Chapter 1

The sound, the shrill scream drilled into his head, over and over, tearing apart his mind, his thoughts, peeling away skin, bone, into the very core of his brain itself. It --

-- stopped, as his arm, conditioned from thousands of similar mornings to act without conscious thought, slammed down on the bleating alarm clock.

"Mrf," Adrian muttered to himself, looking around the darkened apartment bedroom, trying to spot something that would kick-start his thinking.

Dim, drape-muffled light snuck in from the window, barely illuming the room. Bed with no headboard, furniture hand-me-downs from his folks and Jasmine's, the usual junk scattered here and about. Nothing to write home about, even if his dad were still alive and his mom could still read.

"Service, boy. That's what it's all about." His father's words echoed with him as he levered himself out of bed, stripped off his briefs, and shuffled off to the bathroom down the hallway, limping only slightly. He could hear Jasmine was up already, feeding the baby and watching TV. He leaned around the corner, blew her a bleary kiss, didn't notice if he got one in return, and continued on to his morning ablutions.

It sometimes occurred to him that he spent much of his day on autopilot. During the day, out on patrol -- well, that was natural. But much of the morning, until he formally punched in, he was usually on autopilot, too. Hit the head. Wash the hands. Splash water on the face. Spritz out a little shaving gel -- hmmm, getting light, wonder what type to get next, maybe something with aloe, blade's tearing up my face. Shave carefully around the moustache and goat. Gotta look neat. Gotta replace this blade, I'll try to remember tomorrow, too much effort right now.

Into the tub/shower. Crouch down, ouch, damned leg, turn on the water, wait for it to get hot 4-3-2-1 flip it to the shower massage in hand.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, review the day's plans, oh, yeah, that's today, damn.

Nope, too early to think about it. Soap, hair, conditioner, face goo, stop. Don't dawdle. Squeegie down the tile. Damn, that's ugly, gotta think about trying to replace it, yeah, right, when Jasmine wins the lottery, hell.

Step out, dry off, damn it's cold, deodorant on, down the hall, towel in a wet lump on the floor, get changed, uniform on, gun, check the load -- ah, time for coffee.

Actually, he was wrong. Once upon a time he'd been on autopilot until he clocked in. Now he had to interact with Jasmine -- and, increasingly, Melanie. He was something of a grump in the morning, and preferred not to talk with anyone, but three years of marriage had taught him the value of compromise. "Hey, baby," he said, with not much enthusiasm (but not much crankiness, he gave himself credit), as he entered the main part of the apartment -- family room/breakfast nook/kitchenette. He gave a small smile to Melanie, who was in her high chair, industriously smearing Cream of Wheat into her hair with a brightly-colored spoon. "And, 'Hey, baby,' to you, too, baby."

"Hey, babe," Jasmine said cheerfully from the kitchen. She smiled at him. Damn, but morning people always make me cranky, he thought. "How's Chicago's Finest this morning?" she asked. She handed him a mug -- plain and black and hot, just the way he drank it -- with her company's logo on it, as she eyed him critically. "Hot as ever."

"The coffee?" he asked, dryly, as he leaned over and gave her a peck. There was a glass of juice there, too, grapefruit (and not that sissy pink stuff, either). That had been a compromise as well -- Jasmine was a big believer in breakfast, while Adrian figured coffee would do until lunch. If it didn't -- that's what God made doughnuts for.

"Ba! Spa!" opined Melanie. He reached down and gave her a kiss, too. She giggled and pulled away, and started banging her spoon on the high chair tray.

"Today's the day," he mentioned, casually. He put down the cup on the faux wood formica. We gotta find a better place to live one of these days. He started in on the glass of juice. If the two bitter tastes clashed in his mouth, he was quiet about it.

Jasmine sighed, as he knew she would. Incongruously, he noticed how good she looked inside that purplish nightgown/robe thing she was wearing, even under fluorescent bulbs. Well, maybe not incongruous. She always loved telling him that guys thought about sex every ninety seconds. And she did look good. And he was going to be away for a few days, which made him all the more aware of her, of the baby, of the house and routine.

"I don't like you being gone so long," she said, finally, turning back to whatever she was putting together for dinner that night -- stew, he thought, and suddenly was a tad more regretful he wouldn't be there for it. Even when he was away, she cooked regular meals. No delivery pizza for Jasmine -- which was another compromise with his more plebian tastes, but not one he minded too much.

"I don't like it either, baby. But this is a good opportunity -- learn how they do it in New York, procedures, policies, interactions with the media and the community there. Good publicity, too. Chicago's a big city, but New York, that's where it's at." The juice was gone, so he could turn back to the coffee. He noticed she had refilled it while he was looking at the baby instead of her.

Melanie tried to push her bowl of Cream of Wheat off the high chair tray. Adrian's reflexes cut in quickly enough to catch it. Pretty fast moves for this early in the morning. Not that another stain on the worn brown shag would show. It was the principle of the thing.

Jasmine turned back to the stew. "And she's going, too." It was a statement more than a question. He sighed -- inwardly. Should he be flattered she was jealous? Why was he just irritated. Because it's 7:23 in the damned morning, that's why. I don't need this conversation.

