She nodded, her nose dripping, but so what? Tate had seen her at her worst. “Where are you going?”
“To find Pepe.” He cupped her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “You still have my spare phone, right?”
“I do.”
“Keep it with you, even if you have to tuck it inside your bra or under your belt to keep it hidden from your mother.” He glanced down the hall. “Don’t let her know you have it, and don’t go anywhere without it, do you hear?”
“Yes, but how will you find him? Where will you look?” She sucked back the hopelessness of the day. “He could be anywhere.”
Tate’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I honestly don’t know, but I’ve got friends. They’ll help me.”
“I should come with you.”
He tipped his forehead to hers, his hands soft and gentle on her cheeks. “I wish you could, but you’re sick, Winslow. Stay here and try to get some rest. Wait for my call. I will bring Pepe home to you.”
He sounded so sure. She let her fingers run up his chest, wishing he were already back and Pepe was safe. “Thank you, Tate.”
He pulled her under his chin, and for that one moment, Winslow believed.
Damn Joyce Parrish! Anger ran straight down his leg to the Jeep’s accelerator as Tate sped down Maple to Dameron. What kind of mom dumped the family pet when her daughter most needed the comfort of her furry friend? Why couldn’t she wait until Winslow’s time was done? Why now?
He wrenched the wheel, wishing it was Joyce’s self-righteous neck in his grip instead. The problem with rage was it consumed every last brain byte, and he didn’t have the luxury of wasting time with the lack of self control. Not with Winslow’s life so close to ending, maybe Pepe’s now too. He hadn’t meant to let his temper get the best of him, but damn it to hell! Joyce was a bitch for what she’d done.
Tate ran a quick hand over his head from front to back, needing the rush of blood under his scalp to clear his mind. He could count on Ky Winchester to help. Eden too. Maybe some of the guys from The TEAM. Maybe not. Where does a man start searching for a two-pound dog in a twenty-mile radius? Joyce couldn’t have gone much farther than that.
He sucked in another deep breath to get his mind back to zero. He had to think. This was Joyce Parrish he was talking about. Sneaky. Mean spirited. But not the brightest. What would a woman like her do with a dog she wanted to make disappear? The city pound was closed weekends, and he’d bet any no-kill shelters were closed too. That left what? Pet shops? The rivers? The freeway? A bridge? He wouldn’t put it past Joyce to stuff the little guy in a bag and drown him. She was the type, but could she be that cruel to her daughter?
Tate knew damned well Joyce was that cruel. He wasn’t so sure she’d do her own dirty work though, not as pristine as her jeans and T-shirt were when she’d waltzed through her front door.
Sligo Creek seemed the closest bet, but he didn’t bank on it. With his cell in his hand, he parked south of Maple on Dameron, scrambled out of the Jeep and took off jogging east, watching and listening for the yap of the fierce little dragon that loved Winslow.
Tate had one person he knew he could always call. He thumb-dialed his buddy’s number as he ran. Ky answered with, “What’s up?”
“I need a peek at every home security or traffic cam within a ten mile radius of 212 Maple Avenue in Silver Spring, and I need it now. Can you do it?”
“I’m right in the middle of something, but, yeah. Eden will understand if I don’t hang this chandelier today. Hang on.”
Tate cocked his head at the sound of a dog barking nearby. False alarm. Pepe’s shrill voice couldn’t compare to the baritone woof of that Rottie straining at the end of his fifty-foot leash. No way.
He listened as Ky thumped his phone and called Eden to ‘hurry quick.’ She was the golden goose in the FBI’s latest, greatest unit. A true psychic. Nothing like Tate. But they were talking about Joyce, the woman who’d claimed she worked as a beautician while she actually chased tips at a sleazy strip joint. Where did her buddy Ike Pitt live? Or her girlfriend, Janice? What were the odds…?
Tate could’ve sworn he heard Pepe whine, only he didn’t. But maybe he did have an affinity for animals, with this particular two-pound dragon anyway. Tate opted for a quick, look-see at Land’s End over dredging Sligo Creek or waiting on Ky and Eden. He hung up on his buddy and stuffed his cell back in his pocket. Ky’d understand, and if he didn’t, he’d call back.
The Jeep got Tate to Land’s End in less than ten minutes, right inside the window of Joyce’s quick errand. He went in armed, his leather jacket concealing his firepower.
