Excerpt from The Recruit by Alan Drew, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter One

Detective Benjamin Wade was parked in the emergency lane of the Lucky's parking lot at Alta Plaza, admiring the sight of the snow-covered Santa Ana Mountains shouldering out of storm clouds. It had snowed overnight down here, too, on the flats of Rancho Santa Elena, and shoppers, pushing their carts toward the entrance to the store, gawked at the rare spectacle of it. He was stealing a fifteen-minute lunch in his idling unmarked cruiser to put away an "animal style" In-N-Out burger, keeping an eye on the Salvation Army Santa who was pocketing change when no one was looking. He was just about to walk over there to introduce himself to St. Nick when the Code 3 hot response squawked in over the scanner. Child in distress, Marsha Lynn, the daytime dispatcher called over the radio, 19734 Jupiter Street, California Homes. Mother on-site.

Ten minutes earlier, Ben had called to check in with his ex-wife, Rachel, on the cruiser's Motorola cellphone during her planning period at the high school where she taught English literature. Yes, he was getting Emma from school today. No, the pediatrician's appointment wasn't until next Tuesday. Yes, she'd pick up Emma out at his place at 4:30. He'd put in a call to Natasha—his girlfriend, he guessed, though that made it sound trivial—up at the county coroner, but according to Mendenhall, the chief medical examiner, Natasha was still out on the scene. Her pager had buzzed at 5:43 this morning, and he'd watched from his bed as she dressed in the dark, off to face the dead. He knew what they'd be talking about tonight.

Ben listened to the scanner now, waiting to see who would pick up the call. The Portrero Station EMTs were already working a three-car fatal on the Santa Ana Freeway, and the Trabuco Station was five miles away. The address was just a few blocks from where Ben sat in the strip mall, so he crumpled up the rest of the burger, jerked the cruiser into gear, and jetted out of the parking lot. The thieving Santa Claus would have to wait.

He was there in two minutes, parking the nose of the cruiser on the sidewalk in front of a single-story ranch home. The mother stood outside on the snow-splattered grass, a child, maybe three years old, twisted in her arms. "Oh, God," she was saying—he could hear her even before he threw open the door. "Oh, God. What's wrong? What's wrong, baby?" The terror streaked across her face jacked Ben up, his adrenaline suddenly pumping.

"Please," she said as Ben ran to her. "Please, he's not breathing."

Foam bubbled from the boy's lips, and blood, streaming from his nose, streaked his cheek.

"I don't know what's wrong," she said. "I don't know what happened."

Ben pressed his fingers to the boy's neck, trying to find a pulse in the carotid artery. Nothing. Shit.

"How long's he been like this?"

"I don't know. He was watching TV. I was in the kitchen."

He pushed up the boy's Sesame Street shirt, Cookie Monster munching chocolate chip, and laid his hand on the boy's belly.

"Please, let me have him," Ben said, pulling the boy from his mother's grasp, which sent her into a new round of wails.

He laid the boy down in the snow-wet grass, cradling the back of the boy's neck with his left palm and pressing his right hand on the child's thin sternum. With the heel of his hand, Ben pumped the sternum, foam frothing in the boy's open mouth, and pressed again. Come on, kid. Come on. He pumped again and again, the bone flexing beneath his hand, the boy's body limp in the grass.

A black-and-white swerved on scene, the bar lights throwing red and blue against the boy's white cheek. Using three fingers, Ben scooped the foam from the boy's mouth and flicked it onto the grass. He pinched the boy's nose shut and placed his mouth over the kid's lips, breathing his air into the child's body. The foam tasted syrupy-sweet metallic-bitter, Ben's tongue burning numb with it. Come on, come on. He broke the suction around the boy's mouth and took a surfer's breath, pulled in all the cold air like he was about to dive beneath a fifteen-foot crusher, and thrust his air into the boy. The child's chest heaved and he spit foamy breath across Ben's cheek.

Excerpted from The Recruit by Alan Drew. Copyright © 2022 by Alan Drew. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.