Chapter Two
Dakota
Sunday
Wow, this was a much bigger deal than Dakota expected.
The spectators lined up along the track and gathered in large crowds around the two challenges Dakota could see.
Tank was handling pre-race nerves pretty well. Though by nature, Tank had a kind of “prince on horseback surveilling the battlefield” demeanor. He would stand regally and look out at his subjects. But like in the monarchy of old, he liked to leap into the fray.
Dakota got it, he really did. His body was happiest when he was pushing his limits.
Which was a good thing.
Excellent, in fact.
About twenty yards from the starting line, concrete water ducts nestled side by side in a line that led to a creek bed.
Yeah, why not start from the beginning with wet shoes?
Having raced his fair share in storm conditions, Dakota had chosen running shoes made for water sports, and he’d wrapped his heels and big toes in duct tape as a potential reprieve from friction blisters. No guarantees.
As the Malinois class sprinted through the pipes, the humans had to scamper on hands and knees.
Exiting, the Malinois, waiting for their handlers to get a move on, jumped from water to rock, back into the water.
They looked down the tunnel, yipping at their partners, scolding them to hurry; there was fun to be had on the other end. Come on! Come on!
Dakota couldn’t imagine what it was like tethered to a Malinois when they were in high gear. For that matter, Dakota had never been tethered to any dog. And this first time, with a snowplow of a K9 like Tank? Yeah, this was going to be something.
Dakota could hear the handlers, from inside the concrete pipes, calling out to their partners to sit and wait, but when a Malinois heard a gun go off, the race was afoot.
Dakota glanced down and caught Tank’s gaze. “Apaw, if you will,” he said for Tank’s amusement.
Tank turned and looked at him with a single raised eyebrow.
Once the race was apaw, these working dogs had their adrenaline pumping, looking for the joy they got from going fast and hard.
The first Malinois teams through the cylinders were now sprinting down the creek bed as their handlers leaped rock to rock.
Dakota watched the teams’ progress, trying to figure out which route looked most efficient.
Beyond that, where the trees opened up to pasture, throngs of people cheered the teams’ approach. In just a moment, heat one would be out of sight.
The German shepherds were up.
The starting announcer called through the megaphone, “Second heat, take your positions!”
Dakota and Tank found their places behind the line.
“Ready? In Three. Two. One.” He dropped his arm as he blew a whistle; there was no second gunshot.
The line of German shepherds charged forward, reaching the tunnels and scrabbling through.
“Here we go, buddy. In. Forward.” Dakota signaled Tank as they took their turn.
Tank shot through like a bullet from the barrel.
Dakota dropped to a quadruped position and bear-crawled like a cartoon character as fast as he could.
The cold, rough concrete scraped his back when his ass went up too high.
Tank had none of the ducking and scrambling. He raced through, stretching the bungee to its elastic limit, and now it was dragging Dakota forward from his hips. Not wanting to lose his teeth on a face plant, he, too, was calling out, “Hold.”
This course and Tank’s physical prowess were definitely going to humble Dakota.
Ah, to be a dog for just one day. Maybe if he gathered enough good karma points in this lifetime, he would reincarnate as a dog like Tank.
Goals.
As soon as he cleared the concrete edge, Dakota popped to his feet and took off, leaping rock to rock on the path that he’d mind-mapped, only letting Tank have but so much freedom. Man, he wished he could cut Tank loose and meet him at the finish line.
Tank would have a much better time letting his full athleticism shine.
From Tank’s point of view, this experience must be like the time Dakota ran the Thanksgiving Turkey Trot with his then-six-year-old nephew, Bo. Now, Bo did a great job, and it was a good bonding time, but Dakota spent most of the time jogging in place.
Dakota leaped just as Tank got his paws onto solid ground.
The drag intensified, and for a moment, it felt like Dakota was airborne, a kite lifted by the wind.
His foot hit the slope and slid right out from under him.
Dakota stretched out his hands to catch his weight, and his hands slid out to either side.
Tensing his shoulder muscles to keep his hands in place, he called out.
“Hold. Hold.” The clay-covered hill, slick with water and churned by the first heat, proved difficult.
Every time Dakota placed a foot or hand and pressed his weight into it, that limb slid out from under him.
Dakota looked up the hill to find Tank staring down at him.
