Majoqui held his breath. Something was coming. Something quiet was hunting him, and although he hadn’t felt fear since the day he became a man, he felt it now. Because something about what was hunting him was familiar. It was familiar and it was close.
9
Pilgrim is the best tracking dog I’ve ever trained. Most of the dogs I schooled in the Marines were bomb dogs, used primarily to sniff out IEDs, but there were a few that I’d trained for tracking and good old police work. We call it apprehension training; meaning that the dogs could track suspects and then take hold of them at the end of the track — take hold with their teeth that is. Pilgrim is a dual-purpose dog, trained in two separate philosophies of K9 work. Apprehension and narcotics. Pilgrim can sniff out drugs like nobodies business — that’s one philosophy. Right now I was using him for the other one — tracking.
It didn’t take long for backup to arrive at the banker’s house. About a thousand Denver police cars poured into the scene. My Lieutenant, Mike Braden, showed up just a couple of minutes later. Once the kids were taken care, of I leashed up Pilgrim and took two Denver SWAT cops with me for cover and started a track from the back door of the house where I’d last seen the suspect.
Pilgrim waited as patiently as he could as the Alpha slipped his harness over his head and clipped the metal clasp of the leash to the tracking loop. It wasn’t easy. Pilgrim lived for the track. His body quivered with suppressed anticipation as he barley managed to hold himself in check, awaiting the Alpha’s command.
Prey.
The hunt.
He knew the spore. He’d smelled it as the Alpha approached the house. Pilgrim tried to warn him, but as powerful as the Alpha could be, he sometimes seemed to have trouble discerning the simplest of things. Pilgrim growled, just as he had when he’d warned the Alpha about the man preparing to attack earlier. The Alpha hadn’t been far away, just a hundred yards or so, but the Alpha hadn’t heard him. And he’d gone right up to the door and the fight was on, with Pilgrim locked in the car and not able to help.
That was about to change.
Now it was Pilgrim’s turn.
The SWAT guy on my left carried one of the new Commando rifles with the stubby barrel and .223 ammo that could shoot through a brick wall and still take out the bad guy. The cop on my right sported a custom Browning 12-gage shotgun. As for me — my Smith and Wesson .45 caliber 4506 was in its holster. My job is to watch the dog while my cover officers watch everything else. Me and Pilgrim are considered the less-than-lethal part of the trio. Only I don’t think Pilgrim quite understands that aspect of his role. Theoretically our job is to take the suspect out without killing him, if possible — if not — well that’s what SWAT’s for.
We went straight to the fence, a six footer. Pilgrim climbed it like it wasn’t even there. I followed him. It was a little harder for the SWAT guys, what with all their gear and everything; they wore Kevlar helmets, Kevlar gloves, Kevlar goggles, and extra-thick Kevlar vests that could withstand anything less than a tactical nuke, but like most SWAT guys, they were supermen and made up the time quickly.
Pilgrim went halfway through the yard — stopped — jerked his head to the left — trotted over to an upscale doghouse, that probably cost more than my actual house, and sniffed. He sniffed long and hard, then turned and went up the stairs to an elaborate deck that must have commanded a magnificent view of the mountains.
I had one SWAT guy look in the doghouse while the other came upstairs with me. If the guy had actually been in the doghouse, I’m sure Pilgrim would have eaten him up — still, even dogs make mistakes, so it’s always best to double check. Trust but verify is the K9 motto.
Pilgrim gave the deck a quick once over — nose to the wood — then scampered back down the steps and to the far end of the yard.
The message was clear; the suspect had considered hiding in the doghouse — decided against it — tried the deck — ditched that idea too, and made his way to the opposite side of the yard.
The gate was standing open. In K9 we consider that a clue.
Pilgrim checked the track — quartered back and forth — went through the gate and to the west. Pilgrim doesn’t track fast, but he’s incredibly accurate. Tracking is tough work. The dog is sniffing a combination of ground disturbance and human scent; constantly filtering out conflicting odors like food, trash, animal spoor and all the non-disturbed ground.
We curved to the north — went through another gate — through a backyard with a gurgling water feature and over another six foot fence. We passed through a narrow greenbelt with an asphalt bike-path running the center, and then over another fence that showed fresh damage where one of the boards had splintered, and into a backyard roughly the size of Inverness Golf Course. The grass rolled in gentle hills up to a covered patio with twin barbecues and a retractable awning. I could see a couple of footprints in the dew-kissed grass just ahead of Pilgrim. He was right on target and we were getting close.
We rounded the corner, passed through the open gate to the front yard and made it almost to the sidewalk when three black males, all wearing hoodies, jumped out a first floor window from the residence across the street. One of them tripped, did a somersault in the grass and came to his feet looking right at us. The other two stumbled into him, coming up short.
“Let me see your hands!” Yelled the SWAT guy holding the shotgun.
Now I’m no genius, but when a fully kitted SWAT guy, pointing a shotgun at me, tells me to show him my hands… I’d show him my hands.
The burglar that did the somersault immediately stuck his hand down the front of his pants.
Go figure.
