Chapter One
Once a week our entire family gathers for breakfast at my parents’ house. If your ass isn’t in a chair by 7 a.m., you better have a damn good reason. Like you’re in the middle of a shootout or dead.
It was my turn to cook, and I was going to make my famous chocolate chip waffles. Since the Sheriff’s Department was still using the Alpha Dogs training center as a substation, I thought I could come a bit early, whip up my waffle batter, then run over to the substation and get some paperwork done.
Dante’s current homicide cases had him dealing with piles of reports he needed to read through. He was hoping to find a clue that would lead him to the location of the murderous rustlers who called themselves the Cochise Cowboys. Since he was considered family now, his attendance was mandatory too.
We walked into the kitchen and stopped dead. Who in the hell was playing bump and grind music at this time of the morning? Was Grandpa Reynolds messin’ with Dad again?
“I thought your parents liked country western music?” Dante put a hand on his service weapon.
“They do.” I opened the door to the living room and froze in stunned horror. My father, wearing nothing but black silk boxers with red hearts on them, gyrated around my mother.
Mom’s rapt attention was focused on Dad. Her long blue-tee shirt with a picture of a snarling Chihuahua on the front wasn’t the least bit romantic. It had been a gag gift from me for Mother’s Day.
Holy cow! The sensuous expression on Dad’s face was a panty melter. His pelvic thrusts rivaled Thunder Down Under and the Chippendales dancers.
Dante let out a low whistle.
Dad spun to face us and bristled. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m cooking breakfast, remember?” I waved my hand around. “The better question is where did you learn to dance like that?”
“Your father was a Chippendales dancer before he joined the Marines,” Mom answered in amusement.
My jaw dropped. Was Mom joking? She didn’t act like it. It was more like she was proud of the fact. “Why did you get a job with the Chippendales, Dad?”
“I wanted to buy a cutting horse, and I wasn’t winning enough money at bull riding. The pay for dancing was damn good, and it was a lot of fun.”
Mom interjected, “And there were so many women throwing themselves at your father, that he gave Casanova a run for his money.”
“I was seventeen and I enjoyed the attention,” Dad said without a trace of guilt.
“Dancers have to be twenty-one,” Dante interposed.
Dad rubbed his jaw. “I had fake ID, and my beard made me look older.”
Call me thunderstruck. My dad had been a playboy at seventeen. “Why all the secrecy?”
Dad grimaced. “I have a reputation to maintain.”
“But Dad, men dance all the time. If anyone brings it up, just tell them you were undercover. A few people might think Dante is a wuss because he dances competitively, but he doesn’t let it bother him. His machismo makes him a better dancer.”
Dante kissed my knuckles. “Thank you, querida .”
“In the 1990s any man who admitted he was a stripper would have been booted out of the Marines,” Dad retorted.
My curiosity got the better of me. “How long were you a dancer?”
“Eight months. Grandad found out and he dragged me down to the Marine recruiting office the day I turned eighteen.”
Dante asked, “Who ratted you out?”
“One of the ladies at our church,” Dad grumbled.
I snickered. “Bet she wasn’t getting any.”
Mom ran her hand down Dad’s muscular chest. “Now this is all mine, and I love his lap dances.”
“TMI Mom. TMI.”
Mom’s smile got bigger. “Admit it, Dante. He’s a great dancer.”
“He dances like an arthritic old man,” Dante replied. His dimples made a brief appearance.
Dad’s narrowed eyed gaze fixed on Dante. “Arthritic old man?” He cracked his knuckles.
Oh shit! I jabbed my elbow into Dante’s stomach. Was he deliberately trying to provoke a fight? “Let’s do a dance off,” I hurriedly suggested.
Mom nodded. “Loser buys dinner at Charlie’s Steakhouse.”
“An easy win,” Dante chortled.
Dad glowered at him.
Dante winked at me and unleashed a raunchy routine that made me blush. “Are your panties wet, yet?”
“God, yes,” I gasped.
