Chapter 4
Ben
The Summit Falls Police Department sat at the east end of Main Street, a two-story brick building that looked like it had been renovated once in the nineties and left alone since. The American flag out front hung limp in the Saturday afternoon stillness. Half the parking spots were empty.
Donovan walked beside me, hands in his jacket pockets, taking in the lot without making a production of it.
Sergeant Eric Vance met us inside the lobby for our meeting with Chief Rawlings. Vance was already smiling when we came through the door, coffee in hand, badge clipped to his belt over civilian clothes. Of all the fellows we’d met, he’d been the most consistently likable.
“Hey, guys.” He shook both our hands, firm grip, easy posture. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday. Rawlings wanted to touch base on the training before things get busy next week.”
“No problem,” I said. “We’re flexible.”
Vance gestured for us to follow, leading us past the front desk and down the main corridor toward the chief’s office. A couple of officers glanced up as we passed—not unfriendly, just mildly curious. The outsiders were here on a Saturday, but Vance being with us made it okay.
“How’s Jolly handling the altitude?” Vance asked as we walked. “I’ve heard some dogs take a while to adjust up here.”
“He’s fine. We spend a lot of time in Denver, so he’s used to it. Didn’t seem to slow him down at all.”
If only altitude were the problem. Something had shifted in Jolly since we’d moved in.
He usually sulked when I had to leave him behind for a few hours—pacing by the door, reproachful eyes, the whole guilt trip.
But not since we’d been here. Now, he seemed content to stay at the house.
More than content. Almost eager for me to go.
What was that—age? Burnout? I didn’t know.
I’d rented this particular house because it had a nice big yard and a doggie door so Jolly could get in and out when I wasn’t around.
But after that broken fence slat this morning, maybe I’d made a mistake.
If Jolly was having some sort of neurological issue and was trying to run away… I didn’t even want to think about it.
And I especially didn’t want to think of Kayla Cafferty pulling that milk crate all the way out of her house this morning so she could see me eye to eye over that fence. How she’d stood her ground when I’d suggested her kid had broken the slat. Not aggressive, just certain. Protective.
Given that my own mother had bailed when I was three, it seemed impressive as hell.
Vance’s words brought me back into conversation. “Glad to hear it. Wish I could say the same for some of my guys.” He gave a small laugh.
Vance seemed like a good guy. He wasn’t interested in becoming a K9 handler, which was a shame, because I thought Donovan and I both would recommend him without hesitation just based on being around him for the past week.
Speaking of people we probably wouldn’t recommend… We passed the break room, and Seth Briggson was inside, filling a coffee mug. He looked up when we passed. His eyes stayed on us a beat longer than necessary—just short of a glare—before he went back to his desk.
Vance waited until we’d rounded the corner before he said quietly, “I’m convinced that guy drinks too much caffeine.”
“At least he’s awake,” Donovan said.
We kept walking. The hallway was quiet, weekend-empty, our footsteps too loud on the linoleum. A bulletin board to my left held flyers for a community fun run, a blood drive, a missing cat. Normal small-town stuff.
Chief Rawlings’s office was at the end of the hall, door already open.
The chief stood when we entered—tall, gray at the temples, handshake like a vise despite the reading glasses perched on his nose.
His office was lived-in. Framed commendations on the wall behind the desk, a bookshelf stuffed with binders and procedural manuals, a coffee mug that read WORLD’S OKAYEST BOSS in chipped lettering.
Twenty years in this chair. It showed in the wear patterns on the armrests.
“Grab a seat.” He waved us toward the chairs across from his desk. Vance took the one near the window. Donovan and I settled into the other two.
Rawlings dropped back into his chair and laced his fingers on the desk. “So. You guys have been here a week for training. How’s everything going?”
The question was directed at me, and Vance leaned forward slightly, clearly invested in the answer.
“Improving,” I said. “Your entry team’s stacking tighter yesterday than they were Monday.
Hallway transitions are cleaner. Communication’s still the weak point—they’re talking over one another during room clears, and a couple of them are telegraphing their movements.
