Bring the Thunder

By Barbara Butterfield

The motor officers of South County Police Department unwittingly find themselves in the crosshairs of an unruly group of power-hungry thugs engaged in games of life and death.

The harrowing initiation rite of passage of a local gang has targeted the SCPD. Now it’s up to the able-bodied officers to discover who’s behind the focused assaults and why.

Time is of the essence when Officers Jeff Corbett and Pete Chan inadvertently discover they are directly in the line of fire.

The question is: can they root out the source and prevent the next attack before it becomes another disturbing statistic?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369408087

Barbara Butterfield

Ms. Butterfield is California born and raised, and currently resides in a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona…where she lives with her favorite feline friend: Baybee. Integrity, suspense, camaraderie, romance, and personal growth are all values that play a vital role in her novels. More importantly, the gospel and spiritual growth are also an aspect of life into which she delves. Ms. Butterfield has written for many years; her first novel having been penned at the age of fourteen. She also studied writing and journalism, becoming the Editor-In-Chief of the school’s newspaper. She is currently working on her 60th novel.

Book preview

BRING THE

THUNDER

Barbara Butterfield

Copyright © 2023 by Barbara Butterfield.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photograph:

Jeanne Hughes, photographer.

With grateful appreciation.

Rev. date: 09/22/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

854813

Contents

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Epilogue

Dedication

My heartfelt thanks and appreciation are extended to:

Jeff Corbin

Former Ventura Police Officer

For his outstanding contribution by ably and patiently lending his

knowledge and expertise borne from years of hard work

and dedication to his field.

and

Quinn Redeker, Jr.

Former Ventura Police Officer

For lending his extensive motorcycle expertise and knowledge.

Also, for contributing input as applied to various law enforcement

scenarios and patiently answering an untold number of questions.

*    *    *

My deepest thanks are also extended to my long-standing friend:

Sue Teeple-Gardner, RN, Ret.

For not only diligently proofreading every single page, but also

her extensive medical expertise borne from dedication

to her career as a Registered Nurse..

*    *    *

Karin Hill, editor

Thank you for your expertise and patience, and for

continually pointing me in the proper direction.

This teamwork came together to improve the final

outcome of the story and for that I am eternally grateful.

Blessings always and Stay Safe.

Chapter 1

He lay in the dirt, face down. His mouth having gone dry, it was an effort to find enough saliva to spit out the dirt he’d just eaten, hence…he didn’t move. Not that he couldn’t, he just didn’t want to try yet. Based on the way he was feeling, he wasn’t so sure he was going to like the final score.

Motor officer in training, Jeff Corbett, age 27, had just laid his bike down. He had been ordered to do it. Though he didn’t particularly like the order, it wasn’t the first he wouldn’t care for, and it surely wouldn’t be the last.

Jeff had ably worked patrol for the South County Police Department (SCPD) the last four years and was ready to take on a new challenge. He had thought this might be what he was looking for. Now, he wasn’t as sure.

Gentlemen, the instructor spoke to the class of two dozen law enforcement motorcyclist wannabes, today’s session is going to be a little different.

The men liked the sound of that. Classroom time was good and served a purpose, but what they really wanted was time in the saddle.

Now that you’ve felt the thunder, we’re going to take you to a whole new level, SCPD instructor Sgt. Quinn Redeker advised.

Redeker realized these men were eager, and ready to take on the next challenge. Inwardly, he chuckled. He knew what was coming; they didn’t. He always liked this part of the training. Today, he would single-handedly separate future motor officers from the ranks of patrol.

Sgt. Redeker liked the eager, attentive expressions on the young and inexperienced faces. Most of the attendees were in their mid-twenties, while a few had reached their early thirties. Age didn’t matter too much; what counted was the desire and drive for excellence that brought them to this day.

These students had all been working patrol for a minimum of three years when the sign-up for motor officer recruitment appeared on a bulletin board at SCPD. Like in fishing, the lure had been cast. Subsequently, upper management had easily hooked more than enough men to fill the class.

Quinn Redeker had been a motor officer for the last ten years. However, prior to venturing into law enforcement he had indulged his need for speed and fascination with motorcycles as a world-class sport bike racer.

For this class to have him as their instructor was nothing less than awe-inspiring. Every single one of the recruits, each of whom was a motorcycle aficionado, was fully versed in Redeker’s impressive history, including his stats.

What was less appealing was what he was going to ask of them today.

Up until now, we’ve been teaching you how to stay on your bike, keep it upright, ride well, and stay safe. Today, that’s going right out the window, along with the Regs. Trust me, it wasn’t easy prying the manual out of Ruger’s sweaty palms, Redeker advised, trying to inject a bit of levity into the somber group.

They all chuckled, but that would soon come to a screeching halt.

