Shock Wave

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I want to thank my friends at Putnam, especially Neil Nyren and Michael Barson, for guiding me through my first year.

I should acknowledge my agent, Peter Rubie, whose odd mind provided the impetus for the story.

My good friend Reed F. Coleman came up with the title Shock Wave. I am in his debt.

I would also like to thank all the cops out there who supported me on the launch of my first book. You guys are the best.

He took a deep breath, not only to calm down, but in response to the Latina in a red bikini crossing Ocean Avenue. Her abdominals formed an olive-colored sign pointing to her pierced navel. She held that South Beach-distant attitude on her precise Cuban features as her long, jet-black hair fanned out behind her. She was one of many, but he definitely noticed her.

Looking down at the gym bag, he felt for the SIG-Sauer P-230 pistol he had tucked in between the seats in case of emergency. Really, it was in case of disaster. In an emergency, the six other cops watching him would swoop in and rescue him. If that failed, he might need the little.380 with its eight shots. The last thing he wanted today was a disaster. His first undercover gig since his last disaster. Even though that one had had nothing to do with undercover, or even a fuck-up on his part. He patted the gym bag to reassure himself. It was small scale as far as undercover deals went: five pounds of pot for some supposedly untraceable handguns. But there would be a good payoff. Many times, guns like these were used in homicides. Once they had the firing marks and ballistics, he figured they’d be able to connect one of them to something good. If not, they had a creep willing to trade guns for dope off the street.

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