax? Hundred percent increase in profits.”

Jamal checked his cellphone. “Almost time. Hope you run faster than I remember.”

Chris nodded, swallowing fear. He tried to ignore the pounding in his chest. Mom will kill me if I get caught doing this. She will absolutely murder me if she ever finds out I had anything to do with drugs.

He looked up at the school’s third floor, searching for the admin offices. Mom might be in there… what if she comes to the window? Once again, he decided it sucked having your mother work for your school district.

“Better not punk out on me, man,” Jamal said. “We gotta make a good impression. Show ’em we can get it done.”

A long, clanging bell announced the end of lunch break, and Mister Jackson—a former Marine—loosed a whistle blast that echoed through the yard. The scattered groups of teens plodded toward the doorway while Jax yelled for them to hustle and line up.

“Go!” Jamal took off in a dash, trusting the crowd at the door to serve as distraction.

Chris froze. He tried to pick up his foot and run off after Jamal, but terror held him in check. His eyes watched the office windows. No sign of her. It’s safe. Go!

But something inside balked at the thought of Jamal’s plan. Taking this step felt like getting on the metro. Once the door closed behind you, you went wherever the train was headed, no chance to get off.

Jamal looked back as he ran across the street. His brow furrowed, then he sneered. He said something that looked like an insult, and disappeared into the alley.

Last chance, man. Chris tried to push past his fear. You want to make money? This is real, this is right now, this is your golden opportunity. Whatchu waitin’ for?

He lurched toward the fence and reached the edge of the schoolyard.

“Mister Washington!” Jax’s voice.

Chris froze, hand on the chainlink fence. He winced and turned to face the teacher.

Polo shirt stretched across a wide chest, with the same high-and-tight he’d have worn in the Corps, Jax marched toward Chris. “Where you think you’re headed, son? It’s time for class.”

Chris sighed and moved toward the school.

Jax looked at the alley and frowned. “Washington, I don’t know exactly what you had in mind, but do you realize you were about to make a huge mistake?”

Chris glared at him and kept walking.

Jax laid a firm hand on Chris’s shoulder, halting his progress. “Look, son, I’m not your enemy. But I’m not your friend either. And I’m not stupid. You’ve got hope. You’ve got a future, and you’re going to find it in here.” He pointed to the school doors. “Nothing good for you on that side of the street, you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“Excuse me, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jax put his fists on his hips. “Boy, I could walk upstairs, pull your mother aside, and have a nice chat about what her son’s up to. You want that?”

“No, sir.” This time the respectful tone was genuine.

“I thought not. Here’s my deal with you. I won’t talk to anyone about this, but you promise me you’re not getting into something you’ll regret. And you’re coming to see me for detention after school’s out today. Now let’s move.”

Chris’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir.” He followed Jax to the double doors and took his place at the end of the line.

But he glanced back at the alley, just in time to see Jamal and his friends stroll down Lincoln toward Jamal’s set. Jamal’s words echoed in his mind. Better not punk out.

He hoped his ears played a trick on him when he thought he heard Jamal’s laughter on the breeze.

Sergeant Christopher Mason straightened his crisply ironed uniform shirt and adjusted his cap as he stood outside the Precinct 112 police station. First day. Remember this moment. He smiled, took a deep breath—and immediately regretted it.

Precinct 112’s jurisdiction included the industrial district of Stapleton, Illinois. The smokestacks of the massive car part manufacturing plants pumped God only knew what into his lungs and everyone else’s.

Chris coughed and strode up the stairs to report for duty. Showing up for half a day and a Friday… not a bad plan. The drive from L.A. in a U-Haul truck with a wife and toddler following behind in the family car took two days longer than expected.

He stepped through a packed waiting area and showed his ID to the clerk, a blonde twenty-something with an easy smile once she realized he wasn’t another civilian with a complaint or report. She buzzed him in to the operations floor.

The detectives got the nice desks with computers. Other than a long table in the break room at the back of the station, patrol officers were left to fend for themselves. A female sergeant rushed past with a stuffed folder and an evidence bag.

Chris reached for her. “Sergeant, can you tell me—”

She turned aside and brought her burden to one of the detectives, paying him no heed.

Another officer ignored Chris’s second plea with an abrupt “I’m off duty.”