If you guys had tails, I’m sure most would be wagging out of control, and that’s exactly what you’re going to be doing today.

Wagging our tails? Officer Cooper joked.

Not quite, but whatever floats your boat, Redeker quipped, and then added. Today, you’re going to be out of control.

Ohhh, you mean like Hartley at last year’s New Year’s Eve party?

From what I’ve heard about that, this will be similar, though no alcohol will be involved, Redeker responded. No, today you’re going to learn how to lay your bike down.

What?

You heard me. It’s imperative that you know how to lay it down and live through the whole terrifying experience.

What if it isn’t scary? Travis asked.

Initially, Redeker thought the question was a bit arrogant. Truth be told, this recruit was accustomed to riding saddle broncs in A-circuit rodeos, compliments of his uncle’s ranch in Texas - though this would be horsepower of a whole different kind.

It will be, don’t worry. We’ll see to it that you get a good ride. Lt. Ruger and I are determined to see that you have a frightening experience today.

Swell.

If Ruger’s involved, it’s always terrifying, Cooper joked.

The men seemed to be in good spirits considering what they were going to have to do. But it was all part of the training. Just like patrol officers learn how to drive, spin out, PIT, and execute a flawless reverse 180, also known as a J-turn, motor officers were required to make the grade as well.

*    *    *

He’s not getting up, Chan commented, eyeing their downed colleague.

He will, Redeker replied, completely confident in his training, and the officer that had just endured the course.

Well, he won’t if he’s unconscious, Chan argued.

He did everything just as instructed, Redeker stated, hoping to allay the men’s fears. Corbett performed precisely to textbook expectations. Don’t worry. He’s conscious, and he’ll stand up in a second or two.

But …

Man, you guys worry a lot, Redeker said, eyeing the group.

We watch out for each other, Wentworth countered.

I’m fully aware of the brotherhood, guys. Trust me, Corbett is conscious. He’s just taking inventory.

Of what? Chan asked. Incredulous, his voice was a lot higher than he had expected.

His body. What hurts, what works, and what doesn’t.

Well, then shouldn’t we be concerned? Pete rationalized.

"In case you hadn’t noticed, there is a bright red, big box ambulance parked right over there, Redeker advised, pointing in the appropriate direction. I’m fairly certain they’re not here to serve lunch."

Pete, just be cool, Blaine suggested, hoping to calm his friend.

Pete … look, Travis said, placing a hand on his colleague’s shoulder.

What?

Corbett. He just moved, he explained, and all eyes were on Jeff as the group waited with bated breath.

Corbett! Redeker hollered, cupping his hands to the side of his mouth. "Nap time is after lunch! Get your lazy ass off the ground for craps sake!"

Ah, the dulcet tones of upper management, Jeff muttered as he brought his hands up under his shoulders and boosted himself to his hands and knees. Standing up, he received a round of applause from the class. It should be noted that Redeker simply stood there, arms folded across his chest, and slowly shaking his head.

Lt. Ruger walked up to the group just then. Seeing one of the men trying to stand his bike upright, he glanced at the assembled class, counting heads.

I take it that’s Corbett out there, he queried.

None other, Redeker replied.

Is he okay? Ruger asked, his eyelids squinting as he tried to get a more focused look at the officer in the field.

Sure he is, Redeker confidently reported.

Looks like he’s having trouble righting the bike, the Lieutenant surmised, watching the drama unfold.

Corbett, for crap’s sake! Redeker shouted. "Turn around and lean your ass into it! Like we already did, remember?"

Maybe one of us should go help him? Chan offered.

No, Redeker stated.

Why the hell not?

"Because he may do that one day when his babysitters aren’t around to help, that’s why. Gents, this training isn’t just for the here and now. It’s for there and then. The what-ifs, and the ‘oh shit!’ moments that we’re trained for but hope never happen. But damn it, sometimes they just do, and we have to know how to handle them. Comprende? A black and white may have a manual transmission, but you guys … you need to have a finely tuned automatic response."

We’re not robots, Chan argued, not unkindly.

No, you aren’t. You’re far more valuable. So, learn…and learn well, gentlemen.

Jeff knew how to stand a bike back up; why he’d been doing it wrong was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was the pounding headache that caused his common sense to momentarily derail.

But leaning his back into it, he had the bike standing upright soon enough. Adjusting his jacket and gloves, he threw a leg over the bike, settled himself in the saddle, and depressed and held the ignition switch.

Immediately, the motor rumbled to life. Applying the throttle, Jeff rode back across the football field to where the class was avidly watching and waiting.

Braking to a stop, he flipped the kickstand down and hit the kill switch. Removing his helmet, he got off the bike and walked six feet to where Ruger and Redeker were standing. Ruger looked concerned, while the group’s instructor appeared patiently agitated.

