Heal him.
Soothe him.
Take care of Pete.
“Mortar!”
“We’re gettin’ mortared!”
Another puff of dirt kicked up from the road beside them, and Pete slowly unclipped Maggie’s lead from his harness.
“Go, Maggie. They’re shootin’ at us. Go.”
His alpha voice was weak, and the weakness scared her. Alpha was strong. Alpha was pack. Pack was everything.
More thunder shook the earth, then more, and suddenly something awful punched her hip and spun her into the air. Maggie screamed as she landed, and snapped and snarled at the pain.
“Sniper shot the dog!”
“Take that fucker out, goddamnit!”
“Ruiz, Johnson, with me!”
Maggie paid no attention as the Marines ran toward the buildings. She snapped at the terrible pain in her hip, then dragged herself back to her pack.
Pete tried to push her away, but his push was weak.
“Go, baby. I can’t get up. Get away—”
Pete reached under his flak and took out the green ball.
“Get it, baby girl. Go—”
Pete tried to throw the green ball, but it only rolled a few feet. Pete vomited blood, and shuddered, and everything about him changed in those seconds. His scent, his taste. She heard his heart grow still and the blood slow in his veins. She sensed his spirit leave his body, and felt a mournful loss unlike anything she had ever known.
“PETE! Pete, we’re coming, man!”
“Air support comin’ in. Hang on!”
Maggie licked him, trying to make Pete laugh. He always laughed when she licked his face.
Another high-pitched snap ripped past her, and another geyser of dust spouted into the air. Then something heavy slammed into Pete’s flak so hard Maggie felt punched in the chest, and smelled the bullet’s acrid smoke and hot metal. She snapped at the hole in Pete’s flak.
“They’re shooting at the dog!”
More mortar rounds whumped just off the road, again raining dirt and hot steel.
Maggie snarled and barked, and dragged herself on top of her alpha. Pete was alpha. Pete was pack. Her job was to protect her pack.
She snapped at the raining debris, and barked at the metal birds now circling the distant buildings like terrible wasps. There were more explosions, then a sudden silence filled the desert, and the clatter of running Marines approached.
“Pete!”
“We’re comin’, man—”
Maggie bared her fangs and growled.
Protect the pack. Protect her alpha.
The fur on her back stood in rage, and her ears cocked forward to scoop in their sounds. Her fangs were fearsome and gleaming as bulky green shapes towered around her.
Protect him, protect the pack, protect her Pete.
“Jesus, Maggie, it’s us! Maggie!”
“Is he dead?”
“He’s fucked up, man—”
“She’s fucked up, too—”
Maggie snapped and ripped at them, and the shapes jumped back.
“She’s crazy—”
“Don’t hurt her. Shit, she’s bleeding—”
Protect the pack. Protect and defend.
Maggie snapped and slashed. She growled and barked, and hopped in circles to face them.
“Doc! Doc, Jesus, Pete’s down—”
“Black Hawk’s inbound!”
“His dog won’t let us—”
“Use your rifle! Don’t hurt her! Push her off—”
“She’s shot, dude!”
Something reached toward her, and Maggie bit hard. She locked onto it with jaws that brought over seven hundred pounds per square inch of bite pressure to bear. She held tight, growling, but then another long thing reached forward, and another.
Maggie released her grip, lunged at the nearest men, caught meat and tore, then took her place over Pete again.
“She thinks we’re gonna hurt him—”
“Push her off! C’mon—”
“Don’t hurt her, goddamnit!”
They pushed her again, and someone threw a jacket over her head. She tried to twist away, but now they bore her down with their weight.
Protect Pete. Pete was pack. Her life was the pack.
“Dude, she’s hurt. Be careful—”
“I got her—”
“Fuckin’ scum shot her—”
Maggie twisted and lurched. She was furious with rage and fear, and tried to bite through the jacket, but felt herself lifted. She felt no pain, and did not know she was bleeding. She only knew she needed to be with Pete. She had to protect him. She was lost without him. Her job was to protect him.
“Put her on the Black Hawk.”
“I got her—”
“Put her on there with Pete.”
“What’s with the dog?”
“This is her handler. You gotta get her to the hospital—”
“He’s dead—”
“She was trying to protect him—”
“Stop talkin’ and fly, motherfucker. You get her to a doctor. This dog’s a Marine.”
Maggie felt a deep vibration through her body as the thick exhaust of the aviation fuel seeped through the jacket that covered her head. She was scared, but Pete’s smell was close. She knew he was only a few feet away, but she also knew he was far away, and growing farther.
She tried to crawl closer to him, but her legs didn’t work, and men held her down, and after a while her fierce growls turned to whines.
Pete was hers.
They were pack.
They were a pack of two, but now Pete was gone, and Maggie had no one.
PART I
SCOTT AND STEPHANIE
1.
0247 HOURS
Downtown Los Angeles
They were on that particular street at that specific T-intersection at that crazy hour because Scott James was hungry. Stephanie shut off their patrol car to please him. They could have been anywhere else, but he led her there, that night, to that silent intersection. It was so quiet that night, they spoke of it.
