The Rookie. Julie Miller

he was of his family’s accomplishments, he found it hard to measure up. He couldn’t just be a competent patrolman with a decent arrest record. He couldn’t just have good instincts on the street. He had to be better than anybody else up for the new detective slots in the Fourth Precinct.

      He had to walk a fine line between taking orders and taking risks, and prove that he was the best.

      A.J. tried to urge Randall into a decision. “My offer’s not going to be on the table much longer. If you have the goods, deal. If not, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

      Definitely stalling. Josh rolled over onto the balls of his feet and crouched low, maintaining his cover behind the crates. He ventured a whisper, almost touching his lips to his mike. “Lieutenant.”

      Josh ignored the lieutenant’s succinct curse and reported what his ears and his gut told him, even if his eyes couldn’t see it. “Pittmon’s waiting for a third party. Does A.J. know that?”

      Detective Rodriguez had been thoroughly searched by Pittmon. So there were no wires on him. And no weapon. At least, none that Pittmon knew of. A.J. might be a sitting duck.

      Josh’s earpiece crackled as another officer came on the line. “I’ve got a blue pickup coming in the back. Local plates. I’m running ’em now.”

      Cutler swore for all of them. “Anybody got a clear view of what’s going on? Pittmon just stepped out of the camera shot.”

      Josh tuned out the roll call of reports. He slipped to the end of the stack of crates and pressed his belly flat to the floor. Turning the bill of his KCPD cap to the back of his short, dark-blond hair, he made himself point man to A.J.’s backup. Keeping himself aligned with the shadows, he inched forward just enough to get a bug’s-eye view of unfolding events.

      “Pittmon’s headed toward the garage door,” Josh reported, his deep voice barely a whisper. “A.J.’s at the desk. The only package is the briefcase with the money. Wait. Somebody’s coming in.”

      The buzz of voices in his ear fell silent. Randall laughed and swatted the third man on the arm as he walked in. The new man was smaller in stature. He wore jeans and sneakers.

      And a letter jacket.

      “Crap. It’s just a kid.” A slew of other, choicer, more damning curses filled his brain. Josh pushed them out of his mind, along with the image of Billy Matthews’s strong young body lying still on the gym’s hardwood floor. No spasms. No sweats. Nothing. He just dropped like a stone. Josh could suddenly hear his own rapid breathing, his heart pounding as it had that day. “The kid’s about eighteen. I can’t make out what they’re saying.”

      Neither could A.J., it seemed. Calm as always, the compact, muscular detective rose to his feet. “Is there a problem?”

      “Bingo on the plates.” An officer from the command-post van chimed in. “Tyrone Justiss. He’s on probation from juvie hall.”

      Not for long, thought Josh.

      “Do you have it or not?” A trace of impatience filtered into A.J.’s voice.

      “Yes, sir.” Tyrone received a nod from Randall and carried the nylon sports bag to the table. “Right here.” The teenager unzipped the bag and pulled it open, displaying the shrink-wrapped blocks of pure meth with all the pizzazz of a game-show model.

      Oh boy.

      Josh chomped down on his anger and started counting off the seconds in his head until A.J. was clear and they could apprehend Pittmon. And the kid.

      Didn’t the teen know what he’d gotten himself into?

      “Looks good to me.” A.J. had inspected the goods and closed the bag. He slung it over his shoulder. “Next time, don’t keep me waiting.”

      “Next time, don’t be so quick to make yourself at home in my backyard.”

      When Pittmon reached inside the front of his jacket, Josh’s senses went on full alert. “Gun!”

      The next few seconds unfolded with the heart-stopping clarity of a slowed motion picture snapping by, frame by frame.

      Randall squeezed the trigger. A.J. twisted his shoulders, grunted with the impact of a bullet and sailed back into a stack of shipping crates. A spray of police bullets cut the old desk in two and chipped up concrete at Randall’s feet.

      As Josh charged, the kid pulled a Saturday-night special from his pocket. He pointed the revolver at A.J., then at Josh. Sweat popped out on the kid’s forehead as panic swept across his face.

      “Drop it.” Josh approached the youth, their guns facing off like an old-fashioned showdown.

      “Drop your weapons!” Lieutenant Cutler joined the swarm of officers surrounding Pittmon.

      Seeing the wisdom of surrendering when he was outnumbered, Randall set his gun on the floor and raised his hands. In a matter of seconds, he was facedown on the concrete, wearing a set of handcuffs.

      But the kid started to backpedal. “I ain’t goin’ back!”

      “Drop the gun before somebody shoots you,” warned Josh.

      “You gonna shoot me?” he challenged, his eyes darting like a cornered animal’s, his gun trained on Josh’s chest. “I’ll shoot you first.”

      A TAC team officer, dressed in black from his cap to his bullet-proof vest to his boots, circled behind the kid.

      Josh took his right hand off his gun and tried to placate the teenager. Using only his eyes, he urged the officer to move aside. The kid was already on the edge. Any sudden move, and he might just make good on his threat to pull the trigger.

      Then the rest of hell would break loose and the kid would end up dead instead of in jail.

      “Give me the gun,” Josh urged in a quiet, firm voice. “Hand it over and you won’t get hurt.”

      Something alerted the kid to the other officer’s presence. “Hey!” He whirled around.

      Josh lunged, catching the youth by the wrist and twisting his arm upward. The shot pinged off the exposed steel beams of the warehouse ceiling and landed with a thunk in a crate somewhere.

      In a matter of heartbeats, Josh had the kid pinned to the floor. His gun was safely tucked in the back of Josh’s belt. The TAC officer plus two more men had their rifles trained at the boy’s prone figure.

      “Back off,” Josh ordered, as if he had the right to give an order to three superior officers.

      “Taylor!” Lieutenant Cutler. Josh snapped his cuffs around the boy’s wrists and exhaled a weary breath. He knew what was coming.

      “Don’t argue with these men,” Josh whispered in the youth’s ear. “I just saved your life.”

      “Don’t do me no favors.”

      So much for gratitude. While the TAC team officers carted off the kid, Josh climbed to his feet, holstered his gun and straightened his cap before facing Cutler.

      “I told you my men had point on this. Your job was to back up and secure the perimeter.”

      “I was protecting the kid.”

      The older man planted his hands on his hips and glared up at Josh. “He’s just as guilty as Pittmon. His gun is just as deadly.”

      Josh stood a head taller than Cutler. He shook the tension from shoulders that were twice as broad. He felt annoyingly chastised, but the man was right. He had acted on the instinct to protect, rather than the task assigned to him. “Yes, sir.”

      “Go easy on him, Lieutenant.” Antonio Josef Rodriguez eased his way into the conversation. He pressed a bloody compress to the wound at his left shoulder. With a nonchalance that betrayed neither pain nor gratitude, he nodded toward Josh. “Taylor here probably saved my life.”

      Cutler’s