Chan, you’re up next, Redeker advised. Taking a deep breath, Pete put his helmet on and prepared for his appointment with destiny.

Look at me, Redeker calmly ordered, studying Jeff’s face, with Ruger staring intently over his shoulder.

Would you two please stop staring at me as if I’m something fuzzy growing in a Petri dish? Jeff snapped.

Pupils are equal and reactive, Redeker assessed. No need to worry.

You said it was safe, Jeff said with a shrug.

Shit happens, was all Redeker said and then turned to give last-minute instructions to Chan who was now sitting astride his motorcycle.

How’d it go? Ruger asked, watching as Jeff picked pieces of grass from his hair and jacket.

Eh, six of one, half a dozen of another, Jeff replied, just a bit flippantly.

Let me put it this way, if you could do this exercise again, or volunteer to be tazed, which would you prefer? Ruger asked, and Jeff took a moment to consider his answer.

Let’s see, get shot with two barbed probes, and electrocuted for five seconds, rendering me completely incapacitated, or laying a motor down at 45 miles per hour on asphalt? Let me think about that for a minute.

Come on, Jeff, it’s a legit question.

And I’m trying to think of a legit response. They both suck, but I’d probably opt for laying the bike down.

Why?

Because at least I’m able to move. The faster I can unscramble my brain, the faster I can take steps to mitigate the problem. Being tased removes those options.

Hey Redeker! Ruger shouted, turning to face the instructor. Corbett wants to do it again!

Lieutenant! Jeff gasped, grabbing Ruger by the arm.

You do, don’t you?

Well, I … I’m not sure, Jeff hedged.

Do it, Ruger encouraged.

Is Redeker paying you to abuse me?

No, but that’s not a bad idea. The guys look up to you. They’re nervous. But you got out there and did it - first.

Don’t get all mushy on me, it’s not like I volunteered. Redeker selected me. Like a lobster in a tank with rubber bands around its claws.

I, at no time, saw you handcuffed out here.

Felt like it, though.

Do it again. But this time, you’ll know what to expect, you’ll know what it feels like.

You sound like my old man when he gave me ‘the talk.’

Corbett, get it out of the gutter. The guys need you to lead, Ruger encouraged, and Jeff just rolled his eyes. Though he could, if he worked at it hard enough, understand what the Lieutenant was getting at.

Just unscramble your brains faster this time. Lay it down, keep your head together, get up, climb back on, and ride. Only this time ride back at like 65 mph, with lights and siren. Get Redeker’s attention.

You have a bet going with him, don’t you?

Yes. But don’t tell the guys. It wouldn’t look good.

Me, splattered all over the infield wouldn’t look good either, Jeff countered.

But it’s damn good practice.

Damn, Lieutenant, what’ve you been smokin’?

Not a thing. But what a rush it would be, Ruger said, turning his eyes out over the football field.

You want to ride, don’t you? Corbett inquired, looking closely at his superior officer.

Yeah.

Why don’t you? There’s no shortage of bikes here.

Can’t. Old football injury.

I’m not saying to lay the thing down, just ride.

Can’t.

Why the hell not?

The wife won’t let me.

Totally whipped, Jeff said, chuckling.

Well, are you going to do it?

Are you going to pay me?

Not one cent, Ruger said, shaking his head.

Well, you only go around once, Jeff said as he gave in.

Or in your case - twice, Ruger said, a big smile on his face.

You just want to see me wipe out, Jeff commented as he pulled his gloves back on.

Not at all.

Okay, then you want to win the bet.

"That’s the one! Ruger admitted, chuckling. Look Jeff, you know, if I thought there was even the most remote chance of you getting hurt, I wouldn’t let you do this."

Awfully confident, aren’t you?

Behind your back I call you Evel Knievel.

Crap, Jeff sighed. Hey, Redeker! Can I buy another E-ticket ride?

Chapter 2

Later that afternoon, Jeff, Pete, Blaine, and Travis sat at a table in the cafeteria. Located near a large picture window, Blaine and Jeff sat with their backs to the rest of the room. Those chairs were always preferred, since the spot provided an awesome view out the window - that is, if they could stop watching Pete stick French fries in his nose while singing in Chinese.

Pete, you give your people a bad name, Blaine said, as Chan offered him a fry, which he promptly rejected.

I raised in very strict Chinee environment, Pete explained, assuming a thick Chinese accent.

It’s a shame none of it actually rubbed off on you, Jeff offered. Picking up the fry his partner had just tossed onto his plate, he threw it back at Pete.

Gross, Travis responded, protectively covering his plate with his hands.

My point was, gentlemen, Pete continued, that I’m in a constant state of rebellion against the establishment.