But that’s normal for a unit figuring out K9 integration. ”
“None of them have worked with a dog before,” Vance said. “Most of them are still figuring out where to stand so they don’t get in Jolly’s way.”
“Which is exactly what the training’s for.” I kept my tone neutral, professional. “Next week, we’ll start putting Jolly out front and making the team follow his lead.”
“Any early reads on handler candidates?” Rawlings asked. “I know it’s only been a week, but I’d like to start narrowing the pool.”
Part of our job—the public-facing part—was evaluating which officers had the right temperament and instincts to work with a K9 partner. The department had funding for the program, but no one trained to run it yet. That decision would come from Rawlings, based in part on our recommendation.
Donovan and I exchanged a glance. He gave me a slight nod—your call.
“A few possibilities,” I said. “Briggson’s interested. Reads canine behavior well. The foundational skills are there.”
“But?” Rawlings asked.
Donovan shrugged. “Dude’s got a temper. That doesn’t always pair well with canine training.”
“That’s just Seth.” Rawlings rubbed his jaw. “Known him eight years. Good cop, bad attitude.”
“There are a couple others showing promise too,” Donovan said. “Reeves, maybe? He’s green but has the temperament to be a handler. It’s hard to tell.”
Rawlings nodded, making a note on a legal pad.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What we really need in order to be able to give you better feedback on potential K9 handlers is to see them in live action, not just training. Training, even making it as real as you can in a simulator, is never the same thing as an actual op.”
There it was. The real reason for this meeting. The chief met my eyes unflinchingly, then glanced at Donovan before settling on Vance.
Now we waited to see if a week’s worth of training had set us up well enough for our true mission.
“Eric, what do you think?” Rawlings asked. “Will the guys balk if Ben and Donovan tag along for real police work?”
I didn’t say more to sell our case. Neither did Donovan. Both of us knew the value of keeping silent while things shook out.
Vance shrugged a shoulder. “I think the guys respect them. They obviously know how to handle themselves, based on the training. There might be a little pushback, from people I don’t necessarily need to mention by name, but they’ll fall in line.”
“You okay with it?” Rawlings leaned back in his chair as if he was okay with this situation going either way. “The rest of the team will follow your lead.”
Vance shot a grin at us. “I’ve got no problem with it. Anything that makes us better cops, I’m all for.”
Bingo.
Donovan grinned back. “Better watch it, Chief, or Citadel may try to recruit your man here.”
Honestly, it wasn’t a terrible idea.
“Over my fucking dead body,” Rawlings shot back. He turned to Vance. “Eric, tell them about the Ridgeline situation.”
Vance set down his coffee and straightened.
“We’ve been building a case on a suspected stash house over on the west side.
Rental cabin not too far from the slopes on Ridgeline Road.
Narcotics has had it flagged for about three weeks—unusual foot traffic, vehicles coming and going at odd hours, complaints from neighbors. We’ve got enough to move on it.”
“When?” I asked.
“Forty-eight hours. Monday night, maybe Tuesday if the warrant takes longer than expected.” He looked at Rawlings, waiting.
The chief nodded. “I want Ben and Donovan embedded with the entry team. Same positions you’ve been training from. It’ll give the officers a chance to see how the K9 integration works under real conditions.”
“We’ll be ready,” I said.
Rawlings leaned back. “Eric, I think that’s everything on your end. I want to pick Ben’s and Donovan’s brains on some equipment purchases for the K9 program before they go.”
Vance nodded, already standing. “I’ll loop you both in on the raid details as soon as I have them.” He gave us a casual salute on his way out. “See you Monday, if not sooner.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The room went quiet. Not uncomfortable. Expectant. Like the air pressure had shifted.
Rawlings waited to make sure Vance was gone, then stood, crossed to the door, and turned the lock. The click was small, decisive.
He settled back in his chair, and the man who’d been running a routine meeting disappeared. What replaced him was someone carrying a weight he hadn’t let Vance see.
