Ronan

South Boston, Massachusetts, December, 2010…

It was 2 a.m. and newly minted detective O’Mara was freezing his ass off. Literally. When his training partner, Shane Matheson, said to prepare for an overnight stakeout, figured they’d be safely cocooned in the warm unmarked car, drinking gallons of hot coffee and talking about their rotten love lives. How wrong had been.

Instead, the car was parked, with the engine off, on the corner of 6 th and M Street waiting for their suspect to show up. Five hours later and there was still no sign of Matty O’Shea and had lost all feeling in his feet. He hoped to hell he didn’t have to run after the perp or his first step was going to land him flat on his face. “Jesus, it’s below zero, can’t we turn on the heat for five minutes?”

“It’s not below zero, princess. It’s maybe in the twenties. Buck the fuck up. Police work isn’t all action hero bullshit like you see on television or read about in books. The best detective work is done up here.” Matheson tapped his head full of red hair, which he’d hidden under a black hat. If he hadn’t, had a feeling you’d be able to see his rusty colored locks from space. “You need to take in a lot of information quickly and find connections. Don’t just look for the obvious.”

nodded along with Matheson. According to their earlier chat, he’d been with the Boston Police Department for ten years and in the homicide division for the last six. If there was anyone wanted to model himself after, it was his new partner. He had several follow up questions he wanted to ask, but the sound of gunfire stopped him short.

Grabbing his portable radio, Matheson keyed the mic and spoke, “Shots fired 6 th and M stakeout.”

“Advised, shots fired.” The dispatcher’s voice crackled through the mic.

“We’re on foot, send backup.” Matheson turned to who felt like he was going to shit his pants. “Okay, rookie, here’s where the rubber meets the road. Stay behind me and don’t get shot, got it?”

“Don’t get shot.” could handle that. In the few yeas he’d been with the Boston Police Department’s patrol division, he’d been shot at twice, both bullets missing him by a mile and thankfully, not hitting anyone else either. Wildly accurate gunfire was another fallacy of television cop shows. For the most part, perps with their pounding heartbeat and fear of being caught rarely hit the thing they aimed for. Although there was such a thing as a bullet with your name on it. wanted to avoid that scenario at all cost. His only goals in life at the moment were to fuck and suck as many willing men as he could stick his dick into. It would be a crying shame to be cruelly struck down by a bullet while he was at his sexual peak.

’s attention was diverted from his dick to Matheson, when he got out of the car and shut the door quietly. He could see his partner’s full attention was on the house they were staking out. A figure dressed in black ran out the front door and headed down 6 th Street toward the junction of L Street.

Matheson unholstered his gun and followed the suspect. was right behind him. He could hear the man’s footsteps pounding the pavement about the roar of blood surging through his own body. There was a flash of light up ahead, which knew was the suspect pulling open the front door to the L Street Tavern, made famous in Good Will Hunting . Curious tourists loved to flock to the place for lunch, but he knew only locals would be drinking in there tonight. Locals who didn’t narc to the police.

“You go in the front. I’ll meet you around back. Put your gun in the holster. Check behind the bar and in the men’s room. Women’s room too. Stay safe, got it?”

“Got it.” Adrenaline surged through ’s body, propelling him to run in the front door. He knew from his training that was the last thing he should do. Holstering his side arm, opened the door to the bar and walked inside. He was dressed casual clothes, jeans and a black winter parka. He headed for the bar, peeking over the side, so he could see if the perp was cowering down there. He was not.

“Help ya, pal?” the bartender asked. He wore an L Street Tavern tee and pair of black jeans.

“Yeah, I’m looking for the guy who just ran in here.” tried to keep his tone as casual as possible, all the while scanning the crowded bar for signs of the perp.

“He owe you money or somethin’?”

“Or something,” admitted, noticing the patrons around the bar were listening to every word he said.

The bartender inclined his head toward the back of the bar.

With a nod of gratitude, headed toward the dark hallway leading to the restrooms and the delivery entrance. As his eyes scanned the room, everyone’s attention was now on him instead of their drinks and companions, which made feel uneasy. He hadn’t told anyone he was a cop, but knew the patrons were on to him. Taking a deep breath, he strode toward the first door, in the hallway, the ladies’ room. Slowly pushing open the door, he startled two barely dressed women, one bleach blonde, the other brunette, who were snorting something off the counter. ’s stomach turned at the sight. Not over the fact they were doing drugs, but over the thought of what else had been on the counter courtesy of other people. Both women jumped back and put their hands in the air.

“Not here for you,” mouthed. He unholstered his gun and pointed with it toward the two stalls, both of which were closed. “Is someone in there?”

One woman shook her head yes, the other no.

“Out!” whispered, motioning the ladies out the door.

The brunette, took one last snort and was out the door.

With his heart thundering in his chest, used the butt of his gun to push open the door to the first stall. It was empty. There was no sound at all coming from the second. Gathering his courage, stepped to the side of the stall and was about to push the door open, when it was pulled back. A man dressed in black with a bushy blonde beard shot past him like a cork out of a bottle, knocking into the cocaine-littered counter, while he took off out the door.

Grabbing his radio, signaled to Matheson. “Running to you.” He noticed he was breathing heavy and wished he had more composure. He supposed that would come with time.

Carefully peaking around the bathroom door into the dark hallway, saw the man burst through the back door followed by Matheson shouting for him to put his hands up. headed after him when he heard grunts and shuffling. His partner was in trouble. A lone gunshot sounded.

Again, ’s first instinct was to run through the back door into the alley, but he knew if he did that, the perp could shoot him too. Slowly, edged toward the back door. Peering out the door, saw the suspect on the ground holding his right arm. Matheson spoke into his radio asking for backup and an ambulance to his location, all the while his gun was trained on the suspect. “His gun is behind you.”

hadn’t thought to ask where the weapon was. For all he knew the man could have had it under him, in his hand and ready to fire when tried to slap the cuffs on him. That lapse could have cost him and Matheson their lives. “Show me your hands!”

“Fuck you, man. I ain’t goin’ back to prison!” the suspect shouted.

“Should have thought of that before you shot up that house on 6 th and assaulted my partner.” holstered his gun and reached for his handcuffs. He pulled the man’s uninjured arm behind his back. Seconds later he was cuffed and screaming in pain.

“You okay?” Matheson asked, touching his lip with his fingers, which came away bloody.

shook his head. His heart was beating so hard, he could feel it in his toes. “I fucked up. Didn’t check him for his weapon. I heard the gunshot and my only thought was to save you.”

“Never forget this lesson, . My one goal for every turn on duty is to go home safe and sound. Nothing else matters. Nothing. Got it?” Matheson asked, offering a slight grin.

“Got it.” took a deep breath and committed the scene to memory, not just for the report he was going to write later, but so that he’d always remember this important lesson.

Go home safe at the end of each shift. No mater what.