Establishment? Blaine chuckled. That’s very ‘70s, Pete. You aren’t that old.

Yeah, Pete, where were you in 1975? Travis asked, chuckling.

Me and my crew were at swimming practice, Chan replied, without missing a beat.

"You and your crew didn’t even exist yet."

You were a glimmer in your old man’s eyes.

So, I can’t study history?

The point is, keep your snot fries to yourself.

Travis, that was gross, Jeff stated.

Your partner is gross.

And to think I once respected the Asian culture, Jeff commented.

You respected me? Pete asked, surprised at the news.

No. Asian culture, Jeff laughed.

It was about then that Pete and Travis’ eyes grew large when they saw two men approaching their table. It didn’t appear the newcomers were seeking an empty table, but it seemed they had targeted a specific location.

Uh, guys, don’t look behind you, but I think we’re about to have company, Pete warned, keeping his voice low.

"Well, now I have to look," Blaine said, and turning around he placed an arm over the back of the chair. His mouth dropped open the moment he recognized both men. It’s just that no words were coming out of his mouth. One some level that troubled him.

Wentworth, close your mouth, Lt. Ruger ordered, as he approached the table.

Yeah, Blaine, it’s conduct unbecoming an officer to drool on your uniform, Jeff chuckled, as he too turned around on his chair to view their guests. His mouth also dropped agape.

Quinn, it’s weird the effect you have on my troops, Ruger commented as the two men pulled a couple chairs over to the table. Ruger sat at the end of the table between Pete and Blaine, while Quinn Redeker sat at the end between Jeff and Travis.

Hi Jeff, good to see you again, Quinn cordially greeted. Howdy to the resident Texan, Travis, and Blaine too. Sorry, I forgot your name, Quinn said, snapping his fingers at Chan.

I just forgot it too, Pete whispered.

Chan, is there something wrong with your mouth? Ruger asked.

Nothing that getting his foot out of it wouldn’t help, Jeff offered, once he found his voice.

I hope having us bust in on your lunch isn’t disturbing you, Quinn graciously offered.

Disturbing? Blaine gasped, choking on the bite of food he had just tried to swallow. Ruger ended up smacking him on the back a few times, hoping to help clear the officer’s irritated esophagus. Blaine just felt foolish having his eyes water so profusely in front of everyone.

You okay?

Great. Just great, Blaine croaked.

Are we disturbed? Travis reiterated.

Chan is always disturbed, Ruger offered.

MotoAmerica SuperBikes at Laguna Seca, placed first in 2000 and 2001, Jeff spoke, enumerating various competitions Sgt. Redeker had won over the years.

Growing concerned, Ruger wondered if Corbett was alright. He didn’t seem to be breathing and his blink reflex had just ceased to exist as he stared at a motor officer who was apparently also his hero.

Isle of Man, 2005, and again in 2007, and 2010. Daytona 200 in 2009. SuperBike World Championship, beat out the whole pack right from the start, 2005, 2006, 2007. Has been in law enforcement for ten years, and a motor officer and instructor for six of those years. Don’t you miss competing?

Not really, Quinn replied, not only humbled by, but impressed with this officer’s knowledge of his sport bike history. I merely gave up one source of stress for another.

But you still ride?

Of course. That was never in question. I still compete, just in law enforcement motor comps.

You don’t get the speed, though.

No, but I get plenty of precision. There’s a beauty in that.

Yeah, Jeff sighed in awe, nodding his head.

Someone tuck a napkin into the neck of Corbett’s shirt before he starts drooling, Ruger teased.

But the Lieutenant’s momentary chuckle was brought to an abrupt halt when he glanced to his left. Startled, he saw Pete Chan leaning near him, his elbow on the table, his chin braced on his palm, and staring intently at the Lieutenant.

Holy crap, what do you want? Ruger asked, leaning away from the officer who was making a point of getting right up in his grill.

Lieutenant, the Chief’s table is at the far end of the room, over here, Chan pointed. Why are you and your esteemed guest sitting with the lowlifes?

Lowlifes? Ruger gasped. Pete, that’s a terrible thing to say.

Terrible, sure. But true, right? Chan persisted, and frankly Ruger didn’t have an answer for that.

I’m sorry, Lieutenant, I should’ve left Chan locked in our black and white with the A/C running. I knew better than to bring him into public for a meal, Jeff apologized.

Very funny, Corbett, Pete stated as he leaned back, and away from the Lieutenant.

"Actually, it was pretty funny," Blaine retorted.

It’s my fault, Redeker interjected. I asked Lt. Ruger if we could hunt you down. I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch, though, Quinn said, looking directly at Jeff.

Hunt? Me? Whatever for?

I liked the way you rode today. You displayed a real talent for motors.

