Todd S. Jones is an award-winning writer of diverse tales that span the entire realm of speculative fiction. He resides in Michigan with his wife and several adopted fur babies. Todd enjoys practicing Muay Thai, playing guitar, riding his Harley, and Jeeping with the Misfit Jeepers charity group he helped found. Active member of Wulf Moon’s Wulf Pack Writers group.
Blues ‘N Twos
by Todd S. Jones
My body armor pinched like a cheap bra under the department-issued Blues as I pushed through the throng of early shifters on their way to dead-end jobs. I’d never dreamed this red-headed orphan girl from the streets would be a cop. Spent my youth running Slipper Shell games at the underground fights, until I’d gotten pinched one too many times. The judge had been crystal clear now that I was of age; either join the Peace Officer two-year cadet program or do a nickel stint at the seaweed prison farm.
Just ninety-one days, sixty-five roll calls, and a final eval before going back to the hustle.
You’ve got this, Rubi.
The simulated sunrise on the ocean dome above me signaled the start of another wonderful day in the underwater habitat known as Marine Metro 3. Or as we street rats call this sardine can of shop-on-top-of-shop paradise, Fishbowl.
I twisted a hair tie in and jogged through the Market, not wanting another late demerit. Rumors of the recent Atlantis discovery distracted me from the rotten egg and fishy odors of overcooked algae and catches-of-the-day. The Society of Ecological Authority, a.k.a. SEA, had Atlantis locked down so we’d never know what was down there. Regimes like their secrets.
I sprinted the last bit to Kelp Kafé. No sign of my training officer, Deonte. Whew.
I’d always been lucky. Not the casino kind, but the uncanny sense to go left when danger hangs a right kind. I thought it was normal. Others found it eerie. If my luck held out, I could coast through the last three months of my sentence and kiss these stupid rules goodbye.
Dispatch crackled over my earpiece. “Silent holdup alarm at Lamar’s Dive Shop.”
Deonte stepped out of the Kafé and sipped the froth off his coffee. He glanced up at the dome and then set his gaze on me and frowned. “You’re late.”
I started to make up an excuse, but gave up and just shrugged.
Deonte ran a weathered hand down his walrus ‘stache and gave me the once-over. “Okay, Rubi, time to show me what you got.”
I squared my five-eight frame and checked my duty belt. LED torch, two hinged cuffs, a cadet airsoft pistol with extra paralytic gel mags, and a pair of shock gloves I’d tagged Thunder & Lightning. Good to go.
I tapped my radio earpiece. “C19 to Dispatch, responding from Kelp and Main.”
“Dispatch copy.”
We shortcut our way through back alleys, up fire escapes, and over rooftops that comprised the oldest part of the city. For a big guy in his graying years, Deonte maneuvered the tight quarters well. He’s an old-school, like-him or hate-him cop that earned his stripes in Detroit before the eggheads trashed Earth’s surface. I like him. But don’t get him started on what happened back then. He’ll grumble your ear off about how those who couldn’t afford rides into space were sardined into oceanic cities.
We popped out of an alley alongside Lamar’s Dive Shop on the second-level catwalk just as a wiry guy in ratty jeans and a tee ran out. His scab-littered arms clutched a mesh diver’s bag as he eyed us through glazed pupils. We’d found our perp.
My hand went to the airsoft on my belt. “Peace Officer. Stop!”
Deonte circled right to block the catwalk stairs down. I cut off the alley we came from.
The junkie perp bounced foot-to-foot as his head swiveled back and forth between Deonte and me. He tucked the bag like a running back and sprinted toward Deonte. Good luck with that.
He must have realized his mistake. With a spastic spin, he beelined for me.
I drew my airsoft. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
He skidded to a halt, legs still jackhammering, and cracked a chip-toothed sneer.
I inched toward him. “Let me help you. How’s a hot meal sound?”
Compared to newer oceanic cities, Fishbowl is considered dystopian. Cram fifty thousand deep-sea miners, aquatic farmers, factory workers, and street merchants together, and you get despair and desperation. Drugs, gambling, and any vice that distracts from our demoralizing lifestyle thrive down here.
“Screw you, cop,” the junkie said and backpedaled to the second-level railing across from the shop. He grabbed the railing, pivoted, and swung his legs over.
“Are you kidding me?”
He thudded on the deck below, got up, and limped away to the gasps of onlookers.
“Get him, Rubi,” Deonte said.