The shotgun and the Commando sounded in unison and the guy with his hands in his pants just sort of flew back into his friends, knocking them both down. My SWAT guys advanced, flashlights beaming from the front of their smoking barrels.
Neither of the other men wanted any part of that and both were quick to show their empty hands and prone out on the lawn.
Pilgrim watched, whining, every muscle taught with anticipatory longing to join the battle. I tightened up on the lead and stroked his head as the SWAT officer with the Commando cuffed all three of them. I called dispatch over the radio and told them shots had been fired, that we had three detained, and that we needed rescue for gunshot wounds to a suspect.
Commando reached into the shot suspect’s pants and pulled out a black .25 caliber Italian job. He finished the pat-down on him, then did the same for the other two, coming up with a switchblade and a .38 special with the serial number filed down. There were also three pillow cases that I hadn’t even noticed, filled with jewelry, coins, cash, cell phones and a laptop.
Burglars alright.
But not the guy we were looking for.
When Commando was done with the frisks, he moved back to the injured suspect and turned him over. The bluish-white cast of his LED flashlight showed a horrible mess where his chest should have been. He’d been hit by a slug of lead roughly the length and width of a grown man’s thumb and it had made havoc of his muscle and bones.
The beam of light moved up and I saw a much smaller hole in the center of his forehead. I looked back at Commando and he nodded; a perfectly placed shot. Commando pulled off a glove and placed two fingers on the man’s throat, but he was just going through the motions; heart and brain both obliterated before he could pull the gun from his pants.
That’s why I like to take SWAT with me when I’m on a track.
Shotgun was standing to my right and he said, “We’ve been looking for these guys for a while. They’ve been hitting houses all over Denver; raped a seventeen-year-old girl after they tied up her parents. Bad boys.”
Well, there was one less now. That was something. But our murderer of old ladies, nurses, bankers and cops was still out there and we were stuck, waiting for backup and rescue.
Pilgrim stared at the two men, smelling the dead man’s blood and wanting to add theirs to it. But more than that, he wanted
the Alpha to continue the track. They were close… so close. The night’s air brought his prey’s fear scent to him.
Strong.
Close.
He could taste it. The man that had tried to hurt the Alpha.
Twice, Pilgrim tried to pull the Alpha toward their target and twice, the Alpha ordered him to stay.
Pilgrim complied… but his loving, animal brain didn’t like it. Pilgrim wanted… no… he needed… to protect the Alpha.
So yes… he complied… against all his instincts… he obeyed the Alpha.
No… Pilgrim didn’t like it at all.
10
Majoqui heard the yelling and the gunshots. They were very close — maybe fifty yards over on the other side of the block. He was trying to decide if he should stay put or move when he saw the small, yellow, round car come down the street toward him. The headlights were off, just like he’d told her. He jumped from the bushes and ran to the car, waving his arms for her to stop. She must have seen him, because the car lurched sharply and then died.
Sirens sounded from every direction, all getting closer. Majoqui opened the passenger’s door and squeezed his way into the cramped seat.
“What’s going on?” asked the girl.
He shook his head and held up a finger. “No time, señorita. Drive — out of here — quickly.” He wasn’t sure what her reaction would be and he was ready to break her neck or suffocate her if necessary. But she just smiled, her eyes big and excited. She raised her eyebrows and said “Okay”. She pumped the gas peddle five times and started the car.
They passed two police cars and a fire engine on their way out of the neighborhood. Majoqui slouched down in the seat, hiding his face with his arms and hands. He didn’t sit up until they were far away and could no longer hear the sirens.
Once they were in her apartment, she led him to her bedroom and sat him on the edge of the bed. She took out a first aid kit, knelt beside him and cleaned his cheek and eye. The stitches had torn and there was some blood, but she dabbed the small tears with anti-biotic cream and covered them with a big square of white gauze that she secured with medical tape. She went to a dresser and brought him a joint.
“For the pain,” she said. She lit the small marijuana cigarette for him and waited until he was done.
She asked him if he was hurt anywhere else and he stripped off his pants to show her where the stitches in his leg had ripped. She treated them just as she had his eye, showing no reaction to his nakedness.
“Who is the doctor now?” he asked. But his lips smiled.
She smiled back at him and smoothed down the last of the tape.
“You must have questions,” he said.
“Only if you want to tell me.”
“Why are you helping me?”
She closed the kit and looked up at him. “Because you need it — and because I can.”
Majoqui leaned over and kissed her. She kissed him back.
Later, when they were done, he lit a joint while playing with her hair with his free hand. Her bed was small, but with half her body draped over him it was big enough.
Majoqui took in the room. It was neat, with a small end table and a dresser. Multi-colored bears danced along the walls bordering the ceiling. There was a poster of some grungy looking rock star that Majoqui didn’t recognize. A large water bong rested in a corner and candles decorated the top of the dresser. A beat up radio with an expandable antenna sat on the end table, quietly spitting out some tune that sounded like a mixture of Joplin and static. The apartment was sparse, with only a few items of furniture, but they were in good repair and tasteful.
The girl herself was like the room, a strange mixture of eras, blending today with the sixties. She was pretty, not beautiful, but attractive… comfortable… in the same way the room was comfortable and pleasing to the eye. Her body was soft and light; small breasted, with rounded hips and smooth thighs.