Thanks.

If you make it to graduation, and then continue to advance in your role as a motor officer, I’d like you to enter the California Motor Officer Challenge.

The California Motor Officer Challenge! Jeff gasped, stunned by the unexpected suggestion - or was it an invitation?

He had heard plenty about that competition, and whereas it had always intrigued him, you had to be an experienced motor officer to compete.

I’m not ready yet! Jeff gasped, panicking. I’m not even a motor officer yet.

Hold on there, pardner, Quinn chuckled, though he enjoyed the young officer’s exuberance.

You could take ‘em, partner, Chan offered. You could run them all right down into the ground.

Well, we don’t want him to do that, per se, Quinn countered Chan’s ‘tude. But I do think you stand a chance of winning for the SCPD.

But you’re competing.

So?

Ahk! Jeff gasped, and any words that he had intended to say got stuck somewhere between his brain and his lips.

Corbett, pick up your tongue, having it slime the table like that isn’t becoming an officer, Ruger said, working hard to keep from laughing.

I can’t compete against you, Jeff stated after finding his voice.

Sure, you can.

But …

But what?

What if I won?

We’d celebrate, Quinn replied with an easy shrug.

No, I couldn’t win over you. That just doesn’t even sound right.

Why not? You’re good. Really good, and I think you have a shot at winning.

Only if you broke a leg and couldn’t ride, Jeff argued.

I appreciate your solid allegiance to the Redeker Foundation for Law Enforcement Motors. But I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think you could handle your motor…

Handle his what? Chan asked.

Chan, shut the hell up, Ruger whispered, glaring at the officer in question.

Handle your motor, handle the course, and handle the stress of competition, Redeker clarified.

I’m getting a stomachache, Jeff groaned as his hand idly massaged at his gut.

I think it would a good experience for you, Quinn offered.

My dad used to say that exact same thing when he believed doing something I didn’t want to do would actually prove to be beneficial, you know, help me to grow up.

Well?

You’re not my dad.

Jeff, came Ruger’s voice as he decided to enter the conversation. If Quinn Redeker was to approach you and say he thinks you’ve got what it takes to compete and win, what would you say?

"He did just ask," Jeff replied.

And Corbett folded like a cheap tent, Travis offered, shaking his head.

Et tu, Trav? Jeff said glancing across the table.

Jeff, you’re brand new at this. I understand your hesitation. Hell, you’re not even a motor officer yet.

That right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the fine print at the bottom of the contract, Chan offered.

I suspect if you keep riding the way you are, and continue to improve, you’ll become a motor officer, and be eligible in a year to compete. I’d like to see you do that, Redeker said, and the tone of his voice was more than enough evidence to convince Jeff the sergeant was sincere and meant what he said.

Will you at least consider it? Ruger asked.

Hell yeah, Jeff said, and it was apparent he had finally found a little faith in himself. He would give it his best shot.

Jeff, just remember, if you lose, there’s always next year.

I’m not going to lose, Jeff replied with a shrug.

My gosh, I’ve created a monster, Quinn chuckled.

Chapter 3

Located on the outskirts of town, Stimson’s Garage had long ago been abandoned and subsequently boarded up. Numerous times, the city council had argued to have the 1950s era gas station razed and the land cleared. However, the Last Will and Testament of the Edmond Stimson Estate had kept the legal process clogged for years.

Abandoned, boarded up, and ignored, the building had succeeded in attracting the attention of Donnelle Williams. Since his gang, the Long Nines, had grown significantly, it became incumbent upon him to locate new digs.

A couple weeks ago, late at night, Donnelle and his number two man, Demetrius Sherman, had broken into Stimson’s. With flashlights in hand, they had crept through the aged and musty smelling building. The electricity to the facility had been cut, though that discovery really wasn’t much of a surprise. However, the water had never been turned off.

When all was said and done, together they claimed the long-forgotten building as their own. After all, no one else was using it. A couple of nights later, under the cover of darkness, the gang had moved in, all twelve members.

Moving forward a few weeks, on this night, four young men were escorted from the parking lot into the gang’s hideout. Ushered into the dilapidated building, they were met by the wary perusal of existing gang members. The atmosphere of apprehension and distrust was present, and an almost palpable feeling to the newcomers.

These four fine citizens have applied to become one of us, ringleader Donnelle Williams stated as he began the meeting. They were all referrals and have agreed to abide by the ruling class.

Dat us, right?

Yes, Tank, that is us, Donnelle replied.

As a college graduate, degreed in Economics, it was often a challenge for him to maintain a street-smart edge over his gang of high school dropouts. It had always been his goal to lead a group of people less intelligent than himself and make a buck while doing it. Why he didn’t just start a legitimate corporate venture was anyone’s guess.