“All right,” he said. “Where do we actually stand?”
This was the meeting. The real one. On paper, Citadel Solutions had been hired to build a K9 program for a growing police department. The training was legitimate. The credentials were real. Everything about our presence here held up under scrutiny.
But the training wasn’t why Donovan and I were actually here.
“Honestly, not terribly different from what we’ve already reported,” I said. “We’re getting baselines on most of the officers. Trying to figure out who’s dirty.”
The idyllic little ski city of Summit Falls had an ugly drug problem. The narcotic syndicate had been quietly building infrastructure: stash houses, local dealers, distribution networks. Dealing in opioids, a designer version of fentanyl.
About as fucking ugly as it got.
Rawlings had laid it out for our boss, Ethan Cross, weeks ago—drug traffic climbing, cases going sideways, evidence disappearing. Seventy-five officers in the building and he couldn’t say for certain which ones he could trust. So he’d called Citadel.
Rawlings pulled off his reading glasses and set them on the desk.
“Vance thinking the team will be okay with you two running real ops with them matters more than you might think. This department talks. If anyone suspected you were here for anything other than the dogs, or if they thought you couldn’t handle yourselves, Vance would’ve reported it to me. ”
I nodded. “Well, today’s agreement to let us participate in the real stuff will definitely help us be able to better observe.”
Rawlings leaned back. The chair creaked under him.
“I’ve been chief of this department for twenty years.
I damned well hate knowing we’ve got dirty cops.
But it’s undeniable.” He let out a breath, slow and controlled, like a man who’d been holding it for a long time.
“Arrest rates haven’t kept pace with the increase.
Cases go cold that shouldn’t. Tips reach the wrong ears before we can act on them.
And I’ve got seventy-five people in this building, but I can’t tell you with certainty which ones I can trust.”
Donovan shifted in his chair. “But why come to Citadel? Why don’t you go to Internal Affairs?”
“Thought about it.” Rawlings shook his head. “But IA reports up the chain, and I don’t know where the chain is compromised. If I’m wrong, I’ve just accused my own officers of corruption based on a gut feeling. If I’m right, I’ve just tipped off whoever’s dirty that I’m looking. Either way, I lose.”
“So you called Ethan,” I said.
“Ethan and I go back. He’s helped me out before, and I’ve done the same for him. I don’t throw those markers around lightly.” He looked at me steadily. “I told him I needed people I could trust who had no connection to Summit Falls, no history with anyone in this department.”
“Well, coming up with a new K9 department was pretty brilliant,” Donovan said. “Clean reason for trainers to be here.”
“Happy accident,” Rawlings replied. “The department got funding for a new program this year. The timing was right. The cover holds.”
“And we’ll use it.” I nodded. “And now that we’re not just on training, it’ll give us more intel more quickly.”
“There’s a new drug making the rounds.” Rawlings slid a folder across his desk toward me.
“Designer stuff. They’re calling it Drift on the street.
Fentanyl variant, far as we can tell. Showed up about six months ago.
Three overdose deaths since, all tourists, all written off as people who brought in their own supply. ”
I took the folder and passed it to Donovan without opening it. He’d go through it tonight with the attention of a mother chimp picking fleas out of her children’s fur.
“But you don’t think they did,” I said.
“I think someone’s building a distribution network in my town, and at least one person in my department is helping them do it.
” He said it quietly. The words of a man who’d spent a long time arriving at a conclusion he didn’t want to reach.
“I just can’t prove it. That’s what I need from you.
Watch. Listen. Build me a case I can hand to the FBI that’ll actually stick. ”
His desk phone rang.
Rawlings glanced at the display, and his jaw tightened—not alarm, just the irritation of a man whose Saturday was about to get longer. “I need to take this.”
“We’ll get out of your way.” I stood, and Donovan followed.
“Monday,” Rawlings said, hand on the receiver. “Be ready for that raid.”
“We will.”
We worked for Citadel Solutions. We’d learned how to be ready for anything.