Welcome to Stapleton. Chris meandered through the ops floor, taking in bits of conversation and noting details. He looked over an enormous street map of the precinct that covered the north wall. Precinct 112 sat divided into eight color-coded regions. Magnets with dry-erase names showed which officers were scheduled for patrol in each zone that week.

He looked for Mason and found his name in a large rectangle at the precinct’s center, slightly east of downtown, running north to south. Kazsinski. Can’t wait to meet him… or her.

Another officer stopped beside him, a studious black woman with a tight bun and a pretty face. She adjusted names on magnets for the residential area on the east side of the precinct.

Chris glanced at her nametag. “Afternoon, Sergeant Bristow. You post the patrol schedule?” His academy instructor’s voice echoed in his mind. Always pays to know the scheduler. Never disappoint your Captain, never screw over your scheduler, and you’ll be fine.

She gave a silent nod, then spared him a second glance. “Mason… right. New guy.” She extended a hand and gave a firm shake. “Welcome to Stapleton. Your first patrol’s next week, good luck in the Twenties.”

“Uh, sure, thanks,” he answered. “Can’t wait to hit the street. But can you point me to the Captain’s office first?”

She laughed. “My bad. Captain’s office is down the hall around the next corner. Good timing, I think your new partner’s in there now.”

“Perfect.” Chris nodded his thanks and hurried to report in. His shining dress shoes clicked on the tile floor with military precision. But a sudden voice swallowed up the sound.

“Come on, I had the last one! You gave me Jarvis, and that guy was a moron. Do me a solid here, give him to someone else.”

A soft voice replied behind the tinted door and windows ahead, but Chris couldn’t make it out. He slowed as he neared the door. Stenciled letters read ‘Michael McCullough, Captain of Police, Precinct 112.’

“Look at the record. This kid’s so fresh outta academy, he’s probably still wearin’ T-shirts with the logo on the chest.”

Chris blushed and stood at parade rest outside the Captain’s door.

“Kazsinski,” the other voice growled. “You know why I give you the new guys? ‘Cause you get results. If half my force hit the beat like you, the Mayor would finally be off my—as a matter of fact, look who we got here. Come in!”

Chris turned the knob and entered. “Sergeant Mason reporting for duty, sir.”

Kazsinski snickered. He looked like a caricature of a bodybuilder, with an oversized chest stuffed into a too-tight uniform shirt, tucked into a pair of creased trousers over thin chicken legs. His blonde spiked hair looked frozen in plastic, and his abnormal jaw muscles bulged. He probably does reps clenching his teeth with all his “bros” just for that effect.

The Captain seemed the opposite of everything Kazsinski represented, with thinning grey hair, some chubbiness under his chin, and a decent beer-belly stretching his waistband.

“Have a seat, son, and relax. Meet your new partner, he’s gonna show you the ropes.”

Kazsinski huffed and spun toward the door. “I got tickets to file. See you tomorrow morning, six forty-five, ready to ride, scrublet.” He stormed out and let the door slam behind him.

Chris Washington rubbed his palms together, trying in vain to get the dry-erase marker powder and chalk out of his skin. Backpack slung over one shoulder, earbuds buzzing with distorted bass, he walked out of the school and checked the time on his cracked phone screen.

The display read quarter past four. René is gonna walk home on her own any minute now, and I’m gonna catch it from Mom. Better to take the beating now than to wait for later.

He paused the music and dialed his mother’s number. Before he hit call, strong hands grabbed his shoulders. Chris jumped and spun with a yelp.

Jamal laughed. “Yo man, I knew you’d punk out.”

Chris bristled and kept walking. “Screw you, man, I wasn’t gonna get busted for cuttin’ class to hang with the Kings. My mom would kill me.”

“How long you gonna be a Momma’s boy, dog? Carryin’ all your books home, doin’ homework on lunch break.” Jamal pointed back at the school. “Man, just ’cause your mom work at Pulaski don’t mean all this gonna do you any good.”

“Education will do me good,” Chris countered. “It’ll get me the hell out of the Twenties.”

“Yeah, whateva. Keep talkin’ white if that works for you.” Jamal put his hands in his pockets and followed Chris for a moment, then spoke with a warmer tone. “You know what does me good? My buddies Ben and Grant.” He flashed two large bills. “Not bad for an afternoon. How much cash you make today, cleanin’ the classroom boards?”

“Jax gave me detention instead of tellin’ my mom what he almost caught me doin’. You should be glad I didn’t turn you in too.”

