I hate the waiting and not knowing. I hate any time Chris goes under cover or confronts a perp, and I'm not the one there beside him, protecting him. And I've been sitting here in this sedan, with nothing but a static-laden audio feed from the recording device Chris has hidden under his shirt to connect him to me, and to the rest of the team hidden in their vans and observation stations in a half-mile square all around this warehouse. I can hear him breathing. So far, he's steady.

"We'll be there in under 10, Santos. Relax." His voice as he winds up his call with one of the biggest drug runners in South Florida reverberates in my ear. It's my favorite sound. Low. Sexy. Not that I'm interested in him in that way, of course. But his voice is damn sexy. Having it piped into my brain through the wireless earpiece is incredibly intimate, so much so that I realize I just tried to reach out and touch his arm as though he were here beside me in the car. "Don't get cocky, Lorenzo," I hear myself saying to the inside of the car. The devices we're using don't have two-way communication; rationally, I know he can't hear me. But he knows I'm listening.

And I know he knows what he's doing. I've watched him go into a sting operation a hundred times, or so it seems. But this one's different. The stakes are sky high. And I'm still pissed that he and Derrick are doing this one without me, all because of that run in with Santos way back when I was working vice. I like Derrick, but he's a bit of a hot head. Sure, he's a good cop, and I want to trust him with my partner's life, but they haven't worked together in years, not since they were young bucks fresh out of the academy. They don't have the intuitive connection that comes from spending all day every day together. Me? I feel like I can anticipate Chris's next move before he can. I can read every twitch of his jaw, every slight turn of his body. But Derrick? I catch myself drumming my fingers on the steering wheel and tell myself to calm down.

The two of them should be coming around the corner any moment now. I got here 15 minutes ago; right on schedule, and I saw Santos and five members of his crew walk in the side of the warehouse just as I was parking. Chris and Derrick are late. Deliberately. Apparently at the last minute they decided to make Santos sweat a bit; hoping that if they got him agitated he might start talking out of irritation; maybe spill more info that could put extra nails in his proverbial coffin. Dumb idea, but typically male. All testosterone and bluster.

And there they are, driving the black Audi TT the narco unit was able to pull out of impound for this case. They've been fighting all week over who gets to drive. I hear myself let out a laugh I didn't know was coming as I remember Chris's indignation last night in my apartment as he was complaining about Derrick hogging the driving privileges. He had been pacing around my living room, blowing off steam. I had been trying to take him seriously, offering encouragement and advice for dealing with a macho partner. "You don't know, Sammy, he'd said looking me straight in the eye. "You don't know what it's like."

And I had just laughed at him. "Uh, Chris. How long did it take me to train you?"

The expression on his face had been worth it. I thought his eyes would pop out of his head at the comparison. He feigned hurt innocence, but honestly, it was true. And he still had his moments of chauvinism, but fewer and fewer all the time. As I watched Chris and Derrick step out of the car, I could feel my lips still curled in a half smile, despite the tension.

I radioed Cap. "Chris and Derrick just pulled up and are walking toward the warehouse now."

"Be ready to bust in if this thing goes south," Cap says to me, sounding jumpy.

"You know it, Cap." I check my Glock. Clip's full. Safety's off. I set it back down on the seat beside me. For good measure, I reach down and tap the small Ruger secured at my ankle. Never hurts to have a back up in a case like this. The gun is reassuringly hard against my fingers.

Watching Chris walk into what's supposed to be a million dollar cocaine buy, I can't help but notice how tight his jeans are in all the right places. "Looking good, Lorenzo," I think to myself. He's walking with an exaggerated swagger I only ever see when he's under cover or coming to work the morning after a particularly hot date. I used to see that swagger regularly. He seems to have lost it since things with Jillian blew up. It's obnoxious and adorable all the same time. I hadn't realized how much I've missed it.

Right before he walks through the door to the warehouse, I see his eyes dart my way. It's so subtle anyone else would have missed it; just a quick check to make sure I'm here. "I got you, Sammy." Talking to him again; willing him to hear me. "I got your back." I can feel my heart pumping faster. It's the danger of the situation, I tell myself. Santos has killed three men in the last year for one infraction of his rules or another. One of those men was an undercover cop, and he's been suspicious of Chris and Derrick from the get-go. But so far, he seems mostly willing to believe their cover story. We're all on edge with this drug buy. But if I were being honest with myself, it's not just the danger that has my heart skipping. It's him. That swagger. Those eyes. Three nights in a row I've woken from fever dreams about those eyes. And other parts of him. I've been telling myself it's the stress of the case and nothing more. But I swear to god my stomach just did a flip. "Okay, Rita. Let's just file that away for later consideration." Oh good, I'm talking to myself now.

As Chris and Derrick disappear through the door, I can hear Santos' voice through the mic under Chris's shirt. "You're late, cowboys."

"Nah. We're right on time." It's Derrick.

"Don't get cute with me." Santos again. Close to them already; closer than he should be, I think. I can hear his voice as though he's just inches from Chris. And I also hear a sound I can't place.

"Put the knife away, Santos. Let's be grown-ups here. We hit traffic. But we're here now and we're ready to do business." To the rest of the world all that will come through is the easy confidence that lives in Chris's voice. But given where his mic is taped, I can also hear his heartbeat through my earpiece. It's kicked up several paces. Mine, too. Santos is a sick bastard, and his pulling a knife this early in the proceedings is not a good sign. I realize I'm chewing my lip. Hoping Chris's efforts at reason hit the right note with Santos.

"Check 'em" is all I hear Santos say in return. He's clearly telling his goons to frisk Chris and Derrick. They're going in unarmed, which makes my stomach churn. But we knew Santos would check them, and if they had guns, there was a strong chance he would shoot them then and there.

"Well, well. What's this, Cowboy?" It's one of the goons.

"Derrick, what the hell man?" I hear a panic in Chris's voice. To anyone else, it will just sound like surprise, but there's a particular pitch I recognize. I reach for my gun. What the hell has Derrick done? Every muscle in my body is strung tight, ready to pounce. And all I can think is that if Santos doesn't kill Derrick, I just might. "Don't do anything stupid, Christopher" I whisper, holding my breath. "I can't lose you."