Now, you guys have to commit an act of crime against law enforcement in order to gain admittance to the Long Nines.

What the hell?

You were told this at the outset so don’t go acting all surprised, Donnelle reminded the man.

So, like what are we supposed to do?

"Anything you like. But the act must be against a motor officer only."

Why?

I have my reasons, bruh, and it ain’t none of yo’ damn bidness, comprende? Donnelle snidely replied.

Yeah man, like whatever, the man replied, airily dismissing the ringleader’s blunt answer.

How soon does this need to be done? one of the other older applicants asked.

How soon do you want to call this place home? Donnelle queried. How soon do you want to belong? How soon do you want to say we are your brothers?

"How soon do we want to do time?" the man chided in return.

If you do your job correctly, Donnelle stated, enunciating every syllable. "You won’t do any time."

Yeah right. Look, you hit a cop, they get you. Your face is fuckin’ tattooed on their memory until they have you behind bars.

"Chickening out, friend?" Donnelle snidely replied. It didn’t matter to him if the applicant complied with the rules or just walked away. He would always be able to find a replacement on the street.

No. This mission could have merit, the man reasoned.

What he say? Tank asked.

He said, it could be fun, Donnelle interpreted.

Yo’ Donnelle, the older man spoke up.

What is it?

"I need an assistant for my gig. If I buddy up with another applicant, will we both get credit?"

Sure, what the hell, and hey, I like the teamwork angle. Good job.

Whatever, the man nonchalantly shrugged. I need wheels too.

You sure ask for a lot for someone who isn’t a member yet.

"You sure ask for a lot too, my friend," the man threw Donnelle’s words right back at him. Speechless, Williams had to think about that for a moment.

Use Spike’s car. It’s been used before, Donnelle said, conceding the point.

Swell. So, the cops already have it keyed in.

"I said, it’s been used, not that it had ever been tagged."

Semantics, the man shrugged.

Who? Tank asked.

Never mind, Tank, Donnelle said, quieting his number two man. Any more questions? he asked, and the room remained silent. Okay, meeting adjourned.

Chapter 4

The next few days found Jeff in the saddle meticulously riding the cone patterns that had been set up on the track. There were numerous bright orange pylons configured in varying arrangements. These tests were solely designed to bring to bear the officer and his skills. In short, it would either display mastery, or where the officer needed more practice. It was usually the latter. To say that riding the various courses was a challenge would have been a severe understatement.

It took a dedicated combination of training, coaching, skill, and practice to meet the challenges the course presented. It was not unusual for any number of officers in training to take an unexpected tumble or two until they got the hang of it.

Intricate twists, turns, and circles were all set in a prescribed course, which adequately challenged every motor officer wannabe. Clutch-throttle control was a skill necessary to master, while the tight twists and turns often required lock-to-lock handling.

Many of the officers had the natural tendency to look ahead, or even look down, but that was not the way to success. Most of the time such habits led to a slow-motion ditch, or eating dirt as they liked to call it.

Consequently, it was inevitable that most trainees would end up eating dirt a few times. Though it was all meant in the spirit of good-natured camaraderie, it was a rite of passage for an officer to eat dirt a couple times before they could be considered a full-fledged member of the group.

Therefore, it was mandatory for the trainees to learn to turn their head and look in the direction they wanted to go. Their handling of the motorcycle, and its response, would naturally follow suit.

To some, it became an addiction. To others, perhaps less determined, it was just another test. If they passed, they passed. If not, they could always fall back on patrol.

Becoming a motor officer was important to Jeff. To his way of thinking, if he could pass the test, it would be the culmination of a life-long dream. Hence, every spare moment was spent in the saddle, riding the course. As everyone knows, practice makes perfect.

It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon, and Jeff had the day off. Still, his rear was comfortably seated in the saddle as he traversed the course over and over. He was becoming more proficient at completing it without any infractions. He insisted on having it set firmly in his mind to finish the course on test day and complete it to perfection. He took a break every now and then, but after a few minutes he would be right back in the saddle.

Lt. Ruger was working today, and his second-floor corner office overlooked the rear parking lot. More than once he happened to glance out the large corner window to see a lone motorcycle slowly engaging the test course.

He happened to be standing at the window, completely unseen by the officer in the saddle, when Chief Courtland strode into the office. Walking up behind his subordinate, he couldn’t help but wonder what was so raptly consuming Ruger’s attention. The Lieutenant hadn’t even noticed that the Chief was standing right behind him.

What’s up, Matt? Courtland finally spoke, and Ruger startled slightly at the unexpected verbal intrusion.

Sorry.

That’s okay, I’m the one that should be sorry. I didn’t even notice you were standing there.

