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  Ground zero, noun: the center or origin of rapid, intense, or violent activity or change.

  Heat, humidity, and homicide are things veteran detective Sawyer Key expects to encounter on his first day with the Savannah Police Department, but the hostile reception from his new partner catches him by surprise. Sawyer isn’t a stranger to heartache and recognizes that Royce Locke is a wounded man who’s reeling from a devastating loss. Relentless and patient in all things, Sawyer is determined to make the new partnership work.

  Savannah, Georgia is known for her quirky people, oak trees draped in Spanish moss, and antebellum architecture. Beneath the Southern charm and hospitality, festering hatred and violence is soaring with the summer temperatures. Locke and Key find themselves at the epicenter when their first case involves the death of a former shock jock who appears to be the victim of vigilante justice.

  Opposites in nearly every way, the two detectives set aside their differences to take back their city and restore law and order. From this reluctant truce, an intense attraction grows that will either tighten or shatter their tenuous bond. Falling for his partner spells inevitable disaster, but Sawyer’s always been a sucker for wounded things. Sawyer could be the key to the life Royce has always wanted, if he’s brave enough to trust him. The fuse is lit, the clock is running, and the zero hour is upon them. Tick tock.

  Ground Zero is the first book in the Zero Hour series, which follows Locke and Key’s investigations and evolving relationship. Ground Zero has a happy-for-now ending with no cliffhanger. It contains mature language and sexual content intended for adults 18 and older.

  Ground Zero (Zero Hour Book 1)

  Copyright 2019 Aimee Nicole Walker

  [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Photographer © Wander Aguiar—www.wanderaguiar.com

  Cover art © Jay Aheer of Simply Defined Art—www.simplydefinedart.com

  Editing provided by Miranda Vescio of V8 Editing and Proofreading—www.facebook.com/V8Editing

  Proofreading provided by Judy Zweifel of Judy’s Proofreading—www.judysproofreading.com

  And Jill Wexler

  Interior Design and Formatting provided by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design—www.champagnebookdesign.com

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original publisher only.

  This book contains sexually explicit material and is only intended for adult readers.

  Copyright and Trademark Acknowledgments

  The author acknowledges the copyrights and trademarked status and trademark owners of the trademarks and copyrights mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Title Page

  About This Book

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Other Books by Aimee Nicole Walker

  Acknowledgments

  About Aimee Nicole Walker

  To Hailey Turner and her Bones kitty

  Hailey, you make every day a better one with your wonderful sense of humor, kitty pics, and hilarious memes. Thank you so much for letting Sawyer borrow your precious Bones kitty. He was a king among felines, an expert at snatching bread and hearts. I am blessed to know you and call you a friend. xoxoxo

  Heat, humidity, and homicide.

  The story of his life, Sawyer Key silently quipped. What would be the subtitle? A Typical Summer Day in Savannah, Georgia? One Dumpster Fire to the Next? Navigating Hostile Times While Maintaining Humanity? Sawyer recalled the pair of smoldering gray eyes that had tracked his every move when he arrived at the Midtown precinct. They were certainly hostile as hell.

  “What the fuck?” Sawyer asked out loud when he saw the large crowd gathered at his crime scene. Flipping on his sirens to disburse the throng of people, he pulled up to the barricade patrol had set up. A strong sense of foreboding settled in his gut as he made his way to one of the officers assigned to keep unauthorized personnel from stepping beyond the police tape. This level of attention was never a good sign.

  “Well, hello, sugar. I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new?”

  The unprofessional greeting caught Sawyer off guard, and he just barely suppressed the urge to cringe. He had approached the female officer at a crime scene, not a bar. A fresh start, Key. Don’t make enemies on day one. Let it slide. The detective’s shield clipped to his belt was shiny, new, and felt as heavy as the dread in his stomach. He wasn’t a stranger to law enforcement, but it was his first day on the job as a detective with the Savannah PD.

  “That’s Detective Sugar,” he said, covering his irritation with humor. “Most call me Sawyer or Detective Key though. I’m with the Major Crimes Unit.” The woman whose badge identified her as Officer Andrews extended her hand and he shook it. “I’m meeting my partner here.”

  “Oh,” the blonde woman said, raking her eyes over his dove gray linen pants, lavender dress shirt, and amethyst-colored tie before meeting his eyes again. “I’ve heard of you.” I just bet she has. “I’m Keeley Andrews. It’s nice to meet you. Detective Locke is already inside. Good luck,” she said then snorted.

  It wasn’t the first time Sawyer had been warned that morning about the potential lukewarm greeting he could expect to receive from his new, unwilling partner, Royce Locke. The same guy with the hostile gray eyes. Sawyer had listened to Chief Ellen Rigby speak about Locke for forty-five minutes when he reported for duty, which was why Locke and Key were meeting at a crime scene instead of at the precinct as planned. Chief Rigby couldn’t disguise her respect for Locke’s performance on the job while, at the same time, she lamented about some of his methods.