“C19 to Dispatch. Subject heading toward Market Transit. In pursuit on foot.” I rushed down the stairs; the irony of being caught in a similar chase two years ago tickled my mind.
The junkie had already made it to the far side of the market by the time I hit the main floor. I cursed and sprinted after him, weaving around rubberneckers and fish carts.
The junkie cleared the market as I gained on him. He ducked down an alley and slid through a door. The mesh bag in his hand snagged on the handle. A diver’s watch dropped out, and the door swept it inside as it closed.
My gut warned me to wait for Deonte. Adrenaline convinced me otherwise.
On the other side of the door, at the far end of a hallway, the junkie handed the bag to a lanky guy in a dark two-piece suit and bright white sneakers. I recognized him as Sporty-T, a low-life drug dealer. On either side of him stood two hulking goons in tri-striped tracksuits.
I tapped to activate Thunder & Lightning. “Peace Officer. Freeze!”
Sporty-T stink-eyed me. “It’s Rubi, right? You’s a cop? Damn shame betraying your peeps, girl.” He whispered something to the goons. That couldn’t bode well for me.
The goons grabbed the junkie and spun him toward me. Sporty-T split around the back corner with the bag.
The junkie grinned and lunged at me with a wild haymaker.
I stepped in close to cut him off and latched onto his forearm. Lightning kicked a muscle-stiffening jolt down his arm. He squealed. With my free hand, I pulled cuffs from my belt and slapped them on his wrist. I spun his still-spasming body to the wall and wrenched his other arm back to secure both behind him. And down he went, smelling of urine.
My peripheral caught the towering twins coming at me. I slide-stepped away and drew my airsoft. “Peace Officer. Stop or I’ll shoot!”
The lead goon ignored my command and knuckle-punched a charley horse into my shoulder before I could fire. I slammed back against the wall, my trigger finger twitching off a round. A gel bullet struck his throat. He stumbled backward. The shellfish paralytic works fast, but on a big guy doesn’t last long. I had maybe ten minutes.
Where the hell was Deonte?
The remaining goon flashed a fish-eating grin and launched a “let’s end this” front kick at my face. I tried to slip it but had nowhere to go. My foot slid in the junkie’s pee, and I dropped to one knee. The goon’s heel grazed my head and thudded into the wall behind me. I wrapped an arm around his massive leg and pinned it to my shoulder. Lightning went to town.
Or at least the shock glove should have.
The tri-stripes running up the tracksuit and along his shoulder rippled through a rainbow trout of colors. The scale-like material somehow absorbed Lightning’s electrical charge.
Crap!
He yanked his leg free while my brain slack-jawed at the improbability.
The door flung open, and Deonte stepped in.
I punched the distracted goon in the groin with all I had. He groaned and shuffled back.
Deonte drew his Taser and positioned himself between me and the goons.
The goon cupping his groin backed down the hall out of Taser range and fled around the back corner with his sluggish partner.
Deonte helped me up. “Backups en route. You, okay?”
I felt along my shoulder and winced. “I’m fine.”
Deonte radioed in the pursuit and took off after them.
I secured the junkie and scooped up the diver’s watch that fell from the bag. On the watch’s display appeared a seabed map with a blinking diver-down icon labeled Atlantis. Sporty-T wasn’t a diver. Just a street hustler like me. What’d he want with Atlantis? And how’d he get tech like those tracksuits?
I needed answers.
*
After a rough night’s sleep, I arrived at the station stiff, bruised, and determined to find the connection between Sporty-T and Atlantis. I settled in at one of the shared desks to finish my incident report from yesterday.
Deonte took the chair next to my desk and slurped coffee from his mug.
I swiveled his way. “Something’s going down. We got to go after Sporty-T.”
“Slow your roll,” Deonte said. “You did good yesterday. Sporty-T and his goons got away. It happens. But you got that junkie. Enjoy the little wins.”
I ground my teeth. How’d cops get anything done sitting around “enjoying the little wins?” On the street, we’d just do it. Sitters made easy prey.
Deonte dropped one of his proud-papa smiles on me. For all his tough exterior, that smile was a rare peek behind his curtain. I took a breath and calmed.
He set his mug on my desk. “Have you given thought to staying on?”
“And become a cantankerous flatfoot like you?”
“Cut the attitude, Rubi. Ask yourself why you chased that junkie. I couldn’t have caught him. But you did. Why?”
I started to snap off a witty reply, but hesitated. Why did I catch that junkie? It’s no skin off my nose. I glanced at Deonte’s mug, which read, “We walk the thin blue line between order and chaos.”