Mom nodded her head. “If I was wearing any.”
A low growl broke from Dad. He rolled his hips and began a sensuous dance that had me gaping in astonishment. He could really turn it on, and at that moment I knew Mom had never stood a chance. Dad had seduction down to an art form.
A devilish gleam in his eyes, Dante spun me around him. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”
Grinning like a loon, I undulated against his groin.
Dad gave Mom a bawdy lap dance.
“What the hell?” Sergeant Bergman hollered.
Julie clapped loudly. “Way to go! For an old guy, you’ve got some moves, sir.”
“Old guy,” Dad grumbled, scooped up Mom and stomped down the hallway.
“I think our dance-off is a tie,” I called after him.
Dad slammed his bedroom door.
“Where did your dad learn to dance like that?” Julie asked, fanning herself.
Dante smirked. “He was a Chippendales dancer in his youth.”
Julie stared at Dante in disbelief. “You mean, like women were stuffing dollar bills in his G-string and copping a feel?”
“Exactly.”
“Whoa!” Julie giggled. “I bet he has been giving your mom private dances for years. Which would explain why there are six of you.”
“I’m never going to unsee that,” Sergeant Bergman muttered.
The expression on Sergeant Bergman’s face was hysterical. “Did you need something sir?”
“We’re out of coffee. I wanted to borrow some.”
Fighting back a grin, I nodded. “Not a problem. I’ll get you some.” I walked back into the kitchen.
“How long have you known about your father’s frisky dancing skills?” Sergeant Bergman inquired.
“About ten minutes.” I opened a cabinet, grabbed a five-pound bag of Arabica coffee beans and held it out. “Here ya go.”
Sergeant Bergman’s eyebrows rose as he took it. “Ten minutes?”
“Yep. We kinda walked in on them. Gotta say it was a bit of a shock, but it does explain where I got my love of dancing from.”
Dante grinned. “Your old man has some wicked moves.”
“That he does.” I patted Dante’s butt. “Tonight, I’m giving you a lap dance you’ll never forget.”
“I look forward to it, querida .”
Sergeant Bergman barked, “Not another word about your sex life or anyone else’s.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“I think a retreat is in order to give your dad time to cool off,” Julie said.
“Damn good idea. Everyone out!” Sergeant Bergman yanked open the kitchen door. “Do your brothers know about your parents’ proclivities?”
I grimaced. “Nope, and I’m not telling them.”
“My lips are sealed,” Julie added.
Horn blaring, a silver Toyota Camry crawled into the parking lot and a woman screamed, “Help us! Please help us!”
A smile touched my mouth as we all carefully surveyed the area, then cautiously approached the car. We were a well-oiled team.
“What’s wrong, ma’am?” Sergeant Bergman inquired.
“Bomb! There’s a bomb on my husband’s lap!” The woman shrieked.
We all had our flashlights out and fixed on the white-faced husband. On his lap was a box with a pipe bomb in it.
“Oh, hell.” The timer showed twelve minutes before it went kablooey.
Sergeant Bergman commanded, “Put the car in park and turn the engine off.”
“I told him not to take the box, but he wouldn’t listen to me,” the woman sobbed as she obeyed.
“I don’t want to die,” the husband cried, holding out the box. “Please, I don’t want to die.”
“Put the box down slowly! If you want to live, don’t move a muscle,” Dante instructed.
“Yes, sir.”
Dante slowly opened the passenger door and examined the bomb. “It’s well made. I need a bomb kit.”
“I’ll get one for you,” I said.
Sergeant Bergman advised, “I left the door open.”
“Yes, sir.” I sprinted into the training center, typed in the pass code for the supply closet and took a bomb kit.
Julie dragged the hysterical woman into the center and put her in a holding cell. “She tried to make a run for it.”
“Bad move. My partner has won a bunch of medals for the fifty-yard dash.”
Julie put on her menacing cop face. “Which house did you take the package from?”
“You don’t understand. We needed the money.”