Dakota searched the hillside and saw that he might be able to find friction on the dappled vegetation and, with Tank’s help, climb the slope like a rock wall.
He gripped a tuft of grass with his fingers and found another clump of weeds for his toes.
Lifting his voice, Dakota called, “Hey, buddy, go out. Go. Go.”
This was either going to work, or Dakota was going to be slicked from head to foot in red clay. The benefit was that he’d be unrecognizable. Cerberus boys would be the only ones who knew about this sad performance, he thought with a chuckle.
Besides, the Labradors were at his heels. And if Rourou the Labrador puppy passed them, Dakota wasn’t sure Tank would forgive him.
Dakota balanced his toes on a tiny tuft of weeds to get a modicum of traction and dragged at the few blades of grass. That, coupled with Tank’s mighty pull, and Dakota got to the top, where the accomplishment was met with cheers and lots of cell phones pointed in his direction.
Raising a hand in appreciation of their clapping and encouraging calls, both Dakota and Tank rode the energy from the crowd. Dakota always ran his best times when there was excitement in the air—or danger.
Yeah, danger could get his feet moving pretty fast, too.
Tank and Dakota sprinted down the trail.
Tank was out in front of him like a husky dragging a sled across the Tundra.
Reaper had been right; Dakota was running at breakneck speed. And it felt wild in his body. He was moving at a frightening pace that demanded surrender and hyperfocus at once.
The harness seemed to wrestle gravity into submission as they flew down the hill and back up the next.
When he ran in triathlons, Dakota had a tempo that ensured he kept a steady power surge throughout the race, and he could jet across the finish line strong. He’d trained it into his body, so he had a good sense of what was required.
Did he have clue one now?
Not at all.
All he knew was that he was trying to give himself a bit of grace for doing this crazy event with zilch experience and, at the same time, have some fun while doing a good deed.
That didn’t mean that Dakota could shed his competitive nature.
He hadn’t seen another team for a while now. And Dakota was determined to catch up.
Out in front, Dakota could hear the Cerberus operators yelling their commands and saw sprays of water.
“Buddy—” Dakota tried, but it came out as a wheeze. Yeah, there was no way he was going to be able to call out commands and run full out like this. No way that he could warn Tank and talk him through this. But he reasoned that Tank had a miracle sniffer and keen hearing; he knew.
He knew, and yet he didn’t let up.
Tank raced toward the deck without a break in his stride.
Maybe Halo worked through the water issues.
This looked like it was going to be fine.
Tank leaped into the air, stretching his front paws long.
He was glorious as he sailed through the air.
The bungee stretched out, dragging Dakota’s hips forward, so he had no time to set up for a dive. All he could do was lift his feet and let Tank drag him forward.
But the drag stopped mid-jump, and Dakota had barely pushed off with his back leg.
He missed scraping his back down the platform edge by inches. It caught the very back of his head as he tipped, then plunged into the water.
It was deeper than Dakota thought it would be. His feet didn’t touch bottom, and he was six-foot-four.
And cold.
Purple goose-fleshed cold. But he’d built his cold tolerance lying in the pounding surf on Coronado Beach, along with the other wannabe Special Warfare Combatant-craft Crewmen enduring hours in the freezing surf, monitored for hypothermia by a temperature pellet he swallowed at the start of the challenge.
But Dakota could understand Tank’s wild-eyed shock of a freakout dance as his K9 dog paddled straight for him, scraping his claws against Dakota’s skin as he tried to climb up onto Dakota’s shoulders.
“Cold belly?” Dakota asked through a teeth-chattering grin. He would do nothing to make Tank think that this was anything other than a typical day, and he should just get on with the task.
As Halo instructed, Dakota caught hold of Tank’s harness and pulled him around to point his nose in the right direction, then Dakota plunged forward, digging his hands in as he swam for the far bank.
Tank flew up the steep mud and stood shaking his coat dry as Dakota had to use the climbing web to get himself out.
His shorts clung in a way that might not prove modest in those photos folks snapped. And given how cold that plunge was, for sure, they wouldn’t be flattering.
“I’ll have to make up for my sad deficit with a winning personality,” he told Tank as he bent to take a breath.
Tank lifted a single brow.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dakota called, “I’m coming.”