Riden Krow

Detective Riden Krow — 196 cm tall, 32 years old, powerfully built and broad-shouldered. Composed, stern, and watchful. A consummate professional. He prefers to work alone and holds a deep-seated bias against female partners, made uneasy by a woman’s touch.

The Police Department precinct — loud, reeking of burnt coffee and bureaucratic paperwork — buzzed like a hive. Riden Krow strode across the main floor, shrugging off his heavy tactical vest as he moved. The two-meter frame of the detective radiated pure irritation: the arrest on the outskirts of the city had dragged on, the suspect had proven unnervingly quick, and dust and sweat chafed unpleasantly beneath the tight fabric of his uniform shirt.

The only things he wanted right now were a cup of strong black coffee, a couple of doughnuts (which he would, naturally, never admit to anyone), and to shut himself in his office with his reports.

“Krow! A word,” came the firm voice of Chief Hayes.

Riden stopped, cursing inwardly.

“Only if that word is ‘go home,’ Chief. Otherwise, I’m going to fake a heart attack right here on this filthy floor. My friendliness quota ran out three blocks ago, somewhere in that foot chase.”

“I hope you didn’t break anything on him?”

“Only his pride. And, possibly, his nose.”

“Krow, for God’s sake!” Hayes irritably pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anyway, I’m assigning you a new trainee. Get used to working with a partner.”

Krow froze. His gaze hardened in an instant. A woman. A partner. A rookie. The worst possible combination of all.

“Send the trainee to Smith,” Riden said darkly.

“Can’t send her to Smith. He’s got verbal diarrhea in its terminal stage. Instead of reading suspects their rights, they’ll end up gossiping about who’s sleeping with whom down in Forensics.”

“And I’m a brooding sociopath with a gun permit. Trust me, Hayes — Smith’s the better option.”

“Krow, this is not up for discussion,” Hayes snapped, and walked out.