Maxwell got out of the precinct at seven o’clock, and after picking up Italian take-out from his favorite restaurant he planned to sit in his leather recliner, watch the Jets, and drink a beer or two. It wasn’t even the first quarter and his cell phone rang. They needed him for a hostage situation at a women’s shelter, which set an edge to his teeth right away. He had very little patience for men who put their hands on women. Even less for men who’d break into a safe haven that the women could go to when they got brave enough to leave. Max shrugged into his leather coat on the hook by the door, then picked up his black duffle bag from by the door where it always sat, ready and packed. He hadn’t even had time to get his boots off. In the Army they were his shit kickers, but now in the NYPD he kicked a different kind of shit. Regardless of whether it was two in the afternoon or two in the morning, he’d be up and ready when the call came. He was part of one of the finest units in the country, there was nothing like the New York police department SWAT team.