“Do you believe that crap?”
“Every cop worth a damn does.”
What would I do after I’d served my sentence? Hustling on the street is all I knew. Being a cadet did keep me out of trouble. I rubbed my shoulder. Well, “ish.”
Deonte stood. “Well, think about it. Chief has you on traffic duty today. Raphael’s in the Motor Pool waiting for you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Greeaaat.” Nothing exciting happened in Traffic. We needed to hit the street and find Sporty-T, not hand out parking tickets. How does that put order to chaos?
*
Raphael’s naturally helpful personality made it hard to stay mad about Traffic. We spent the day talking about his wife and kids between speeding and failure-to-stop citations. Like I said, nothing exciting happens in Traffic. Raphael sent me back to the station when my shift ended. As I waited at a stoplight, no other than Sporty-T, with his bright white sneakers, shot through a red on an electric sportbike right next to me.
I radioed in an intercept. Despite being advised to wait for Raphael, I activated pursuit mode and went after Sporty-T. My heart thumped harder as the police Interceptor bike shot forward; two-tone siren screeching and the red and blues splashing the street. It was way faster than my commuter model. I pulled in behind Sporty-T.
He peeked over his shoulder, his suit jacket flapping around a backpack, and gunned it.
Every time I’d catch him, Sporty-T weaved around something that slowed me down. I clenched the grips, determined not to let him get away, again. “C19 to Dispatch. In pursuit heading east on 2nd into the Warehouse sector.”
He hopped a curb and rode into an enclosed construction scaffolding tunnel.
I rolled off the throttle, added a little brake, and a lot of trust in the tires. My shoulder clipped the entrance, but I kept the bike upright. The all-terrain tires droned over wooden planks as I shot out the end of the tunnel and closed the distance.
Sporty-T dumped his bike in the dirt lot behind a two-story building. His backpack caught the handlebars as he leaped off, holding him in place.
I radioed in our location as I skidded to a stop a few meters away from him. Jumping off the bike, I drew my airsoft. “Peace Officer. Freeze!”
Sporty-T glanced at the warehouse while he grappled with the backpack.
I moved closer. “Who’re you working for?”
Raphael rolled up next to my bike.
Sporty-T let go of the tangled backpack and bolted to the warehouse. I fired. The gel bullets splattered against the door as he escaped inside.
Holstering my airsoft, I knelt and unzipped the backpack. There had to be at least $30k in cash and one of the dive watches from the robbery.
I went to stand and bumped into Raphael, who was standing over me. “I’m going aft—”
A premonition of danger hit me when we touched. A piercing pressure erupted in my chest. I gasped. Then another Déjà vu reality struck my arm with such intense clarity that I dropped the backpack.
Raphael leaned over me to help. “Best to wait for—”
Our hands touched just as a loud crack echoed off the buildings and cut his words off.
He groaned and fell on top of me.
Another crack. His body jerked, then went limp and rolled off me.
“C19 to Dispatch. Shots fired! Officer down! Officer down!” With the backpack still clutched in my hand, I grabbed Raphael and dragged him to cover behind our bikes.
“Dispatch copy. Backup and EMS en route.”
I drew Raphael’s live-round semi-auto. I wasn’t going down without a fight.
Sporty-T’s head popped up in a first-floor window. The dirtbag with a rifle next to him squeezed off another round. Gravel flung into the air near me.
The sudden thought of Raphael’s wife and kids flashed in my thoughts. I shut it out and fired back. The semi-auto kicked like hell compared to my airsoft and sent three rounds into the window’s frame. Come on, Rubi. Focus. I steadied my hand on my bike’s cross member and squeezed the trigger. The rifle guy dropped.
Sporty-T ducked. “Holy hell, girl, you can shoot. I’ll tell you what. From one street rat to another, today and today only. Take the Benjis and walk away.”
I scanned the $30k. Enough to start my own street hustle. Just take the cash. Walk away.
Ten yards away, the warehouse door opened. Sporty-T stepped out holding what looked like a mini trident in his hand. “Tick-tock, Rubi. You in or out?”
I looked down at Raphael. How could we keep killing each other? We messed up the surface. Now we’re doing the same under the sea. The insanity had to stop. I had to stop it.
“Drop it, Sporty-T, or I’ll shoot.”
A rapid hiss erupted from the trident in his hand.
I ducked behind the bikes.
