As Gage made the introductions, she searched for signs that Martinez was juicing, but his eyes weren’t dilated, his hands weren’t shaking, and his skin wasn’t cold and clammy. If he was taking drugs, it was the type that didn’t have any visible side effects.
She pointed to a series of buildings as they crossed the back of the compound. “What are those?”
Gage followed her gaze. “We use those to simulate different tactical scenarios. We can practice climbing, rappelling, going through windows, breeching doors, explosive entry—pretty much anything we want.”
As they got closer, Mac realized that what she’d thought were buildings were actually facades, like something on a Hollywood movie set. Gage gave her a tour, describing the kinds of things the team used them for in more detail. Even though she kept telling herself she was only there to look for evidence of some wrongdoing, she couldn’t help but be fascinated by the training he and his men did. She almost wished she were writing a fluff piece on them.
She found herself standing a lot closer to Gage than necessary, too. And it had nothing to do with her trying to play him. She might be a journalist, but she was a woman, too. And she couldn’t deny she was flat-out attracted to Gage. Hell, she wasn’t sure there were many women in the world who wouldn’t be attracted to the man. She knew she should fight it, but she didn’t. Instead, she put her covert mission on hold and gave herself permission to have fun.
He was one of those rare people who could talk about anything she brought up, including local and national politics. She was floored he knew the names and agendas of every political mover and shaker not only in Texas but on the national level and in Mexico, too. Before long, they were talking about topics that had nothing to do with SWAT, cops, or even journalism. And she was enjoying the heck out of it.
Mac didn’t even realize how much time had passed until she noticed they’d toured at least a dozen training buildings, an obstacle course, a climbing tower that was way too high in her opinion, two shooting ranges, and a beach volleyball court of all things. The next thing she knew, they’d done a whole circuit of the SWAT training grounds and were heading back toward the admin building. But instead of taking her there, Gage led her to a one-floor building without any windows. More storage, maybe?
“Last stop on the tour. I figured you might want to get a look at our armory.” Gage flashed her a grin. “No offense, but it’s been my experience that reporters seem to have an unhealthy fascination with the weapons SWAT uses for some reason.”
She smiled up at him. “No offense taken, since I’m a journalist, not a reporter.”
“What’s the difference?”
“About thirty thousand a year.”
He chuckled, but didn’t say anything as he opened the door for her. The building was a welcome relief from the blistering temperatures outside, and Mac pushed her sunglasses up on her head. A police officer behind the counter that blocked their entry into the back half of the building looked up when they entered.
“This is Senior Corporal Trevor McCall,” Gage said. “Beyond his normal SWAT duties, he’s also our senior armorer. He maintains and repairs all our weapons, modifying them when needed. McCall, meet Mackenzie Stone.”
She shook hands with the officer, marveling that here was yet another hot, muscular guy. She didn’t realize it was even statistically possible for that many attractive men to be in one place. This had to be a record or something.
“Come on back and I’ll give you the grand tour,” McCall said.
Gage waited for her to walk around the counter, then followed. There were actually two doors between them and the room where the weapons were kept—the first was made out of a wire material while the other was a solid metal door. Big safes and cabinets lined each wall, along with several shelves with storage bins.
The men led her around the room, pulling out weapons and explaining what they were, how they worked, and what the SWAT team used them for. Mac had seen quite a few weapons, from the pistols the gang members in Dallas carried to the assault rifles and machine guns the cartel drug runners used, but she wasn’t an expert and she quickly got lost in all the details as Gage and McCall explained the differences between this carbine and that rifle. She could barely recognize the difference. Then they showed her all the handguns they stored in the various safes and really confused her. All the numbers started spinning around her head like bees—.380, .40, .357, .38, 9mm, 10mm—and those were just the ones she caught in passing.
“Hang on,” she said, holding up her hand. “Why do you need so many different sizes of guns? Are you guys hoarders or something?”