"Sheila?" he asked. "Yeah, you know that. We discussed it. She's the best match for her counterpart who's coming here." He snorted. "Look, I work with her every day, almost. Being in New York isn't going to make any difference."

The look she threw him demonstrated that particular logic wasn't going to be effective here. "You know how I feel about her," was all she said, as she dumped some carrots into the pot. One missed, rolled off the stove and down onto the floor.

She bent down for it, which made the practiced romantic gesture he had in mind more problematic. He waited until she was standing back up, brushing the carrot off and tossing it into the pot before he moved up behind her, put his arms -- Put the coffee down first, idiot! -- around her waste, nuzzled his face into her hair. "You know how I feel about you, baby." He let his hands wander slightly.

"Adrian!" she chided, pulling away, though not as quickly as she could have. He let her, though not as quickly as he could have. "We don't have time for all that."

She turned to him, going back into his arms, not meeting his eyes but nestling her head under his chin. "I'm just going to be lonely without you. And Melanie's a handful right now, teething. And -- this sort of thing is always dangerous. You don't know the folks there. You could be hurt, or -- something."

And there it was, that underlying thread of tension and fear that always ran through the fabric of a cop's marriage. Even under his circumstances, it was a problem -- in some ways, even more so.

"I could get hit by a car going out to the carport, baby," he said, softly. It was like a dance for them, one they'd gone through countless times. He'd talked with the other marrieds on the force. Most of them did this sort of routine at least every now and again. Some managed to get past it, though in some cases he didn't think that had helped their marriage. Some fought over it frequently. Those marriages didn't last -- or else the career didn't. "Hell, more people get killed driving into the office than on the job."

She nodded, quietly. She wasn't convinced, he knew. And he knew his own gut assessment of risk was probably not much more accurate, since, living the life, he had to pretend the risk was even lower than he was stating it. That was also part of a cop's life. But even though she wasn't convinced, and he knew it, they both also understood the rules of the dance. She sighed, looked up at him, gave him a kiss. Then another, longer, softer, with a bit of tongue. "You come back safe, then, hear me?" she said, in mock warning. "If you want any more than that."

"Now that's something I can live for," he said with the right touch of enthusiasm. He gave her a longer, more solid kiss. Keep her enthusiastic for his return, too. He gave a last squeeze, then let her go so he could retrieve his coffee. "The Lieutenant has made the appropriate arrangements down at the station, so you shouldn't get any phone calls. If you do, you know the drill."

"Aye-aye," she replied with a sketchy salute. She always threw in the navy lingo as though the cop lingo confused her. Her dad was in the service, she should know better than to worry too much. Of course, one day he hadn't come back. Just like Pop. He dropped the line of thought, as she went on. "My husband?" she said, raising her voice a half-octave and dropping her IQ about twenty points. "He's on a special assignment. He works a desk, you know. Very important stuff. You need to talk to Lt. Malone. He can answer your questions." She gave him another salute, which he returned, much snappier.

"Very good. The Lieutenant can contact me if you need to. Or Bowie can. And I'll call every night. And I can be home in an hour, if I push it."

He could feel her frown as he started wiping the worst of the cereal from Melanie's hair. "I thought that would cause problems."

"It would," he told her, casually, working on a bit that had already started to dry. Bowie would also probably break his arms, then quit, but that wasn't her concern. "So I won't do it unless I have to. Unless you need me back here. Hey, is she getting a bath this morning?"

"No, tonight. Unless I take her into the shower with me. And don't change the subject. I don't want you taking any unnecessary risks."

He gave Melanie a kiss on top the head. She giggled and said, "Ga-ba!"

He turned back to her. "I'm not changing the subject. I consider risk I take for you completely necessary. Unless they aren't. So I trust you to tell me when they are." His voice took on the same stern tone that hers had. "I mean it, baby. If you need me, call me. That takes top priority. You know that." Certainly he'd drawn enough heat for it already for her to believe it.

Jasmine sighed. "I know." She got that smile on her face, so he knew what was coming. "It's just --" She melted against him again. "I need you so often, baby." She rubbed against him in all the right places --

"-- this morning, there's a special event at City Hall, where the Mayor's office will be honoring Copper for his bravery during the south-side warehouse fires last year. The event is not without controversy, though, as members of --" The words from the TV out in the family room broke through both their conscious thoughts. Adrian glanced at the oven clock. 7:34. "Shit, I'm running late!"

"Adrian!" Jasmine had dropped into a no-nonsense tone he also knew very well.

Shit, he thought to himself. He quick dropped down on his knees next to Melanie. "Daddy used a bad word, Punkin. Don't listen to him." He got up, gave Jasmine a quick kiss. "You can spank me when I get home," he assured her.

"Promises, promises." She glanced at the TV, where some moron from some activist group was talking about "tough questions" and "hold him accountable." "Idiots," she muttered. As he was grabbing his jacket, she added, "You know the drill, right?"

He shot her a grin and a salute. "Aye-aye, ma'am," he said, then blew her a kiss. "Call you tonight."

"Be careful out there!" she called to him, as he slammed the door behind him, rattling the sliding glass door that led out onto the same balcony.

She worries too much, he thought to himself, as he ran for his car. And then added, And I probably worry too little.