A high-pitched sonic wave shattered the bikes and pushed me backward.
Sporty-T took off running.
I gasped for air. Sonic tridents, fish-scaled tracksuits, what the hell’s next?
A cavalry of red and blue flashing e-bikes rode past me after Sporty-T.
EMS arrived next, and the EMTs rushed over to work on Raphael.
I stepped back on numb legs. My hand trembled as I touched the lingering ghost pain in my chest where he’d been shot. Had my luck done this to him?
*
That night, my sleep was troubled with thoughts of how my luck had somehow been responsible for Raphael. When I arrived at the precinct in the morning, the Chief reported that Raphael had been moved out of the ICU. Two through-and-throughs had missed anything vital. The news was like a weight off my shoulders, even though I heard Sporty-T had gotten away. Bad guys did bad things, but maybe it was time I did something about that.
Among the normal DUIs and noise complaints, a reported stolen sub caught my attention. Diving watches, seabed maps, and now a sub… Coincidence? Deonte and I were at the submarine storage yard’s security shack to find out.
The owner, a squat balding man in his mid-forties who went by Captain Mete, fast-forwarded us through last night’s camera footage.
“Stop there and play,” I said.
The monitor showed four thugs in those scale-striped tracksuits as they juggernauted through security with those mini-tridents. That’s some next-level military stuff. Call in SEA? Shoot, this sounded like SEA.
“Scuffs and bruises, but nobody got hurt, thankfully,” Mete said.
I pointed to the playback screen where Sporty-T stepped out from behind a crane sub. “I knew that dirtbag was involved.”
Deonte gave me a wink. “Good gut, Rubi.” He stroked the edges of his mustache and turned to Mete. “Anything else missing?”
He glanced at the wall clock for the nth time. “Nope, just the recovery sub. The only thing that beast’s good for is hauling equipment.”
I tapped on the shack window and pointed at the subs in their outside storage racks. “One last thing. Do you have tracking on the sub?”
Mete’s eyes shifted between Deonte and me for a moment before he punched up the sub’s tracking info. “We use ELF backscatter tracking, but it’s flaky in some areas. See there. The echo path blinks out after leaving the yard.”
“And that happens often?” Deonte asked.
“Yes and no.” Mete went into a lengthy explanation of seabed interference and water density. I uh-huhed as my mind brought up the seabed map on the diver’s watch from the robbery. The sub was headed toward the area marked Atlantis.
We stepped out of the security shack, and Deonte gave me one of his sidelong looks. “Don’t even think about going after them.” He stared through the yard’s dome transport gateway into the blackness of the ocean on the other side. “That’s outside our jurisdiction.”
“Something big is happening in Atlantis. We can stop—”
Deonte cut me off, “Not in a site locked down by SEA.”
I gave him two light punches in the shoulder. “We walk the thin blue line between order and chaos, right?”
He stared into my eyes and sighed. “Fine. I’ll contact SEA for a mutual aid agreement.”
Sporty-T didn’t have a clue who he was about to deal with.
*
The Chief approved the expense for a four-seater sub for us to pursue Sporty-T. We piled into the cramped vehicle, and Captain Mete dove us deeper than I’ve ever been on tour subs. Despite his assurance, I picked my nails with each groan of the hull. After half the day, we finally entered the area marked Atlantis on the diver’s watch map.
Mete flicked on additional exterior lights. “Look there.”
A huge cavern set within an oceanic trench came into view. Atlantis had to be in there.
Mete thrust the controls forward. “Hold on.”
The sub shuttered, and bubbles drifted up around us as we entered the cavern. We buoyed up through a lower-pressure underwater sump and surfaced inside a smooth-walled cavern.
“There’s our sub!” I said as Mete brought us alongside a semi-circular plateau dock.
Mete punched a sequence on the screen, and the outside air quality analysis popped up. He scratched the back of his head. “The air outside is a bit high in nitrogen, but breathable and within normal pressure range.”
Deonte cleared his throat. “Can we trust it?”
Mete shrugged. “The computer reports yes, but I don’t see how. The air filtration pressurizers and oxygenators needed at this depth to prevent us from being crushed would have to be ten times more efficient than Marine Metro 3. Amazing technology.”
I tapped my earpiece. “C19 to Dispatch.”
Static.
“Radio waves don’t work this deep. We use acoustic relay transmitters.” Mete said.
I got up from my seat. “Alright, you stay here and relay our location.”
Mete nodded. “Helluva lot of rock over our heads. No guarantees.”