Unnaturally quiet.
* * *
They stopped three blocks from the Harbor Freeway between rows of crappy four-story buildings everyone said would be torn down to build a new stadium if the Dodgers left Chavez Ravine. The buildings and streets in that part of town were deserted. No homeless people. No traffic. No reason for anyone to be there that night, even an LAPD radio car.
Stephanie frowned.
“You sure you know where you’re going?”
“I know where I’m going. Just hang on.”
Scott was trying to find an all-night noodle house a Rampart Robbery detective had raved about, one of those pop-up places that takes over an empty storefront for a couple of months, hypes itself on Twitter, then disappears; a place the robbery dick claimed had the most amazing ramen in Los Angeles, Latin-Japanese fusion, flavors you couldn’t get anywhere else, cilantro-tripe, abalone-chili, a jalapeño-duck to die for.
Scott was trying to figure out how he had screwed up the directions when he suddenly heard it.
“Listen.”
“What?”
“Shh, listen. Turn off the engine.”
“You have no idea where this place is, do you?”
“You have to hear this. Listen.”
Uniformed LAPD officer Stephanie Anders, a P-III with eleven years on the job, shifted into Park, turned off their Adam car, and stared at him. She had a fine, tanned face with lines at the corners of her eyes, and short, sandy hair.
Scott James, a thirty-two-year-old P-II with seven years on the job, grinned as he touched his ear, telling h
er to listen. Stephanie seemed lost for a moment, then blossomed with a wide smile.
“It’s quiet.”
“Crazy, huh? No radio calls. No chatter. I can’t even hear the freeway.”
It was a beautiful spring night: temp in the mid-sixties, clear; the kind of windows-down, short-sleeve weather Scott enjoyed. Their call log that night showed less than a third their usual number of calls, which made for an easy shift, but left Scott bored. Hence, their search for the unfindable noodle house, which Scott had begun to believe might not exist.
Stephanie reached to start the car, but Scott stopped her.
“Let’s sit for a minute. How many times you hear silence like this?”
“Never. This is so cool, it’s creeping me out.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Stephanie laughed, and Scott loved how the streetlights gleamed in her eyes. He wanted to touch her hand, but didn’t. They had been partners for ten months, but now Scott was leaving, and there were things he wanted to say.
“You’ve been a good partner.”
“Are you going to get all gooey on me?”
“Yeah. Kinda.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss you more.”
Their little joke. Everything a competition, even to who would miss the other the most. Again he wanted to touch her hand, but then she reached out and took his hand in hers, and gave him a squeeze.
“No, you’re not. You’re going to kick ass, take names, and have a blast. It’s what you want, man, and I couldn’t be happier. You’re a stud.”
Scott laughed. He had played football for two years at the University of Redlands before blowing his knee, and joined LAPD a couple of years later. He took night classes for the next four years to finish his degree. Scott James had goals. He was young, determined, and competitive, and wanted to run with the big dogs. He had been accepted into LAPD’s Metro Division, the elite uniformed division that backed up area-based officers throughout the city. Metro was a highly trained reserve force that rolled out on crime suppression details, barricade situations, and high-conflict security operations. They were the best, and also a necessary assignment for officers who hoped to join LAPD’s most elite uniformed assignment—SWAT. The best of the best. Scott’s transfer to Metro would come at the end of the week.
Stephanie was still holding his hand, and Scott was wondering what she meant by it, when an enormous Bentley sedan appeared at the end of the street, as out of place in this neighborhood as a flying carpet, windows up, smoked glass, not a speck of dust on its gleaming skin.
Stephanie said, “Check out the Batmobile.”
The Bentley oozed past their nose, barely making twenty miles per hour. Its glass was so dark the driver was invisible.
“Want to light him up?”
“For what, being rich? He’s probably lost like us.”
“We can’t be lost. We’re the police.”
“Maybe he’s looking for the same stupid ramen place.”
“You win. Let’s forget the ramen and grab some eggs.”
Stephanie reached to start their car as the slow-motion Bentley approached the next T-intersection thirty yards past them. At the moment it reached the intersecting street, a deep, throaty growl shattered the perfect silence, and a black Kenworth truck exploded from the cross street. It T-boned the Bentley so hard the six-thousand-pound sedan rolled completely over and came to rest right side up on the opposite side of the street. The Kenworth skidded sideways and stopped, blocking the street.
Stephanie said, “Holy crap!”
Scott slapped on their flashers, and pushed out of their car. The flashers painted the street and surrounding buildings with blue kaleidoscope pulses.
Stephanie keyed her shoulder mike as she got out, searching for a street sign.
“Where are we? What street is this?”
Scott spotted the sign.
“Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor.”
“Two-Adam-twenty-four, we have an injury accident at Harmony, three blocks south of the Harbor Freeway and four north of Wilshire. Request paramedics and fire. Officers assisting.”
Scott was three paces ahead, and closer to the Bentley.
