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for a retired cop.
    The cadet looked over at him. Smiled as he nodded. Mallen couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He was a few inches shorter than Mallen, maybe ten pounds lighter. Blonde crew cut. Didn’t strike him as police material any more than he felt at the moment, but he’d seen men and women who he hadn’t thought of being police material kick some serious ass on the obstacle course and in HTH combat drills.
    The guy looked at him then. Grinned. “I would’ve made the same mistake. I was watching you, and the suspect’s size would’ve made me hone in on getting him under restraints as soon as fucking possible.”
    â€œSo,” Mallen smiled back, “you’d be dead, too?”
    â€œDeader than road kill.” They both laughed then, and Mallen held out his hand. “Mallen. Mark Mallen.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Mallen. I’m Russ. Eric Russ.”

    Mallen turned with the defense pad held high, knowing that Eric always went for the head. Sure enough Eric, baton in hand, went to town on the pad, laying in some good blows that would’ve busted a perp’s body in half. Mallen had begun to think that maybe Eric had some pent-up anger he needed to let go of. The drill sergeant called time thirty seconds later and everyone relaxed, Mallen pulling off his headgear, wiping sweat from his eyes.
    â€œSwitch!” the sergeant called suddenly. There were a couple groans from the crowd, quickly silenced. No one really wanted to be singled out. Mallen tossed the pad to Eric and pulled his baton from his belt. Even though he hated carrying the belt at all times, especially in HTH training, it did get you used to the weight, he had to admit. He laughed about it to Chris once, saying he felt like Batman, wearing his utility belt. Not highly original.
    He laid into the heavy padding covered in thick, fake leather. As he went through the drill, Mallen wondered what he’d feel if he ever had to beat on someone in this manner. He usually tried to keep those thoughts away. He wanted to help, not hurt, people. Would he really be able to?
    A strap on the pad Eric held up suddenly snapped. Just worn equipment. The pad drooped at the worse possible moment as Mallen swung down. He ended up catching Eric in the headgear, headgear very much like what boxers wore when they trained. His blow sent Eric staggering backward. A whistle blew and everything stopped.
    To his surprise, Eric began to laugh as he pulled off his headgear. The gear had done it’s job, but there was a little bit of shock in Eric’s eyes, in spite of the laughter. There might be a slight bruising, too, just above the right eyebrow.
    â€œEric, sorry man,” Mallen said.
    â€œLame,” Eric replied with a grin. “You have no arm strength, man.” Then he laughed again.

Six
    Oberon stood in the dank underground parking garage, the air bitter, cold, and damp, smelling of motor oil and urine. It was a quarter after two in the morning. Red and blue lights bounced and ricocheted off the dull concrete walls. Made the place look like a poor man’s disco or some sort of sad rave. He sighed, knowing it would be many long hours before he saw a bed.
    The reason for that thought lay at his feet. The body of a man, early thirties. Brown eyes that stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Military cut dark hair. The body had landed on its side from the force of the bullets shot into it. Two entry wounds, circular and ragged. Smallish caliber. Both into the back, left side, just behind the heart. The muzzle burns on the back of the man’s shirt seemed a black exclamation point to the entire scene.
    He looked over at forensics tech Veronica DeJesus, busy working the body, too involved to even glance up at him as he squatted down next to her, his knees castigating him as he did so. “How are your children doing, Ronnie?” he said. “Matt ever figure out how to