Hot for Hostage

1. Happy Tails Haven

happy tails haven

. . .

Sadie

Sadie’s Guide to Hostage-Taking, Tip #1: Forget everything you think you know about hostage situations.

Happy Tails Haven had been brutally vandalized.

Again .

I frowned at the mess of graffiti marring the front of the dog shelter. Sunlight glinted off scattered shards of glass, and my eyes narrowed on the broken window. I’d been volunteering at the shelter for three years, and the sight of it defaced like this made me sick to my stomach.

“I won’t stand for this,” I declared, fists clenched at my sides. “That’s the third time those little thugs have hit us this week!”

“Sadie—”

“No, I mean it this time,” I told Gladys, dodging my fellow volunteer’s outstretched hand. I was so frustrated I could cry. Graffiti was one thing. Destruction was another—the glass could hurt the dogs! “Happy Tails Haven is a sanctuary for abandoned and mistreated dogs. They don’t need this sort of abuse from teenagers who should know better.”

Gladys’s wrinkled forehead creased further as she followed my gaze to the obscene graffiti. She didn’t look particularly bothered, which made no sense.

“Does it really bother the dogs, though?” Ryan, another volunteer, asked from my other side. “I’m not sure they even notice.”

Why were neither of them upset? This was an outrage .

“Oh, they notice,” I promised. Dogs were very sensitive to negative vibes like this. “We have to do something.”

Gladys snorted. “What can we do? We called the police weeks ago, and their extra patrols haven’t caught any suspects.”

I frowned and planted my hands on my hips. “Why don’t we camp out here with the dogs until we can catch those troublemakers in the act?”

She squinted at me. “And then what? We take them on ourselves?”

I looked down at my noodle-thin arms and pink sundress. Nothing about me was very intimidating, and dying my hair pink hadn’t done anything to build my street cred. The teenagers messing with our shelter were all bigger than me, and Gladys was made of elderly sticks and bones. She was the oldest volunteer at the shelter by at least two decades, and neither of us could open a jar of spaghetti sauce without asking for help.

Ryan wasn’t much better. While he could lift two of the extra-large bags of dog food without breaking a sweat—something all the workers at the shelter admired him for—his appearance could be a little deceiving.

I eyed our muscular friend before smiling hopefully. “Any chance you’ve stopped practicing that whole pacifism thing?”

Calm blue eyes blinked back at me. “Violence isn’t the answer. Not now, not ever.”

My shoulders slumped with my sigh. “I figured. No, I’m not saying we take them on. But there’s got to be something we can do. Maybe if we just tried talking to them?”

My other idea was to find a way to signal for Batman, but they’d probably just make fun of me.

We lived in Westport, not Gotham.

Gladys pulled her grey cardigan tightly around herself, despite the summer weather. “If we confront them, we’ll probably get shot.”

“Shot?” My jaw dropped. “But we saw them in the security footage. They’re barely even teenagers. You think they have guns?”

“I saw a few of them packing,” Ryan said. “There’s nothing we can do. These kids are stupid and think they’re invincible. The only people punks like them respect are the Reeds.”

I bit my lip. The name didn’t ring any bells. “Who are the Reeds?”

Two blank gazes stared back at me before Gladys shook her head. “I know you’re from the ’burbs, Sadie, but you’ve lived in the city a few years now for school. You’ve seriously never heard of that old psycho Sebastian Reed? He has more Westport property than a game of Monopoly, and he’s head of the local mafia.”

It took me a second to make sure I’d heard correctly.

… Mafia?

I gulped. That was crazy talk.

“Which means he basically owns the city,” Ryan added.

I doubted our city actually had a mafia —it sounded like the stuff of history books and movies—but a spark of hope ignited in my chest. “So, we just need to ask this Mr. Reed to help us, and those boys will leave Happy Tails alone?”

Gladys’s white brows skyrocketed, and she gave me her signature no-nonsense look, which had my spine straightening on instinct. “Did you miss the part where I called him a psycho ? You don’t want to mess with men like Old Seb unless you have a death wish, child. And the Reeds don’t help no one but themselves. It’s part of their code.”

I was tempted to point out she’d just used a double negative, but that wouldn’t help matters.

“If you even got close enough to talk to Old Seb, he’d rip your tongue out before you could say anything,” Ryan chimed in. “Crazy bastard. His son is the one you’d want to do a job like this anyway. He does all Seb’s dirty work.”

Ignoring the unsettling thought of my tongue getting ripped out, I perked up. “So Mr. Reed’s son would help us, then?”

Gladys snorted. “Davian Reed would sooner murder a litter of puppies than do a good deed. You’d have to hold a gun to his head just to make him hear you out.”

I tried not to show my horror at the thought of a man hurting innocent little puppies, but it left a sour taste in my mouth.

Now what were we supposed to do?

Ryan snickered and glanced at the defaced wall. “Can you imagine asking Davian for something? If Old Seb would tear out your tongue, Davian would slit your throat without blinking.”