  “He never breaks the law,” she’d been quick to tell Sawyer as she fixed herself a cup of coffee and offered him one of her bear claw pastries. “My wife makes these, knowing I can’t resist them.” She patted her curvy hips. “It’s starting to catch up to me. Everything starts going to hell for a woman once she hits middle age while you men keep getting better.”

  Sawyer had thought it was an odd pivot from Locke and his borderline unlawful ways to her expanding hips, but he was starting to see there was a method to her madness. Ellen Rigby liked to keep people on their toes and to make sure they were paying attention. Sawyer also thought there was nothing hellish looking about the woman sitting across the desk studying him with hawkish, blue eyes that probably didn’t miss anything. Her medium brown curls were devoid of gray hair, either by genetics or from chemicals, and her makeup-free skin was nearly flawless except for a few laugh lines around her mouth and eyes. Sawyer thought they added to her attractiveness instead of aging her. As for her hips, she had an hourglass figure that looked neither too big nor too small for her height.

  “I can’t resist the pastries just like I couldn’t resist her all those year
s ago, even though I knew it could cost me my family and my career. I played hard, and I fought to win.”

  “And here you are,” Sawyer said.

  “And here I am. Now I play for keeps.”

  Sawyer accepted the pastry with a smile then nearly choked on the powdered sugar that exploded into his mouth on the first bite.

  “Sherry is a bit heavy-handed with the powdered sugar,” Chief Rigby had said with a wry smile. “I don’t think a ‘dusting of sugar’ is in her vocabulary. She’s from New Orleans, so it’s in her blood.”

  Sawyer made the connection right away because he’d choked hard after taking his first bite of a beignet during his only visit to the city. He’d never eaten a bear claw before and thought the flaky, buttery pastry, almond paste, and slivered almonds were a lovely combination.

  Ellen Rigby’s final words to him after their chat over coffee and a pastry still lingered in his head when he arrived at the crime scene in Riverside.

  “I wish you much luck, Detective. Locke’s going to do everything in his power to push you away. Don’t let him; he needs you.”

  “Nice meeting you too, Officer Andrews,” Sawyer said before striding up the walkway leading to the porch. “Detective Sawyer Key with MCU.” He flashed his badge to the officer assigned to the front door tasked with making sure only approved personnel gained access to the house. Too many people in and out of a crime scene not only risked the admissibility of forensic evidence in court, but it wasted time when the lab spent hours testing evidence only to find out the DNA on sunflower seeds spat out at the scene belonged to one of the officers and not the killer.

  “Officer Robert Jones, but everyone calls me Bobby. Booties and gloves on, Detective. Sign in here, please,” he said in a monotone.

  Accepting the clipboard, Sawyer filled out his name, badge number, and the time he arrived on the scene. He noted his partner had signed in a full twenty minutes earlier, which meant the call came in not long after Sawyer sat down in the chief’s office.

  “Were you the responding officer?” Sawyer asked Officer Jones, noticing the black powder residue all along the white door casing left behind when a CSI tech dusted for fingerprints.

  “No, sir. Officer Diego Fuentes was the first one on the scene. He’s inside with Detective Locke, the ME, and the crime scene techs.”

  “Wow, it didn’t take long to get everyone to the scene.”

  “This crime will make national news, and the media will start showing up within the hour, if not…sooner.” Jones’s voice trailed off, and Sawyer turned to see what had caught his attention. Four news vans pulled in nearly simultaneously—two came in from the north, and two came from the south, meeting in the middle. Each van jockeyed for the closest spot to the Riverside residence, which Sawyer noted was nice but didn’t look like the kind of home belonging to someone important enough to warrant the frenzied feeling in the air when the doors of the vans burst open and cameramen and reporters exploded into action.

  “Who lives here?” Sawyer asked Officer Jones as he slid the booties over his Gucci leather loafers.

  “Lived,” Jones corrected. “Died from blunt force trauma to the head. They didn’t tell you who the victim was?” The more they conversed, the more the officer relaxed around Sawyer.

  “No,” Sawyer said. The ominous feeling from when he arrived intensified as he snapped nitrile gloves in place. He’d hope to settle in to his new job with as little drama as possible, but it appeared he wouldn’t be so lucky.

  “Ever heard of Roland Putzinski?”

  Sawyer’s eyebrows lifted toward his hairline. “Who hasn’t heard of The Putz?” Roland Putzinski was a disgraced shock-jock of the vilest kind. He hated anyone who wasn’t a white, straight, Christian, or male. He’d pushed the limits on his nationally syndicated radio show for decades before he went too far and was fired after his incendiary rhetoric incited a gay-bashing incident in Kissimmee, Florida. “This is his house?”

  “I would’ve expected him to live someplace grander too, but he probably couldn’t afford it after losing the civil lawsuit filed by Micah Gasaway’s family.” Sawyer remembered the story well. Micah had been the victim of the hate crime and had spent two months in a coma before passing away in the aftermath of the brutal beating. “Six million dollars is a lot of money to pay in punitive damages.” It wasn’t enough; it could never be enough to pay for the harm the man had caused Micah’s family. “He probably should’ve found a home in a gated community in one of the less pricey neighborhoods.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’s living in a gated community now,” Sawyer said dryly. Jones snorted, catching Sawyer’s meaning. May he forever burn in the hell of his own making. “Good to meet you, Officer Jones.”