She stroked his hairless chest, teasing the edges of the white bandage with her fingernails. They were tapered, but not long, and painted green.
“Will you stay?” she asked.
“Yes, for now.”
She rubbed her cheek against his ribs. “Good. I like you.”
“Are there any others?”
She looked up at him. “You mean men?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “No. Not anymore. My last boyfriend, Dashon, was a jerk. He wanted me to quit my job at the diner and turn tricks for him. He used to smack me around when he was high. I hate mean drunks.”
“If I stay, there can be no others. You understand?” He looked down at her so she could read his eyes.
“Sure,” she said, reaching up and brushing his cheek with her fingertips. “Sure, I understand. There won’t be any others. I promise.”
Majoqui nodded, kissed her gently. “My name is Majoqui.”
She scrunched her eyes and smiled. “Ma-hoe-kee?”
He smiled back and touched the tip of her nose playfully. “Yes.”
“It’s beautiful.” She kissed him, soft and deep.
“You will be safe with me,” Majoqui said.
Her lips again found his as she breathed the words, “I believe you.”
11
By the time I got home, it was after ten in the morning. I was dead tired. My wife Jolene sat at the kitchen table watching my three-year-old daughter, Marla, eat pancakes and eggs.
Pilgrim padded into the room ahead of me and nuzzled first Jolene then Marla. Marla giggled and slipped him a forkful of eggs. Pilgrim nibbled off the fork without touching the tines.
Jolene shook her head. “Pilgrim.”
He looked at her, his ears flattening in guilt, and wagged his tail. He scampered out through the doggy door into the backyard. Big tough police dog.
Jolene looked back at me, smiling. “Tough night?”
“Brutal,” I said, bending over to kiss her. Her lips were fresh and soft and helped to wake me up.
“Sit down,” she said, “before you fall down. I’ll get you some coffee.”
I kissed my daughter on the lips, tasting maple syrup and butter, and collapsed into the chair next to her while Jolene got my favorite mug and filled it from the pot. I take my coffee the way I did in the Marines; black, bitter and hot, no preservatives.
Jolene pointed toward my hip, her eyebrows creasing, looking worried. “Where’s your gun?”
I was carrying a spare the department armorer had issued me, but it was a Beretta. Nothing gets past my wife.
I stretched my neck and took a sip of the coffee. “The department’s doing some…tests on it.”
“Tests? Ballistics? Were you in a shooting again?” She sat down and took my hands in hers. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, dear.” I told her about my night, careful not to give too many details with Marla sitting beside us. When I was done, she got up and hugged me tight, kissing my head and crying softly. I hugged her back and told her everything was okay. Marla asked why mommy was crying and Jolene told her that mommy was just being silly and that everything was alright. She cleared her throat, wiped her eyes and told me to stay with Marla while she started a bath for me. I tried to tell her it was okay and that I just needed some sleep, but she ignored me and went upstairs and started the tub going. When she came back, she took Marla to our bedroom and set her up with a coloring book and crayons. Pilgrim napped in the corner. She left the bathroom door open a crack so she could keep an eye on her while she helped me out of my uniform and into the tub.
Not that she really needed to. Pilgrim loved Marla more than he loved steak. And he loved steak a lot. King Kong couldn’t get within a football field of Marla with Pilgrim guarding her.
The water was nearly blistering, just like my coffee, and felt like heaven. Jolene took a washcloth and dribbled water over my hair and face, then dipped it back into the water and repeated the process over and over until I was so relaxed, I slipped into a gentle doze, half awake, half asleep; very
peaceful. When the water started to cool, she toweled me dry, led me by the hand to our bed and tucked me under the covers as if I were a little boy. She kissed me on the forehead and told me to call if I needed anything. Then she took Marla and left the room, closing the door behind her.
I looked at the clock, 11:45.
I tried to sleep.
When I closed my eyes, I saw the bank president’s wife’s face.
I pulled a pillow over my eyes.
I heard the little girl cry out as I sat her on the landing. It jerked me awake. I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.
I closed my eyes again. I saw the kitchen table, smelled the blood. The children started screaming behind the duct tape covering their mouths as I left to chase their attacker.
I sat up in bed, breathing hard. I looked at the clock, 11:51.
I lay back down, staring at the ceiling. I should have killed him. If I’d killed him, those children would still have parents. The nurse and the Denver cops and Billy Mack would all still be alive. I saw him coming at me, felt the machete slice past my face, heard the metallic thunk of bullets punching through metal around me, felt the heavy recoil of my Smith and Wesson as it bucked in my hands. I saw the calm determination in his eyes through the muzzle flash — determination to kill me. I saw Pilgrim attack, only this time, the man snapped Pilgrim’s neck with ease and kept coming at me, my bullets hitting him square on, but bouncing off his chest like he was Superman. And he kept coming — closer and closer as I pumped round after round into him — closer until he was on me — reaching — reaching — reaching for my eyes and my tongue and my ears — and the children cried, only this time it wasn’t the bank president’s children — it was Marla — my Marla — crying for her daddy.
Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set Page 49