“Nobody like a squealer, Chris. Don’t even think about it. The Kings be on you in no time. Besides—” He clapped Chris on the back. “I put in a good word for you.”

“Say what?”

“Please. They saw you choke. They ain’t gonna give you product to push. But I told ’em to give you another chance. Maybe when the heat dies down an’ Jax has other kids to worry about, you can come with me. I’ll hook you up.”

Chris ignored the queasy feeling building up. “Hang on man, I gotta call my mom to pick up René.” He dialed and held the phone up before Jamal could object.

“Hey Mom. Yeah. Yes, ma’am. I’m on my way home now.”

Jamal cracked an imaginary whip. Chris glared at him then turned away. “I got held after class to work for Jax—sorry. Mister Jackson. No, ma’am, I didn’t. I’m with Jamal, we’re headed home. No, really.” Jamal gave Chris a mischievous smirk.

“He’s not like that, Mom. Yes ma’am… Uh, can you pick up René? She always leaves if I’m later than four thirty. Thanks, Mom. Bye.”

Jamal cracked up when Chris lowered the phone. “Yes ma’am, no ma’am, whatever you say, ma’am.”

“You met my mother, bruh?” Chris slapped the back of Jamal’s head. “Talk about punkin’ out. I bet you say ‘yes ma’am’ real quick if you come by our place. Or she put you in your place.”

Jamal chuckled, but nodded. “Yeah, true dat.”

Sergeant Mason’s head swam with information from briefings. Equipment hung in his locker, an issued weapon sat on an armory shelf, and a file folder stuffed with signed documents joined the others in the records room. The afternoon whirlwind of activity drew to a close. But now he was ready for duty.

Chris noted the long shadows and amber sunset hues in the windows of the ops floor. He checked his watch and gathered his things.

His cell buzzed and a text message from Laura flashed on the screen. “I’m in the parking lot. The Bee is with me. How was first day?”

With a smile and a joyful step, Chris made for the exit to see his wife and daughter.

“Mason!” The captain’s voice rang in the hallway to his office. “Got a sec?”

Of course I do. Even if I don’t. Chris walked with a brisk clip, fired off a text to let Laura know he needed a few minutes, and entered the open office without knocking.

The captain grunted a greeting without looking up from his computer screen, fingers tapping keys. “I know you’re on your way home, Mason, but there’s something you should know. Close the door, son.”

Chris did so, then stood at parade rest. “What’s wrong, sir?”

Captain McCullough paused his work and looked up to meet Chris’s gaze. “The stuff I told you about Kaz? Forget all that. He gets to babysit rookies—sorry for the term, but that’s what it is—because he’s hopeless. None of the vets will work with him. He’s certainly not the best I got. But he’s the open patrol slot where I could put your name.”

“Okay, Captain, understood.”

“I’ve got some special training lined up for next week that might help him sort himself out. Might help get you on the right path from the start, too. But listen, a new guy like you can still learn some things from him. Kaz knows the precinct well, and can teach you what to look for. He does a decent job while he pisses everyone else off, so figure out the stuff he does right, and throw away whatever else he tells you. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain nodded and returned to his work.

“Sir? I have a question, if you don’t mind.”

“Hmm?” He kept his eyes on the screen, and kept typing.

“I keep hearing about the Twenties. That’s where Kaz and I are scheduled to patrol starting Monday.”

“Yeah, the Twenties…” The captain chuckled and sat back, hands behind his head. “Most of our trouble starts there, with the Southern Kings and the Mercy Disciples shooting each other up. Same way no one wants to ride with Kaz, no one wants to ride in the Twenties. That’s behind enemy lines to us, Mason.”

Great. Chris swallowed hard.

“I send rookies there first,” Captain McCullough said. “Trial by fire. You learn to deal with that place, everywhere else in the precinct is cake.” He noticed Chris’s reaction and softened his tone. “Don’t worry. Kaz may be a brick some days, but he can handle a rough situation. Pretty soon, this’ll all be old hat to you. Anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Dismissed. Leave the door open, please. And Mason? Get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thanks, sir. I’ll try.” He left the office.

Chris stepped outside to his wife’s smiling face and his daughter’s delighted squeals, and his mood brightened. Their hugs gave him comfort—one around his neck, one around his right leg. But he couldn’t shake the dread that latched onto him like a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder.