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Up front, Tohr was giving the lineup a hard look. Dressed in black nylon sweats and a muscle shirt, the Brother was every inch the drill sergeant, with his military buzz cut and his blade-sharp blue eyes. John tried to stand up straighter, but his spine refused to crank to attention. He was utterly out of gas.

“That’s it for today,” Tohr barked. As the trainees sagged, he frowned. “Any injuries I don’t know about?” When no one spoke up, the Brother glanced at the clock that was mounted in a steel cage on the concrete wall. “Remember we start at noon tomorrow and run until eight p.m. instead of our usual time. Hit the showers. Bus will be ready in fifteen. John, can I have a minute?”

As everyone else dragged their sorry asses across the blue mats toward the locker room, John stayed behind. And said a little prayer.

The bus rides to and from the training center were hell. On a good day, none of the other trainees talked to him. On a bad day . . . he wished for the silent treatment. So even though it made him a coward, he was kind of hoping Tohr would tell him he could stay and work in the office or something.

Tohr waited until the steel door clanged shut before he transformed from drill sergeant into father. Putting a hand on John’s shoulder, he said softly, “How we doing, son?”

John nodded briskly even though his dishrag state pretty much said it all. “Listen, the Brotherhood was late getting out tonight, so I need to leave right now to do patrols. But I was talking to Butch earlier. He said if you wanted to hang with him for a while, that’d be cool. You can shower at the Pit if you want, and he could take you home later.”

John’s eyes popped. Hanging with Butch? Who was, like, totally the shit? Man . . . talk about prayers answered. The guy had come in just two days before, taught this rip-cool class on forensics, and had every one of the trainees decide they wanted to be a homicide cop like him.

Hanging with him . . . plus not having to deal with the Hades Express to get back home?

Tohr smiled. “So I take it this is a yeah, right?”

John nodded. And kept nodding.

“You know how to get there?”

Same code? John signed.

“Yup.” Tohr squeezed his shoulder, the big palm transmitting all kinds of warmth and support. “Take care, son.”

John took off for the locker room and for once didn’t hesitate as he stepped inside the hot, humid maze of metal lockers and social hierarchy. As usual, he made no eye contact with anyone on the way to number nineteen.

Funny, both his locker and he were in the back and on the bottom.

When he grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, Blaylock, the red-head, who was one of only two who didn’t ride him with insults, frowned.

“Aren’t you changing for the van?” the guy asked while he rubbed his hair with a towel.

John couldn’t help smiling as he shook his head and turned away.

Which, of course, meant Lash had to step into his path.

“Looks like he’s going to go chase after the Brotherhood.” The blond guy made elaborate work out of strapping on a huge diamond watch that was “from Jacob and Co., you know.” “Bet he’s gonna polish daggers for them. What are you going to use on their blades, John?”

The urge to flip him off was so strong, John actually lifted his hand, but Christ, he didn’t want to dick-toss with the asshole. Not when he was Pit-bound and bus-free. Turning away, he took the long way out of the locker room, going down another whole aisle of benches and lockers to avoid the conflict.

“Have fun, Johnny,” Lash shouted. “Oh, and hit the equipment room on your way out. For those knee pads.”

As laughter echoed, John pushed open the door and went down to Tohr’s office . . . thinking he would give anything for Lash to know what it was like to get picked on.

Or maybe pounded into submission.

Going through the back of Tohr’s supply closet and coming out the other side in the underground tunnel was like walking into sunshine: a singing relief. Sure, there were only ten hours of freedom in front of him, but