Chapter 5 #2
Industrial steel shelving lined both walls.
Empty now, but the dust patterns told a different story—clean rectangles on each shelf where something had sat recently.
The shapes were still visible in the thin layer of grime that coated everything else.
A roll of packing tape and a box of gallon ziplock bags sat on the floor near the stairs, left behind or forgotten in the rush.
Donovan swept his light across the shelving. “Look at the dust patterns. Whatever was on these shelves was here a long time.”
I pointed to the clean patches. No dust at all. “And it was moved tonight.”
Jolly alerted four times in the cellar. Four separate locations where the drug-residue concentration was strong enough to trigger his trained response. Each time, he sat with clean precision, just like he was trained to—no wavering, no uncertainty.
I pulled his ball from my pocket and rewarded him after each alert. He caught it, crunched it between his jaws, and went right back to work the moment I gave the command.
Near the back wall, a utility sink sat on a metal stand, its basin stained and dry.
A floor drain below it was recessed into the concrete.
Jolly alerted twice more near the drain, sitting with absolute certainty on concrete that looked no different from the rest. Someone had rinsed containers over that drain.
“Nine alerts total,” Donovan said. “Three upstairs, six down here.”
Whatever had been in this cabin, it had been stored, broken down, packaged, and distributed. And then cleared out fast. They’d grabbed the product and nothing else.
“They knew,” I said. “Somebody tipped them off.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. We’d talk about it later.
Outside, the mountain air hit me hard after the stale closeness of the cabin.
Officers gathered in the gravel clearing out front, and the adrenaline that had nowhere to go was turning sour.
I could see it in the way they moved—too fast, too loose, gear getting shucked off with more force than necessary.
Helmets tossed onto hoods. Vests ripped open.
The kind of restless energy that came from gearing up for a fight that never happened.
Vance stood near the tactical van, phone pressed to his ear, already coordinating evidence techs and follow-up. His jaw was tight.
“That energy drink on the counter was still cold,” Reeves said. “They didn’t leave hours ago.”
I nodded. It was a good observation by the rookie.
The other officers looked at one another, and I watched the math hit them one by one.
The cabin had been occupied tonight. The product had been here tonight.
And someone had warned them in time to grab everything that mattered and disappear into the backcountry before a dozen cops rolled up the access road.
“Somebody tipped them off recently.” Briggson pulled off his helmet and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Who knew about this op?”
Nobody answered. Nobody wanted to be the one to say out loud that it could’ve been someone in their midst who’d notified the bad guys.
Martinez leaned against the van’s bumper, away from the group, his phone out.
His thumbs moved across the screen, his attention somewhere other than the conversation happening ten feet away.
Could have been texting his wife. Could have been something else.
I watched him for three seconds, then looked away before he noticed.
It wasn’t suspicious exactly. But at best, it was annoying as fuck.
“So, since the drug runners are gone, are we done here?” Briggson asked. “I’d like to get home before sunrise if we’re just sitting around with our thumbs up our asses.”
Also annoying as fuck.
Vance walked over from the van. “Martinez, start the evidence log. Reeves, coordinate with the perimeter team for a sweep of the surrounding trails. The rest of you, stand by for reassignment.”
Officers moved. I watched Vance return to the van, already dialing someone new, his face focused, frustrated. Then I turned and watched Reeves head for the tree line with his flashlight and his shoulders set.
Everybody was pissed. Rightfully so.
Vance caught my eye and jerked his chin toward the access road. “Garrison, we’re good here. Get the dog home.”
I nodded and started toward the trail that led back to the staging area. Donovan fell into step beside me.
We walked in silence for a minute before he spoke. “Tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Debrief.” See if either of us had spotted anything useful.
I loaded Jolly into the back of my truck and gave him water. He drank deeply, then settled onto his bed with a satisfied groan. The work was over, the ball had been earned, and as far as he was concerned, the night had been a success.
The drive home took thirty minutes down the mountain and through empty streets. I pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. Sat for a moment in the dark, letting the adrenaline fade.
Inside, I went through the routine. Gear off. Boots by the door. I filled Jolly’s water bowl and set it down, then opened the back door to let him into the yard.
He didn’t go to the grass. He went straight to the fence.
Not the whole fence—the same section he’d been fixating on for days.
The back corner, where I’d replaced the broken slat Saturday.
He stood three feet from the wood, his body rigid, his head low and forward, ears locked.
Not barking. Not whining. Just standing there, as still as I’d ever seen him outside of a trained alert.
“Jolly. Come.”
Nothing. No response. No flick of an ear, no turn of the head.
I walked over and crouched beside him. His body was tense under my hand, every muscle drawn tight. I followed his line of sight to the base of the fence. A pinecone sat in the grass at the base of the slat. Small, fresh—green at the base, scales still tight. I picked it up.
Was Jolly mistaking it for a ball? That wasn’t a good sign.
“Jolly. Hier. Let’s go inside.” I walked back toward the house.
This time, he came. Slowly, reluctantly, his head turning last, his eyes staying on the fence until his body had carried him far enough away that he had no choice but to look at me instead.
He hadn’t done this before we’d moved here. In seven years, Jolly had never fixated on a fence or a yard boundary or a random spot in the grass. His attention had always been directed, purposeful, channeled through training toward specific targets.
This was a pattern of behavior with no operational context and no obvious trigger. And when I gave a command, his response had been delayed.
Eight years old, almost nine. Belgian Malinois were supposed to work until ten, sometimes eleven if they were lucky.
But I’d seen handlers lose partners at eight.
Watched dogs who’d been sharp one month go soft the next, the decline so gradual you didn’t see it until you were standing over a mistake that couldn’t be undone.
He had time left. He had to. Because I wasn’t ready to imagine work without him beside me.
I sat on the back step with the pinecone in my hand, and Jolly pressed against my leg. The yard was dark except for the light spilling from the kitchen window behind me. Next door, Kayla’s house was quiet—a single lamp visible through a gap in the curtains, the rest of the windows dark.
Jolly leaned his weight into me, his head heavy on my knee. His breathing slowed. Whatever had held him at the fence was releasing its grip now that I was close, now that the contact was established—my hand on his head, my leg against his side.
I closed my fingers around the pinecone and felt the weight of something I wasn’t ready to carry.
Not yet.
I stood, and Jolly rose with me. His tail wagged once—a reflex, the perpetual optimism that seven years of hard work hadn’t managed to dull.
I opened the back door, and he went through ahead of me, heading for his bed in the corner of the living room, circling twice before dropping down with a heavy exhale.
I locked the door. Checked the windows. Stood in the kitchen with the lights off.
Jolly was already asleep by the time I walked past him. His paws twitched once—chasing something in his dreams or running toward it. I watched him for a long moment from the hallway then went to bed.
I didn’t sleep for a long time.