Under Cover


 
 
 Table of Contents
 Blurb
 Dedication
 Author’s Note
 Prologue
 Covert—Backing Up to the Beginning
 New Guy Bennies
 Kinds of Meatloaf
 Working a Case
 When the Case Works You
 Hospitals Suck But Nobody Else Does
 Whites of Their Eyes
 Island of Hope
 Miracles and Missed Moments
 Under Protest
 Mornings After, Promises Before
 Son of the Blood
 Fly by Night
 Empty Nest
 Snake Pit
 Going Gnome
 Flatfoot
 Landing Zone
 I Have a Plan!
 Wet Work
 Minor Thugs and Major Scumbags
 Assassins Freed
 Bad Guys in Suits
 And the Walls
 Read More
 About the Author
 By Amy Lane
 More from Amy Lane
 Visit Dreamspinner Press
 Copyright
 Under Cover
 
 By Amy Lane
 
 For Judson Crosby, the transfer to the elite law enforcement branch of the SCTF is a great escape from the death sentence he earned as a whistle-blowing patrol officer. Calix Garcia, the fierce new guy, makes a perfect partner catching bad guys while minimizing collateral damage. Crosby loves working with him.
 Of course, he’d also love to work him over in a totally different way.
 Garcia has waited his whole career for a solid, dependable partner like Crosby. But after six months fighting crime together, he’s done fighting their attraction.
 Their coming together promises to be everything they need… until a threat from Crosby’s past comes back to haunt not just him, but their entire team.
 When Crosby goes undercover to keep them safe, Garcia is frantic with worry. One false move could get Crosby killed and Garcia exposed. But they have to fight their way clear, because hiding your lover under the cover of darkness is no way to live. Crosby and Garcia will risk everything for the chance to live their lives in the light.
 This is dedicated to all the cop-show junkies like myself, who watch them and know they’re unrealistic and recognize them for what they are: a desperate hope for heroes and a prayer for a better world.
 This is also for Mate, who watches them with me, and Mary, Elizabeth, and Karen, who very much understand.
 Author’s Note
 
 Romantic Suspense gets all the kudos and the cred for being “gritty” and “real,” but if you write it, you know it’s got as much—if not more—world building and fantasy as hard-core science fiction. For the record, there is no such thing as the SCTF or the Sons of the Blood. If my law enforcement fantasies get anywhere close to reality, I’ll be ever so surprised.
 
 
 
 Prologue
 
 
 CROSBY TRIED to slide out of bed stealthily, but he must have failed. When Garcia wrapped an arm around his middle, he mumbled something about going to the bathroom.
 Shit.
 He used the facilities, but he also put his socks on while he was in there because that got tricky when you put them on after you put on your jeans. He was trying for casual here. No big deal. Two colleagues who’d hooked up after a drink or two when the workday was over.
 Happened all the time.
 They were professionals, right? And it had been a sucktastic case.
 Crosby made the mistake of looking at himself in the mirror when he was washing his face in the bathroom, and unbidden came that moment when the nine-year-old girl had been in his sights as he’d aimed at the murderer behind her.
 “Don’t take it if it’s not good,” his AIC had said in his earpiece, but the guy had a knife in his hand. They’d been hunting him, one crime scene after another. So much blood.
 And here he was, knife dripping, holding it to her throat, and Crosby wondered which one would make him feel worse—if the killer got her or if Crosby got her, aiming for the killer.
 And that hadn’t been the worst of it. Garcia… he’d been so close. In Crosby’s sights. If Crosby had been just a hair off….
 He shuddered then and tried not to retch and splashed more water on his face. Garcia had toothpaste and a fresh toothbrush in the cupboard; Crosby took advantage of it. What was raiding the guy’s cupboard when he’d had your cock in his mouth the night before, right?
 The memory of the moment overwhelmed him.
 Garcia, slighter body moving quickly down the street, Crosby’s big blondness lumbering behind him. Crosby had never felt clumsy before in spite of the breadth of his chest, the muscular thickness of his thighs, but Garcia was so tightly wrought.
 “Naw, man, I should go home,” Crosby had said halfheartedly in response to Garcia’s suggestion that Crosby not go back to his uncomfortable living sitch.
 “You said she’s not your girlfriend!” Garcia laughed. “Besides, you’re just crashing at my place!”
 From behind Crosby could see the slenderness of his hips, the wiry refinement of his ass and thighs. Garcia wore his black jeans tight—Crosby liked that.
 “She’s not my girlfriend,” he defended. “I knew that from the beginning. We haven’t been together since I got hurt.”
 It would have been awkward to hit her up after nearly six months of not so much as a text. And he didn’t want to be needy, although God, tonight he needed somebody.
 And Garcia hit him that way. Some girls did, some guys did—just hit.
 Even in the spring chill, sweat dotted Crosby’s chest under his fleece jacket. He wanted to take off his watch cap, but it was still in the thirties at night, and he knew his ears would be bright purple by the time they got to Calix Garcia’s neat little house in Queens.
 Sometimes, guy or girl, they hit hard.
 Garcia had been hitting him pretty hard since he’d shown up in their unit six months ago. Small, quick, compassionate, and with zero ego, the guy was a dream agent. Crosby had looked forward to working with him every day.
 And as he followed his fellow agent—and friend—to the door so he didn’t have to drive crosstown to the place