Janice looked up in surprise from the table she was serving. “Hey, big guy. You miss me?”
He slowed his momentum, scanning the empty dark dance floor for trouble. “Looking for Joyce. You seen her this morning?”
Janice rolled her eyes toward the back room. “You just missed her, why? Does this have to do with Winnie again?”
“Winslow’s sick.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. “She needs her mom.” And her dog, damn it.
Of all things, some tattooed slime ball with a six-inch purple Mohawk sticking up off his bald head, peeked out of that backroom, and wouldn’t you know. Ike Pitt had a pet carrier in his right hand, one of those cloth carriers that looked like a big purse, ahem, a man bag. Pepe had damned well better be in that bag.
The little guy must’ve sensed Tate. His excited yelp cinched the deal. Tate left Janice cold and headed for Ike, counting the ways to dropkick that POS.
Ike finally looked up and caught sight of him. He stopped dead in his tracks, bug-eyed, his mouth hanging open. Like a chicken-shit bastard, he yelled, “Fire!” and dodged out the door behind him while the few patrons in the bar jumped to their feet and headed for the front door.
Tate palmed his pistol as he pushed off his feet, ready to crack any heads that got in his way. Ike was fast. Tate was faster. Smarter. Ike made the exit in record time, but Tate was in good shape. He easily closed the distance between him and the ass-end of Ike once they were in the alley.
Risking a panicked glance over his shoulder, Ike caught sight of Tate’s weapon. With a shrill, “Don’t shoot!” he tossed the man bag at the open dumpster on his way past, missing it, but hitting the brick wall behind it. Damn him. Tate opted to rescue Winslow’s baby and let Ike run. He’d barely holstered his piece and tugged the strap of that man purse, when...
BOOM! His body trapezed end-over-end to the pavement.
Winslow’s stomach lurched, and down she went to her hands and knees, facing linoleum once more. The kitchen spun and she seriously considered lying flat on her stomach to make the nauseous joyride stop. But wow. This attack came on fast. “Mom,” she called out before the walls caved in. They ducked and bobbed like they could do exactly that.
No answer.
Just great. When I need you the most, you’re pouting.
Her gut twisted in agony. “M-mom,” Winslow tried again, the floor dipping up and down, side to side, making her seasick. Only this wasn’t a boat. This was the end.
Chapter Fourteen
Some asshole just shot me! Where the hell is he?
With his pistol in hand, Tate gritted his teeth and dragged his ass off the pavement, keeping an eye out for the chicken-shit who’d shot him in the back. Or who’d tried. Tate planted his back flat to the wall beside the dumpster, sweat dripping in his eyes and his heart pounding. He slapped a palm over his bloody bicep to slow the flow. Whoever’d just taken that shot hadn’t hung around to make sure he was dead. Their mistake.
Couldn’t have been Ike. He’d been running in the opposite direction, and he hadn’t looked back once he’d dumped the man bag. Could’ve been Janice. If so, she was a pretty fair shooter. She’d hit Tate’s arm high, nearly at his shoulder. Nothing serious, but the bloody flesh wound burned like a bitch.
Adrenaline jackhammered his legs to the pavement while Tate dragged his blowout kit up and out of his pocke
t with his good hand, his weapon still ready in the other. His head pounded with the impact of meeting asphalt after that hit. It hurt worse than his arm.
Blood dripped off his elbow, and his vision went wonky, but he hung tight. Shaky, but tight. He peeled the sterile wrap off a pressure bandage with his teeth, then he tore his shirt sleeve and slapped the bandage to his upper arm before he passed out. This was nothing new, but no Marine faints in the line of duty. They might die, but they didn’t pass out.
Most of the time.
Shaking like a frickin’ wuss, he blinked, his focus fluctuating like someone was playing with the on/off switch in his head. A smart Marine never left home without his trauma kit, a lesson drilled into new recruits during basic training, but damn. Either no one had heard that gunshot or he was in no man’s land. No one was coming to his aid.
He shook his head to clear the buzz, his senses on high alert. Poor Pepe. He hadn’t made a peep since he’d hit that wall. The man purse, now on its side, wasn’t moving. This will kill Winslow.