“Which house?” Julie repeated sternly.
“It’s a couple of miles from here. The mailbox looks like a boat engine.”
Damn. That house belonged to Chuck Hennessey, a trigger-happy retired postal worker. “I’ll let the sarge know.”
Julie nodded. “Your mom and dad are out there too and he’s still a bit snappy.”
“Oh yay.” I raced back to the Camry and handed Dante the bomb kit. “They took the box from Chuck Hennessey’s porch.”
Dad grimaced. “Chuck spent four years as an explosive expert in the Army.”
“He’s also in the early stages of dementia,” Mom added.
Sergeant Bergman rubbed his face. “Hennessey also has enough guns to start a small war.”
I waved wildly at Nate as he pulled up in his big red GMC dually.
He jumped out and hurried over to us. “What’s up?”
“Get your bomb gear,” Dad ordered.
Nate took one look at the timer “Yes, sir.”
“Gemma, I want you to do a welfare check on Chuck Hennessey. Make sure he’s okay and see what bomb making materials he has on hand,” Sergeant Bergman directed.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going with her. Chuck likes me,” Mom said.
Dad nodded. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful,” Mom retorted.
Dad snorted.
“You armed, Mom?”
Mom shot me a look. “When am I not?”
“I wasn’t sure since you were getting it on with Dad.”
“Sweetie, I’ve gotten it on with your father in a foxhole, and we were still able to fight.”
Nate’s eyes bugged.
Gak! “TMI, Mom.”
“You asked.”
She had a point. I hurried into the training center. “Have you learned anything else, Julie?”
“Yeah, not only is the trunk full of pilfered packages, but they also have a storage unit full of stolen goods.” Julie took a radio from the charging unit and attached it to her gun belt.
Mom sighed. “Let me guess. They sell the stuff at the local flea markets?”
“Yep.”
I opened my locker, grabbed my gun belt and strapped it on. “Sarge wants me to check on Chuck Hennessey and see what kind of bomb making materials he has on hand.”
“There’s no tellin’ what kind of stuff that crazy old coot has stashed away,” Julie eyed my mom. “I take it breakfast is a no-go today.”
Mom grimaced. “It is, but I have a batch of Rosita’s tamales in the fridge.”
“Yum.” I slid my Glock into the holster. “Mom says Chuck has dementia too.”
“Shit! Dementia makes them mean.”
Sergeant Bergman stuck his head in the door. “Garza, go with her.”
“Yes, sir.” Julie pointed at the still sobbing woman. “You need to double-check the trunk. They’ve stolen from Hennessey before.”
“Damn!” The sarge spun on his heel and hurried back to the Camry.
Mom smiled evilly. “You can’t cure stupid, but you sure as hell can lock it up.”
“So true.” Julie snatched a set of keys off the pegboard and tossed me a radio. “I’m driving.”
I rolled my eyes and followed her across the parking lot. “I’m sorry we ruined your sexy time, Mom.”
“Me too.”
With Mom’s help, we quickly checked the patrol car for contraband, bombs, and any damage.
Mom wrinkled her nose. “Your car smells like old farts.”
“Easy fix. We have Stink Away in the trunk,” I said.
Julie popped the trunk, and I grabbed the bottle and sprayed the back seat. “Better, Mom?”
“It is, but I’m keeping the Stink Away.”
I shrugged. “Okay, we’ve got more.”
Mom climbed in and drenched the floor mats.
“We need to have a long talk with Scotty about his obsessive farting.” Julie said as I slid into the front seat.
“All he needs to do is lay off the Mexican food.”
Mom laughed. “When your brothers were younger, they used to have fart contests. The house reeked for hours.”
“What makes you think they’ve stopped?” I rolled the window down.
Julie keyed her radio mic, “Radio, show Charlie-24 and Charlie-23 en route to 40325 West Windmill Road on a welfare check.”
“Copy Charlie-24,” the dispatcher responded.
As we rolled past the Camry, the guys were carefully examining a shitload of packages.