  “Likewise, Detective.” He glanced over his shoulder then returned his cool green eyes to meet Sawyer’s. “Good luck to you, sir.”

  “That’s the third time someone has said those words to me in less than an hour.”

  “You’ll probably be hearing it every day for the rest of your career with the SPD.”

  Sawyer sighed, patted Jones’s shoulder, then opened the door and stepped inside the home. The foyer, living room on the right, and dining room on the left were immaculately clean and empty of police personnel. Sawyer heard voices in the rear of the home but took his time looking around the space. A cop could learn a lot about a victim by studying their surroundings and the types of things they held dear in their lives. Were there family photos on the walls, knickknack collections on shelves or behind glass cabinet doors, or books or DVDs lying around offering clues to the victim’s relationships, hobbies, intellectual level, and choice of entertainment?

  Sawyer noted the furniture, although clean and tidy, looked to be old and well-used. Not what he’d expect from a man who had made millions on his previous show and from book sales. People actually paid nearly thirty bucks a pop to read his hateful musings. Above the nondescript brown sofa hung a large painting showing a white man’s fist gripping a lightning bolt next to an ornate cross. Below the image were the words: God’s chosen race. On another wall was a poster of a naked, buxom blonde sprawled in the center of a bed. The only thing shielding her vagina from the viewer’s eyes was her hand. The words beneath the image read: Real Men Eat Pussy.

  It was a miracle you lived this long.

  Facing the poster was a worn-out recliner, and beside it was a side table with an open bottle of lotion, a wad of used tissues, and a box of Kleenex. It didn’t take a detective to know what The Putz used the tissues and lotion for when kicking back in his recliner.

  A shiver of revulsion rippled through Sawyer, compelling him out of the room and down the hall toward the voices. The coppery smell of blood and the unforgettable aroma of death got stronger with each step deeper into the home. The hallway led to a smallish kitchen where a crime scene tech looked up from swabbing blood droplets on the floor. Based on the pattern and spacing of the droplets, Sawyer surmised they’d landed there after falling off the murder weapon.

  “Oh, hey. You’re Detective Key,” she said, appraising him from head to toe. Unlike Officer Andrews, Sawyer only saw curiosity in the tech’s eyes. He tried not to be a vain man, but he knew his six-two, broad-shouldered frame, dark hair, and dark eyes appealed to men and women alike.

  “I am. And you are?”

  “CSI Griffin, but my friends call me Casey.”

  “Can you tell me where I can find my partner, CSI Griffin?”

  She smiled wryly. Did she expect Sawyer to consider her a friend within the first five seconds of meeting her? Griffin raised a hand and pointed over her shoulder. “The hallway leads back to his home office slash recording studio.”

  “Recording studio?” Sawyer asked. “I thought he lost his radio show.”

  “He did, but you can’t keep a vile man down. Putz started a podcast bitching about the evils of political correctness and how the women’s movement has set our country back. There was nothing scarier to him than a woman who
demanded equal pay and refused to be sexually harassed in the workplace. Putz didn’t like our kind either.”

  “Our kind?” Sawyer asked with a raised brow. Then he noticed the rainbow lanyard holding her ID badge.

  “Oh shit. That was totally inappropriate of me to say. I read about your battle with the sheriff’s department. I hope you’ll enjoy working for SPD a lot more.”

  “Thanks. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised Putz found a new way to spew his venom,” he said, steering them back to a more comfortable topic.

  “Someone put a stop to his vitriol once and for all,” Griffin said, returning her focus to her task. “Good luck, Key.”

  Annoyance sparked inside him, but he shoved it aside and headed down the hallway to get the awkward initial introduction out of the way. Maybe Locke would go easy on him with witnesses around.

  The office was much bigger than Sawyer had anticipated. The area consisted of a large office space with a soundproof booth at one end. He stood in the doorway taking in the quiet effectiveness of the technicians photographing the room, sketching the scene, and looking for evidence while the ME and Sawyer’s new partner squatted on either side of the prone body. Sawyer couldn’t help but notice the way the dark denim clung to Locke’s firm ass but forced his eyes upward to avoid additional awkwardness should he get caught ogling him. A tall, hulk of a man he presumed to be Officer Fuentes stood behind the ME looking over her shoulder.

  “Someone really hated this man,” the officer said. “I’ve never seen such a brutal attack before.”

  “There’s a lot of passion in this slaying,” the ME said. “His skull is so battered I don’t think I’ll be able to pinpoint the murder weapon unless the killer was kind enough to leave it behind.”

  The officer lifted his head to look around the room and noticed Sawyer standing in the doorway. “Oh, hey,” he said. “You must be Detective Key.” His Southern drawl sounded more Texan than Georgian.