“What else would you expect from a mafia prince?” Gladys asked. “He’d stab his own father in the back if it suited him.”

I crossed my arms, unable to hide a shudder. How did my friends know so much about this supposed mafia? Usually, we talked about dogs or flea medicine or our Thursday night bowling league. Not stabbing and puppy murdering. “Okay, that’s enough of that talk. There must be something else we can do. Something we haven’t tried.”

A familiar light blue sedan pulled up to the curb, and we fell silent. Our boss hobbled out of the driver’s side, wearing his usual sweater vest and khakis, with a wooden cane. Mr. Sanders had owned Happy Tails Haven for decades, and there were pictures of him in reception from long before his hair turned grey. He loved the shelter with everything in him, and it pained me to watch him take in the broken window with a shake of his head.

“Those goddamn kids.” He limped closer with a frown. “Another one?”

“We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mr. Sanders,” I said, determined to make it true. “I promise.”

He managed a small smile and patted my shoulder. “It’s not your problem to solve, lass. You just let me worry about this.”

“At least insurance will cover the repairs, right?” Ryan asked. “That’s a small win.”

Our boss’s smile faded. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I had to lower our coverage after the last rent hike.”

My heart twisted. The shelter’s landlord had nearly doubled the rent six months ago, and we’d been cutting costs everywhere we could. I hadn’t realized it was so bad that Mr. Sanders had to cut back on insurance.

“Adoption fees and donations are barely keeping us afloat,” he continued grimly. “My accountant says we have maybe six months before we’ll have to close up shop.”

“Close up shop?” I echoed in shock. “But Happy Tails Haven has been here for years! It’s a neighborhood treasure.”

Piles of trash littering the sidewalk and graffiti penises on the wall did little to showcase the shelter’s appeal, but it was the truth.

“We can’t let it close,” Gladys agreed.

My chest squeezed with worry, and I rubbed at it. “What will happen to the dogs?”

“They’ll get divvied up between the pounds,” Mr. Sanders said. He poked at a large crack in the sidewalk with his cane. “It’ll be a damn shame to see this place go.”

I tried to picture our sweet dogs all alone and scared at the city pounds, but it was too awful to even consider.

No, that wouldn’t do.

“I better call for a repair quote.” Sighing heavily, Mr. Sanders limped over to the door. “Don’t stay out here too long. The dogs need breakfast.”

When the door swung shut behind him, Gladys crossed her arms and frowned at me. “This is the first I’m hearing about a rent hike. Is that why you started bringing your own treats and toys for the dogs? And that nasty mush you make for Bear?”

“Hey, he has a sensitive stomach. Yogurt helps,” I said, defensive. She didn’t need to know about the whole treasure trove of dog supplies I hadn’t brought to the shelter yet. After the rent was raised, Mr. Sanders couldn’t afford as many toys or treats for the dogs, so I kept a backup stock at my student housing. Baking their treats myself helped save money, and my culinary school scholarship included a stipend I happily put toward supplies for the dogs.

I clapped my hands. “But that’s enough wallowing. Let’s do another round to make sure the dogs aren’t traumatized, and I’ll give Bear his medicine. Then we can figure out how to patch up this window until it gets replaced.”

Gladys rolled her eyes before leading us back into the shelter’s lobby, muttering under her breath the whole time.

I allowed myself one last glance at the broken window and swore I’d make those little hooligans pay.

But there were more important things than vengeance, I reminded myself as I stopped by the medical cart and picked up Bear’s medicine. The dogs, along with their health and happiness, were way more important.

Bear was a fixture at the shelter, and a knot formed in my stomach every time someone stopped by his kennel when looking to adopt. I wanted him to find his forever home more than anything, but I also dreaded the day I’d have to say goodbye to his furry face.

But it’d been three years, and Bear was passed over again and again. People claimed he’d be too much work.

He’s too big.

He’d be a fortune to buy food for.

He’s not a puppy.

To me, he was perfect.

Bear might be huge—even by German shepherd standards—but it was just more fluff to cuddle with.

“Hey, handsome.” Smiling, I reached Bear’s kennel after greeting each of the dogs in his row. Bear’s head popped up from where it rested on his paws, and his large pink tongue lolled out. “I brought your yummy medicine.”

An excited awoo sounded from Bear’s next-door neighbor, and I smiled at the young husky.

“Hello to you, too, Mr. Woofkins,” I murmured, reaching through the gate and giving the other dog a scratch behind the ears, hoping he’d switch to his inside-voice howl. He would rile up the other rescues if he kept that up.

Bear took his medicine without any trouble—thank god for peanut butter—and I gave him, Mr. Woofkins, and the rest of the dogs some quality pets before heading to the kitchen to help Ryan get their breakfast ready.

Looking over my shoulder at the dogs, I promised myself I wouldn’t allow those boys to ruin what we’d built here. Mr. Sanders had enough problems keeping the shelter afloat, and he shouldn’t have to worry about a group of wannabe thugs.

I’d fix this.