Tate kept his head low as he crab-walked sideways to where he hoped that little soldier waited. Winslow didn’t need another POS nightmare to deal with. Righting the padded dog carrier, he breathed a gutful of relief. Pepe was shaken, not stirred. Not dead.
But he wasn’t his jovial self either. Shit. He’s hurt.
“Hey guy,” was all Tate had to say to get a tail wag and an urgent whine. He took no chances. Pepe was hurt, but Tate needed to make sure they both lived through the day. With his gun leading the way, Tate pushed to his feet. He tugged the man bag’s strap over his head and hoofed it out of the alley with Pepe snug at his side.
Safe in his rig out front of Land’s End, Tate set his weapon on the console and called Ky while he scooped Pepe onto his lap. The poor little guy jitterbugged like an addict needing a fix until Tate tucked him under his chin and drove one-handed from the bar. Not easy when a guy was dealing with his own dose of rage.
“I’m in trouble,” Tate ground out when Ky picked up. “Need you at 212 Maple Ave. Possible endangered adult, Winslow Parrish. Watch out for her mother.”
“On it,” Ky responded. “You hurt?”
Tate hung up instead of wasting time explaining. He needed to be in two places, but Pepe needed a vet. The next call went to Harley Mortimer, another one of Stewart’s finest and possibly the best K-9 handler on the East Coast.
Harley picked up on the first ring. “Whazzup, Tate?”
He hated to crush that lazy, Saturday morning drawl Harley had going. “I need a good vet in Silver Spring. Quick. You know one?”
The drawl evaporated. “Why? Who’s hurt? What kind of dog?”
“A Chihuahua.” Tate gritted his teeth. Pepe’s whining had turned pathetically sad. If that bastard Ike had seriously injured this little kid...
“I’m just across the river. Meet me in Georgetown in fifteen, at...”
Tate only half heard the address. Winslow’s dog had just gone limp. “I need you here now!” He stuck his phone into the crook of his neck while he pulled over. “I can’t lose this dog!”
“On my way,” and Harley was gone.
Tate shoved his Jeep into park, determined this fierce little dragon wouldn’t die. Pushing his seat back, he stretched Pepe on his lap between his thighs. There was no bleeding. No broken bones. No bumps on his head, and honest to God, Tate hadn’t a clue what else to look for. Hunched over Pepe, he stared at the dog’s chest, watching it lift with each breath. Each shallow breath. Until it stopped.
No! With blurry eyes, Tate lifted that tiny soldier’s face to his mouth and did what any brother would do for another. He blocked Pepe’s nose holes and pressed his mouth to the dog’s mouth. Crap. That didn’t work. Pepe’s mouth was too long.
Tate wiped his lips and tried once more. Circling Pepe’s snout with his thumb and index finger this time, he sealed the dog’s lips and carefully administered mouth to mouth. That went better. With each gentle puff, he checked quickly to see if Pepe’s chest moved.
Nothing. Start over. This was a fragile little animal. If that fall hadn’t hurt his brain, oxygen deprivation would. Anxiety clawed up Tate’s spine. One too-big puff of air could kill Pepe. The clock was ticking.
Another round of ‘breathe and pray’, but this time the air hissed out of Pepe’s lips. The seal wasn’t tight enough. With every failed attempt, Winslow’s sad eyes stared back at Tate from the rearview mirror.
Live, Pepe. Damn it, live!
Tires screeched at the rear of the Jeep, and all at once, Harley was in the passenger seat, stuffing his lanky frame nearly onto Tate’s lap. “Let me take him,” he ordered, one hand under Pepe’s head, his arm bracing the rest of the dog’s floppy body.
His wife, Judy, had a mat rolled out on the sidewalk outside Tate’s ride. Tate joined the Mortimers on his knees, ready to do whatever they needed, pathetic uselessness choking his gut. “I didn’t know you were a vet.” Please be the kind who works miracles.
“VA,” Harley shot back at him as he laid the little guy on his back, his long slender fingers moving expertly over Pepe’s ribcage. The dog’s tongue lolled from between his slack jaws, not a good sign.
“Veterinarian assistant,” Judy interpreted. “He’s back in night school.” Dressed in black business slacks and a crisp white button-down blouse, she looked as if she’d been somewhere important. Tate didn’t ask where. He didn’t care.