What’re you watching? Courtland asked as he cast an inquisitive glance out the window.

Corbett.

Jeff?

The same. He’s been at it for about five hours.

He’s dedicated, Courtland quietly assessed.

He’s obsessed, you mean, Ruger countered.

I can think of worse things to be engrossed in, Courtland offered.

True.

The two older men stood companionably side-by-side, quietly observing the hard-working officer on the course. They watched as the steering repeatedly eased from left to right, and back again, or lock-to-lock as it was called. The throttling up for a quick straight-away, and then just as quickly braking as he came into the next turn. Corbett’s weight in the saddle shifted from right to left as he leaned into the tight turns, and circles. Every now and then a rapid correction was made, but Corbett never once skimmed an orange pylon, or had to put his foot out to catch an unplanned loss of balance.

He must want motor bad, Courtland remarked, without taking his gaze from the officer who was slowly and accurately weaving his way through the course.

He does, Ruger nodded.

Sometimes the men that throw everything they have into it and then don’t pass the test, Courtland began, have a hard time standing down.

I’ve encountered a few of those in my day, Ruger admitted.

Be sure your men know that it’s good to work hard, and practice is beneficial too. But if it doesn’t come together for them, it’s not the end of the world. They’re still good men, and damned fine officers. The beat, as they say, goes on, Courtland calmly lectured, though that really hadn’t been his intention.

Understood, Ruger nodded. I’m sure they know it, but I’ll refresh their memory on Monday at the morning briefing.

Good man, Courtland said as he cordially clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder.

Oh, what did you want me for? Ruger said, and Courtland paused at the door where he turned halfway around.

I don’t recall, he chuckled. Watching Corbett out there, working so diligently, and he paused for another slight chuckle, took me back a few years. Not a bad memory, just a long time ago.

But you needed something from me? Ruger asked.

Yeah, and I’ll probably remember about the time I get back to my office. Carry on, Matt, and Courtland turned and exited the office.

That was the easiest meeting I’ve ever had with him, Ruger commented aloud.

I heard that! Courtland hollered from down the hall.

*    *    *

An hour later, Ruger left his office and went to the cafeteria. He had a burger, fries, and a root beer added to his tab and then carried the freshly made meal out the back door.

Initially he didn’t see Corbett, or the motor. Apparently, the officer finished his practice session and had gone home.

Damn it, I should have checked out the window before doing this, Ruger chastised himself.

But just as he was about to turn and go back to his office where he would consume a burger and fries for which he wasn’t hungry, but couldn’t let go to waste, he saw the motorcycle parked far off to the left. It was near the only shade tree at the edge of the parking lot.

A large oak tree spread its boughs wide. Heavily leafed arms, like a welcoming embrace, shadowed the small patch of grass. It was there the motorcycle had been parked.

Jeff had grown tired but wanted to rest before heading home for the afternoon. Hot and sweaty, he kicked the stand down, hit the kill switch, and parked the bike in the shade. He then parked himself. Seated on the grass, he rested against the sturdy tree trunk, and heaved a weary sigh.

The afternoon was warm, with only a very slight onshore breeze. He had worked hard and was not only tired but hungry. Jeff realized he should have quit earlier in the afternoon. But determination kept him going, while the test that loomed on the horizon, and his ultimate success, motivated him.

He had only been seated, resting, for about ten minutes when he nodded off. Slowly, his chin touched his chest, and then he merely turned to his left and lay down on the cool, soft grass. With his left hand beneath his cheek, he slept soundly, until he heard the sound.

Ahem, Ruger said as he cleared his throat more loudly than needed.

Aroused from his slumber, Jeff’s eyes slowly opened and focused on a brown paper bag that was stamped with the insignia of the SCPD Food Court. It had been placed on the grass along with a white Styrofoam cup that had a straw sticking out of the lid. Right behind those objects was a pair of spit-polished black footwear. He could only wonder who was occupying that flawlessly presented pair of shoes. He would soon find out.

You might want to eat this while it’s still hot, Ruger advised as he gazed down at Officer Corbett.

Dad? Jeff drowsily responded as he pushed himself up on his arms and turned squinty eyes on the Lieutenant.

Not quite.

Ruger?

None other.

Damn, Jeff cussed under his breath. But now his eyes were wide open as he leapt to his feet.

Sit…sit, Ruger encouraged, waving an airy hand at the weary officer. This is your day off and yet you’ve worked harder today than you usually do on patrol.

What?

Just kidding. Sit down and eat. You need food.

For me?

Well, it’s not for me or I’d be in my nice, comfortable, air-conditioned office eating.

Thank you.

You’re welcome.

How’d you know I was out here?

My office, if you recall, Ruger said, pointing upward, is right in that corner. I’ve watched you on and off all afternoon.