Deonte’s eyes were full of concern as he stood and blocked my way to the hatch. “Rubi, when I contacted SEA for the mutual aid agreement, they stipulated we wait for them. We can’t stop tech like those sonic tridents and tracksuits without them.”
I locked eyes with him. He was a tough old bugger, but right now his eyes said otherwise. He wasn’t scared for himself but for me. I touched his arm, and the muscles along it twitched. “Didn’t you say I needed to take the lead on this case? Let’s ditch the training wheels.”
He took a deep breath. “I know, but—”
“This is my chance to show you what I’m made of. Besides, I’ve got you if things go wonky.”
He sighed and moved aside.
This was bigger than Sporty-T, the freaky scale-striped tracksuits, and those sonic tridents. Did I have the goods to handle this?
One way to find out. “Come on, partner. Let’s bag some perps for Raphael.”
*
I opened the hatch and took a tentative breath. The moisture-laden air clung to my tongue and filled my sinuses with a moldy musk. Mete was right, it was breathable. Thankful to be out of the cramped space, I stepped onto the top of the sub. A soft blue-green glow from a type of bioluminescent algae covered the ceiling, bathing the cavern in light.
The domed cavern was big enough to hold several more subs and too perfect to be made by water over time. I jumped down from the sub onto the silt-covered plateau’s ledge. Dust wafted up around my boots, uncovering a cobblestone walkway underneath. Hmmm.
Deonte slid down next to me and drew his pistol. He pointed to the multitude of footprints leading from the recovery sub to a set of large stone double doors set into the wall a few meters away. Where was everyone?
I motioned for Deonte to check out the recovery sub while I watched the doors. My mind spun through fantastical and terrifying possibilities that could be behind those Atlantean doors.
Deonte reemerged from the recovery sub and gave the all-clear signal as he joined me.
Only one way to solve this mystery. Forward.
The doors swung open with silent ease to reveal a wide hallway lit by flush ceiling panels. The air became hotter the farther from the entrance we moved, and a low-level hum prickled my ears. The newer underwater cities were using oceanic hydrothermal vents for power. That would explain how they powered the lights and the hot sweat that dripped down my crack.
We cleared offshoot storage rooms with thick layers of silty dust on either side as we made our way to a set of double doors at the end. I touched one of the doors and goosebumps formed on my arm. It was cold, despite the air, and the words “non plus ultra” had been carved into it.
Deonte whispered, “What do you make of that?”
The words reminded me of a book my mother read to me as a child. I mouthed them as the phrase rolled around my mind. “I think it’s Latin. ‘Nothing further beyond’ or possibly ‘Caution restricted area.’”
“And you know this how?”
I shrugged. Strange how I remembered that book but struggled to unblur images of Mom.
When I pressed my ear to the door, several muffled voices vibrated through. I held up four fingers to Deonte, then added another to be safe. Stepping back, I unclipped my extra mag retainers and activated my Thunder & Lightning. They may not work against that high-tech armor, but I wasn’t going in empty-handed.
Deonte did the same and nodded: Ready.
I counted us down from three and kicked the door open. It swung in and slammed against the inside wall.
Buttonhook left for me. Deonte cut right.
The room was roughly fifteen by sixty meters. The four thugs closest to us filled crates with bolts of synthetic scale cloth. Farther back, Sporty-T’s hulking goons flanked him as they put sonic tridents in a crate. The place was a warehouse full of busted open storage lockers along the walls. Sporty-T’s guys had been busy.
I gulped as everyone turned to stare at us.
Deonte and I dove for cover behind crates that were staged on either side of the door.
The closest thugs, maybe ten meters from us, charged.
Deonte opened fire and took one out.
I emptied a clip at the second one and plastered his face with paralytic gel. His eyes crossed, and he dropped.
Eject-slap-rack-fire
The remaining two drew tridents, and that familiar rapid hiss erupted.
“Duck!” I said to Deonte.
The familiar high-pitched sound followed.
The crate that protected Deonte blew apart.
I pelted the grin off another’s face with a volley as Deonte scurried behind my crate.
Eject-slap-rack-fire
The last thug came around the crate with the business end of a trident pointed our way.
Deonte double-tapped him in the face.
That’s something you can’t unsee. I stuffed the bloody image in a memory trunk and slapped my last magazine in.
Sporty-T and his two goons were headed our way.
I paralyzed one before my airsoft clicked empty.