Harley seemed to have forgotten he had company. Hunched over Pepe with his nose nearly on the dog’s stomach, he placed Pepe on his side and lifted one furry arm at a ninety-degree angle. Harley cocked his head, listening for what Tate didn’t know. Maybe a heartbeat? A breath?
“Sometimes…” Harley let that word hang as his fingertips began a slow massage high on Pepe’s ribs close to the little guy’s armpit. Harley pressed in rapid compress-release bursts. It took less than a minute of canine life-saving know-how until Pepe’s legs stiffened like short fence posts. He sneezed and snorted and sneezed again and...
“Sometimes, a little guy just needs a big guy’s helping hand, don’t you?” Harley murmured.
Tate wiped his eyes before Harley could see what a mess he was. But this was Pepe, Winslow’s one and only bright light. She needed this little trooper in her life for what was still to come.
When Harley lifted his head and Tate got a good look at the twinkle in those hazel eyes—
Best day ever.
“You saved him,” he said lamely, blinking like crazy.
“No, you saved him,” Harley corrected. “I couldn’t have found you if you hadn’t left your phone on so I could track you.”
I did? Tate couldn’t remember where his phone had gone flying.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Tate placed a hand on Pepe’s hard little head while they both recuperated. “His name’s Pepe. He’s my client’s dog. Winslow Parrish. Her mother, Joyce…” He dragged a shaky hand through his hair and started over. “My client’s Winslow Parrish. I was supposed to escort her to her first prom last night. You know the deal. It was a Dreams-Come-True prom thing, only she’s got a seriously whacked-out mother, Joyce. The prom was a farce. Winslow took off last night, then her mother dumped her dog this morning, and I... I left Winslow to find him. I promised I’d bring him back alive.”
“That whacked-out mom wouldn’t be why you’re sporting a bloody shirt?” Judy spiked a brow at his bicep.
Oh, that. There was no sense going all John Cena with Judy. She was a top-notch ER nurse who’d seen enough alpha males in her career to know better than to accept the standard, ‘I’m good,’ for an answer.
“Step into my office,” she said as she pushed up from the sidewalk and nodded toward the fire-engine-red Jeep on Tate’s rear bumper. “I keep a first aid kit in the back seat. Let me take a look at that.”
“No,” Tate answered. “Ky’s on his way to Winslow’s house and I need to meet him.” And I’m as good as I’ll ever be.
<
br /> Judy winked. “If you say so.”
Harley wrapped the shivering dog inside a plush towel Tate hadn’t noticed until then. “I’ll take this little critter home with me for observation. Pepe, you said?”
Tate curled his fingers under the dog’s chin to steady the shivering little dragon. He didn’t look so fierce at the moment, more like he’d had his ass whipped. “Yeah. Pepe. How you doing, tough guy?”
Pepe closed his eyes and the shivering ceased. His tongue darted out, nailing Tate’s thumb with a quick puppy-kiss before he wriggled to get out of Harley’s grip.
“No, you stay right where you are. Harley’s the man.” If that didn’t make Tate look as whipped as Pepe, nothing did. He chanced a furtive glance at the man known as the East Coast Dog Whisperer. “He’s all Winslow’s got, Harley. Anything happens to Pepe, it’ll break her heart. Take good care of him.”
“Don’t worry,” Harley assured. “Me and Judy will keep him at our place until you’re off duty. Go get your girl.”
Tate gave Pepe one last pat on that hard little head, but he had to set the record straight. “She’s not my girl.”
Judy locked her arm through Harley’s with another one of her sly winks. “If you say so.”
The world was on fire, but Winslow couldn’t scream. The line sticking in her throat strangled her with every lurching, frantic breath and swallow. Helpless to yank it out or breathe around it, she struggled to reach it, but no matter how hard she tried, her arms and legs wouldn’t move. She’d been restrained, and she couldn’t catch a decent breath. Useless tears drenched the sides of her face until finally, someone—thank God!—leaned over the top of her with an anxious, “Damn it. You’re awake.”
No shit.
Hurriedly, that kind woman eased the tube up and out of Winslow’s spastic lungs and raw esophagus. Between choking and gagging, she was free, but the nightmare of what she’d just endured still suffocated. Her wrists were freed next, allowing her to curl in misery onto her side, gasping for air and trying to understand where she was and what had happened. Her throat burned at the violation of what she now knew was a ventilator, a machine that breathed for her—when she was unconscious.
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