Shit, Jeff swore, as he unwrapped the burger and took a healthy bite.

No worries. You’ve been doing well. Keep up the good work.

I’ll try, Jeff nodded.

Now, eat. Then stow the motor and go home. See you in the morning at briefing.

Yes sir. Thanks again.

No problem, and Ruger turned and walked away.

The burger and fries were still hot and tasted great, even if he didn’t have any catsup for the fries. Later, arriving home, Jeff hit the shower and then literally just fell onto his bed and went to sleep.

Chapter 5

Lt. Matthew Ruger sat behind a majestic, antique mahogany desk that faced the door. The large, recently washed windows were speckled by the mist of a heavy dark fog that had rolled onshore overnight. It was June, so fog wasn’t an unnatural occurrence for SoCal during this time of the year.

Matt had a corner office. He had worked hard to get the corner, and it would be a cold day in hell before he ever willingly relinquished the highly sought after location.

Head down, he was intent on completing the paperwork, or at least trying to fight back the incoming tide to a more manageable level.

In the back of his mind, though, he heard someone approaching from down the corridor. The sneeze, followed by a bout of coughing, was noticeable. His door being open wide was the signal that he was in and available, despite the ongoing paperwork. Soon, a shadow crossed the threshold, and it sniffled.

No, you can’t come in, Ruger said without looking up.

That’s why I’m standing in the doorway, Officer Corbett said, and then sniffled again.

Take it home, Corbett. You know better than to be here when you’re sick.

It’s just allergies.

Uh-huh. Go see Nurse Nancy in the Infirmary, Ruger ordered, and still his pen diligently worked the form he was trying to complete.

Oh, please not her, boss.

You’re day shift, she’s day shift. That’s your only choice. If you have a fever, get your ass out of here.

I don’t know, Jeff idly thought out loud. I don’t like those new things that just roll across your forehead. I find it…invasive.

Your ass will find my boot invasive in a minute if you don’t haul it out of here, Ruger warned, still writing furiously even as the men carried on a conversation.

What if she sends me home?

We’ll make do without you for one day, Ruger said as he picked up a stack of manila folders, thumbing through them. Selecting one, he laid the pile back down.

Sir, today’s the test though, Jeff pleaded.

So?

I can’t miss it.

Yesss, you can. If you’re sick, I’ll reschedule your test. Now get out of here.

Thank you, Jeff said, and turning into the corridor, he covered a sneeze with his sleeve and headed toward the Infirmary.

Only then did Ruger raise his eyes to the recently vacated doorway. Heaving a sigh, his hand went down to the drawer to his right and slid it open. Withdrawing a can of disinfectant, he stood up and sprayed the aerosol about the room, thoroughly dousing the doorway and handle till they were wet. Returning to his desk, he placed the can in its proper place, and slid the drawer shut.

Open door policy, my aunt’s fanny, Ruger muttered as he scribbled a note: 08JUN, Corbett out, about to croak. Tearing the 3x3-inch note from the pad, he used a push pin to stab the small missive to the cork board attached to the wall behind his chair.

Returning to the paperwork, it wasn’t much longer before another shadow appeared in the doorway.

Lieutenant? Blaine asked as he stepped into the office. But just then a perplexed expression crossed Wentworth’s face as he sniffed the air.

What is it? Ruger asked, without looking up.

Is someone sick?

Wentworth, what do you need? I’m busy here.

Here’s the paperwork you asked about, Blaine replied as he handed the small stack to his boss.

Like I needed more. Thanks, Ruger said as he accepted the forms, and Wentworth exited the office.

Five minutes hadn’t passed when another shadow darkened the doorway. Ruger sighed, noted who the new visitor was, took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Checking the clock on the wall, it read 0915. It was going to be a long day.

Chan, it’s your dime, what do you want?

Just wanted to let you know that my partner, one Jeffrey Allen Corbett, sneezed on me this morning.

So?

Just for the record, I’ll try and schedule my fever for Friday so I can have a 3-day weekend.

Always ready to take one for the team, eh Chan?

Always sir, the amiable officer grinned. Just wanted to brighten your otherwise miserable existence.

Consider it brightened, Chan. Now, haul ass.

Consider it hauled, sir, and Pete ducked back into the hallway, which he’d never really left anyway. Before 10 seconds had passed, Ruger heard the officer speak again.

Oh, by the way, Cooper will be okay, Chan hollered, loud enough for the Lieutenant to hear him as he continued down the corridor.

Without moving his head, Ruger’s gaze lifted toward the vacated doorway.

Chan! He shouted, and placing his hands on the desk, he pushed himself to his feet.

Yeah boss? Pete said as only his head popped back into view around the doorframe.

What happened to Cooper?

"Just a routine