“I got the Batmobile. You get the truck.”
Stephanie broke into a trot, and the two veered apart. No one and nothing else moved on the street except steam hissing from beneath the Bentley’s hood.
They were halfway to the accident when bright yellow bursts flashed within the truck and a hammering chatter echoed between the buildings.
Scott thought something was exploding within the truck’s cab, then bullets ripped into their patrol car and the Bentley with the thunder of steel rain. Scott instinctively jumped sideways as Stephanie went down. She screamed once, and wrapped her arms across her chest.
“I’m shot. Oh, crap—”
Scott dropped to the ground and covered his head. Bullets sparked off the concrete around him, and gouged ruts in the street.
Move. Do something.
Scott rolled sideways, drew his pistol, and fired at the flashes as fast as he could. He pushed to his feet, and zigzagged toward his partner as an old, dark gray Gran Torino screamed down the street. It screeched to a stop beside the Bentley, but Scott barely saw it. He fired blindly at the truck as he ran, and zigged hard toward his partner.
Stephanie was clutching herself as if doing stomach crunches. Scott grabbed her arm. He realized the men in the truck had stopped firing, and thought they might make it even as Stephanie screamed.
Two men wearing black masks and bulky jackets boiled out of the sedan with pistols and lit up the Bentley, shattering the glass and punching holes in its body. The driver stayed at the wheel. As they fired, two more masked men climbed from the truck with AK-47 rifles.
Scott dragged Stephanie toward their black-and-white, slipped in her blood, then started backwards again.
The first man out of the truck was tall and thin, and immediately opened fire into the Bentley’s windshield. The second man was thick, with a large gut that bulged over his belt. He swung his rifle toward Scott, and the AK-47 bloomed with yellow flowers.
Something punched Scott hard in the thigh, and he lost his grip on Stephanie and his pistol. He sat down hard, and saw blood welling from his leg. Scott picked up his pistol, fired two more shots, and his pistol locked open. Empty. He pushed to his knees, and took Stephanie’s arm again.
“I’m dying.”
Scott said, “No, you’re not. I swear to God you’re not.”
A second bullet slammed into the top of his shoulder, knocking him down. Scott lost Stephanie and his pistol again, and his left arm went numb.
The big man must have thought Scott was done. He turned to his friends, and when he turned, Scott crabbed toward their patrol car, dragging his useless leg and pushing with his good. The car was their only cover. If he made it to the car, he could use it as a weapon or a shield to reach Stephanie.
Scott keyed his shoulder mike as he scuttled backwards, and whispered as loudly as he dared.
“Officer down! Shots fired, shots fired! Two-Adam-twenty-four, we’re dying out here!”
The men from the gray sedan threw open the Bentley’s doors and fired inside. Scott glimpsed passengers, but saw only shadows. Then the firing stopped, and Stephanie called out behind him. Her voice bubbled with blood, and cut him like knives.
“Don’t leave me! Scotty, don’t leave!”
Scott pushed harder, desperate to reach the car. Shotgun in the car. Keys in the ignition.
“DON’T LEAVE ME!”
“I’m not, baby. I’m not.”
“COME BACK!”
Scott was five yards from their patrol car when the big m
an heard Stephanie. He turned, saw Scott, then lifted his rifle and fired.
Scott James felt the third impact as the bullet punched through his vest on the lower right side of his chest. The pain was intense, and quickly grew worse as his abdominal cavity filled with pooling blood.
Scott slowed to a stop. He tried to crawl farther, but his strength was gone. He leaned back on an elbow, and waited for the big man to shoot him again, but the big man turned toward the Bentley.
Sirens were coming.
Black figures were inside the Bentley, but Scott couldn’t see what they were doing. The driver of the gray sedan twisted to see the shooters, and pulled up his mask as he turned. Scott saw a flash of white on the man’s cheek, and then the men in and around the Bentley ran into the Torino.
The big man was the last. He hesitated by the sedan’s open door, once more looked at Scott, and raised his rifle.
Scott screamed.
“NO!”
Scott tried to jump out of the way as the sirens faded into a soothing voice.
“Wake up, Scott.”
“NO!”
“Three, two, one—”
Nine months and sixteen days after he was shot that night, nine months and sixteen days after he saw his partner murdered, Scott James screamed when he woke.
2.
Scott threw himself out of the line of fire so violently when he woke, he was always surprised he had not jumped off his shrink’s couch. He knew from experience he only made a small lurch. He woke from the enhanced regression the same way each time, jumping from the dream state of his memory as the big man raised the AK-47. Scott took careful, deep breaths, and tried to slow his thundering heart.
Goodman’s voice came from across the dim room. Charles Goodman, M.D. Psychiatrist. Goodman did contract work with the Los Angeles Police Department, but was not an LAPD employee.
“Deep breaths, Scott. You feel okay?”
“I’m okay.”
His heart pounded, his hands trembled, and cold sweat covered his chest, but as with the violent lunge that Goodman saw as only a tiny lurch, Scott was good at downplaying his feelings.