Deonte dropped the other with three rounds to the chest. His pistol clicked empty, too.
That left two of us and one Sporty-T. I liked those odds.
The distinctive sound of a revolver’s hammer cocking behind us made me spin around.
“Put your weapons down,” Mete said with a cannon-sized revolver pointed at the back of Deonte’s head.
Deonte slowly lowered his firearm to the ground.
I did the same.
Mete cracked a crooked-toothed smile. “You should’ve left this iceberg covered and walked away.”
Sporty-T smirked as he swaggered over. “Tick-tock, your time’s up, Rubi.”
Deonte gave me a side-long gaze, then set his jaw and stared down Sporty-T.
Mete gripped the revolver with both hands.
Desperately, I reached for Deonte. Somehow, I’d changed Raphael’s fate and mine back in the parking lot when I touched him. But I’d touched hundreds of perps and they’ve never been lucky. Whatever my luck guardian was, and however it worked, with all my heart I pleaded for enough luck for Deonte and me both.
My fingers touched Deonte’s cheek.
Mete squeezed the trigger.
At least I’d die with a friend.
Click!
The revolver made that improbable sound of an ammo misfire.
Deonte spun on Mete, swept the firearm safely away, and clamped a shock glove around his wrist. A muscle-tensing jolt ripped up Mete’s arm. The revolver fell. Deonte finished the job with a punch to his nose.
I snatched up the revolver, spun about, and fired point-blank at Sporty-T’s face. The gun boomed and… I missed. Huh?
Five heavily armed and vested agents with SEA emblazoned across their chests stormed in through the double doors.
Sporty-T dropped his trident. Agents detained and cuffed him.
The lead agent addressed Deonte and me with a condescending tone as we got up and dusted ourselves off. “We appreciate your assistance in containing the situation, but SEA has operational jurisdiction. Please exit the area and give your statements to an agent by the submersibles.”
I pushed past Deonte and got in the agent’s face. “Assistance? We stopped the whole thing. You can’t—”
Deonte placed his hand on my arm and gave it a firm squeeze.
Mete groaned from the floor.
I took a calming breath and let my glare soften. “Okay, you can do the paperwork on this mess, but we’re taking Mete. He’s our ride home.”
The agent sighed. “Okay, take him and leave the area.”
The ancient warehouse was only a small section of a much larger mystery that surrounded Atlantis. Were the Atlanteans dimensional travelers? Where’d they disappear to? Could there be tech down here that could cleanse the surface? I’d need to rattle SEA’s cage to find answers. But that’d have to wait for another day.
For now, we gave our statements, and with Thunder & Lightning, we persuaded Mete to captain Deonte and me back.
*
Two months passed before “normal” lunacy returned to Fishbowl. The Chief transferred to the new Marine Metro 6 station, and Deonte took his place. Sporty-T was behind bars, oinking louder than a pigfish about some outlandish conspiracy that even the tabloids wouldn’t touch. SEA had Atlantis flooded with eggheads; regimes like their secrets. And me… well, the lonesome hustle called to me now that I’d completed my court sentence.
Deonte pushed my signed release papers across his desk to me. “Time’s up, Rubi. You’re free to go wherever you want.”
I picked up my ticket to freedom and stared at it. Two long years in a job as dangerous as hustling in the underground. I glanced at Deonte. His eyes glistened with unreleased tears that he blinked away as he fiddled with the papers in his inbox when he noticed my stare.
No one had ever looked at me like that. My heart melted. “By the way, what does Blues ‘N Twos stand for anyway?”
Deonte half-chuckled. “Back in the day, on the surface, it referred to the blue light and two-tone siren on a cruiser. But down here, it’s about the brotherhood our blue uniforms represent and how we pair up officers like family to watch each other’s back as we strengthen the line between order and chaos.”
“Sounds corny.” But was it?
Deonte shuffled paperwork that he’d already touched and avoided making eye contact.
“Last question, Chief. How do I trade this paperwork in for a badge?”
Deonte looked up from his desk with a proud papa smile that warmed my soul like I imagined people standing on the surface under the sun must have felt like.
He pulled a gleaming silver badge from his desk drawer and slid it to me. “Welcome to the family.”
I picked up the badge and weighed it in my hand. Family. Yeah, that sounded good.
Never dreamed a red-headed orphan girl from the streets would be a Blues ‘N Twos. Till I’d gotten pinched. Maybe that’d been my luck guardian watching over me all along.
Copyright 2026 by Todd S. Jones