Man With The Muscle. Julie Miller

Delgado and Captain Cutler. “She saw us on the news. She wouldn’t take my money.”

      “What? Hell.” Rafe Delgado glanced over his shoulder at the bar where Josie and her uncle, the Shamrock’s owner, Robbie Nichols, were busy serving drinks. “She can’t afford that.”

      “I left a twenty in the tip jar for her,” Alex assured him.

      “Can’t even get one lousy order straight,” he grumbled. The lanky, dark-haired sergeant spun his chair around and shoved it under the table. “I’m going to see if I can at least save her the trip over here.”

      “She’s the one who offered to—”

      But Rafe was already striding away. Alex turned at the strong hand that squeezed his shoulder. Captain Cutler’s typically stoic expression was eased by a fatherly smile. “Let him go, son. It’s not personal.”

      The reprimand sure felt as if he’d insulted Josie in some way. And he hadn’t meant to. “I paid her for the drinks, I swear.”

      “I know you did. And somewhere under the strain of having that boy die in his arms this afternoon, he knows it, too.” Cutler swatted Alex’s shoulder and pulled away, including the other two men at the table with them in his explanation for the sergeant’s abrupt departure. “Josie’s a hell of a lot prettier to look at than any of you. With what we’ve been through today, I don’t blame Rafe for choosing her company over your ugly mugs.”

      “Sarge likes her?” Alex asked.

      “I think it’s more of an overprotective big brother thing,” Cutler explained. “His first partner when he joined KCPD out of the academy was her dad. He’s watched her grow up.”

      “So no hitting on Josie or Delgado will cut you off at the knees, shrimp.” In one smooth motion, Trip pointed a warning finger at Alex and scooped up half the pretzels remaining in the bowl. He glanced over the top of his book. “And you can’t afford to be any shorter.”

      Alex flicked a pretzel across the table, hitting Trip in the middle of his forehead. The book went down on the table. Alex caught the pretzel that came flying back at him and crushed it in his fist, crumbling the dregs down into the bowl.

      “Oh, you da man, Taylor.”

      “That’s right, big guy. I’m the man.”

      “Children …” Captain Cutler warned with a smirk of his own.

      Alex’s and Trip’s respective pretzels were dutifully stuffed into their own mouths. The silliness of the interchange lightened Alex’s mood, and while Trip went back to reading with a grin, Alex turned to spot Sergeant Delgado plucking the tray of beers from Josie’s hands and trying to squeeze a word in through the argument his actions triggered.

      They were finally shaking off the grim events of the day. SWAT Team One was going to be okay. Alex was fitting in. No one was on his case for being too new, too young, too short—too lucky to have this job because he was a Taylor—too anything. He shifted his shoulders inside the black cotton sweater and leather jacket he wore and relaxed against his chair.

      “Liza said to tell everyone hi.” Sharpshooter Holden ended the call to his wife and set his cell phone on the table. “I’m leaving after the first drink. I have orders to come home with cookie dough ice cream or not to show up at all.” He tapped his cell phone and grinned in a boyishly excited way that belied his ability to go stone-cold still to make a kill shot or bring down a suspect. “With the way her appetite’s kicking into high gear, I think we could be having the baby any day now.”

      Captain Cutler chewed around a pretzel as he spoke. “I thought Liza wasn’t due until Christmas.”

      “It’s practically Thanksgiving already.”

      “In two weeks. You’re hopeless, Kincaid.”

      “Oh, and when you and Jillian decide to start making babies, you’re going to be all cool, calm and collected about it?” Holden challenged with a grin.

      The captain smoothed his palm across the top of his short, salt-and-pepper hair. “I have a teenage son. I know about making babies.”

      “So you and Jillian are working on giving Mikey a little brother?”

      “Mind your own business, Kincaid.”

      “Or maybe a little sister.” Holden whistled through his teeth. “I’d hate to be the guy who tried to date her.”

      Alex easily pictured an image of Captain Michael Cutler, suited up in body armor, weapons and badge, greeting an already-nervous teenage boy at the front door. His daughter’s unsuspecting date would probably pee his pants. Wisely, Alex buried his amusement by pulling the snacks away from Trip and helping himself to a bite before they were all gone. Only golden-boy Holden could get away with such teasing.

      “You finished?” The captain arched an eyebrow as Holden’s chuckle erupted into laughter.

      “I can’t hear myself think over here,” Trip groused, giving Alex the evil eye as he easily reached across the table and pulled the pretzels back in front of him.

      “You can think?” Holden snatched the book and the bowl from his hands before pointing to the booths behind Alex. “Read on your own time. Single women. Go.”

      Trip grabbed the book right back, but turned his focus to Cutler. “Permission to take him down, sir?”

      The captain grimaced, looking very much like a babysitter who’d lost control of his charges. “Where are those beers?”

      “Right here.” Rafe Delgado had returned, seemingly even more grumpy than when he had left. He plopped the tray down, sending foam cascading over the top of the frosty pilsner glasses. “Help yourselves.”

      Wisely, each man kept his comments about the testy waiter to himself and reached for a beer.

      Holden’s phone vibrated on the tabletop just as the cell on Alex’s belt buzzed. He set down his beer and wiped his hand on the leg of his jeans before answering. Trip and Sarge were opening their phones, too, as Captain Cutler’s went off. The noise of the bar instantly muted and the tension around the table thickened as the captain picked up the call. Alex checked his watch. After 10:00 p.m. They’d been off the clock for more than an hour. A call summoning KCPD’s premiere SWAT team at this time of night couldn’t be good.

      Alex was clearing the Call Dispatch message off his touch screen when the captain rejoined them at the table. “Got it. My men are still with me—I’ll notify them. Cutler out.” He disconnected the call and addressed the team. “Hold off on those drinks.” He glanced at Holden. “Tell Liza the ice cream will have to wait.”

      “What’s up, boss?” Alex asked.

      “Looks like we’re getting some overtime tonight. Rafe, I need you to head on back to HQ to get the van. We’ll need all our equipment. We’ll meet you at the Plaza address Dispatch gave and suit up there.”

      “Yes, sir.” Rafe nodded, his surly mood hidden behind a face that was pure business. He grabbed his jacket and jogged out the door.

      “Captain?” Holden prompted. They still didn’t have an explanation for the off-duty call.

      “Looks like we’ve got another Rich Girl murder. Banking family this time. The Cosgrove estate. They found Cosgrove’s daughter strangled to death in her bedroom. Signs of torture.” Cutler muttered a curse under his breath. “There was a party going on downstairs when they found her. Almost a hundred people on the scene with a dead woman upstairs.”

      “That’s ballsy.” Holden voiced what Alex was thinking. “Sounds as though this guy is trying to flaunt his crime.”

      “That’s the second death with that kind of victim in just over a year, isn’t it?” Trip asked, sliding a bookmark between the pages of his paperback and cramming it into the pocket of his jacket. “The first one’s never