Trusted Instinct (Cerberus Tactical K9 Team Charlie #4)

Prologue

Auralia planted her feet in the spot her videographer, Doli, had scoped out for today’s field report for the Washington News-Herald and World Reports.

Here, the lighting would be good for both a close-up of Auralia as well as a clear view of the stage.

The best outdoor lighting angle for Doli’s shots typically forced Auralia to look in the direction of the sun.

Trying to maintain a neutral expression while the story unfolded was miserable, especially in settings like this one, where a diffuser was a no-go.

Since Auralia and Doli were a hot spot reporting team, diffusers were rarely a usable tool.

Standing where Doli directed, Auralia was grateful to find a slight shadow cast by an enormous black box speaker that shielded her eyes from the glare. Doli had her back. “Thanks, Doll.”

The gentle breeze blew strands of long blonde hair free from the bun that Auralia had coiled at the nape of her neck that morning, and she pressed the escaped wisps behind her ear to look neat and professional.

“Am I okay for the shot?” she asked, smoothing the blue boatneck shirt so it wouldn’t bunch over her breasts and tucking it into her neatly tailored slacks.

Since no one would see her feet, Auralia had opted for the comfort of tennis shoes when she dressed that morning—her first mistake.

“Turn slightly at the waist,” Doli waved her hand to indicate the direction. “Better. Listen, I’ll get tape of you saying. ‘Let’s go live to the event.’ And then, when you ask your question, you’ll be on the hand mic, but my focus will be over your shoulder to grab their reactions.”

“I like that plan.”

“Serious girl, I hope you put a lifeboat in the back of your car. We may need it if we capsize from all the waves you’re about to make.”

“Funny.” Auralia reached into her pocket and pulled out a Sharpie. She pushed the cotton sleeve up her arm to expose a neatly penned 1-800 number. “Speaking of capsizing, this is Washington News-Herald’s lawyer’s office. They’re on standby just in case things get nuts.”

“What do they think’s going to happen?” Doli asked, setting her camera down to push up her left sleeve.

“I don’t know. Liu told me to do it. Since he’s the editor in chief, I assume he had some reason tickling the back of his mind.

It’s like going to the store and thinking ‘I need mayonnaise’ and then you talk yourself out of buying a jar because you never eat it and surely there’s some in the back of your fridge. ”

“Always buy the mayonnaise,” Doli said as she read the number off Auralia’s arm and wrote it neatly on her own.

She handed back the pen and waited for Auralia to replace the cap and slide it into the pocket of her rucksack.

“What else have you got packed in there?” Doli asked, looking down at the bag resting at Auralia’s feet.

“A whole lot of water so we can flush our eyes if things get spicy. We can’t drive away if we can’t see.”

“That sounds like a Remi Taleb truism.” Doli cast her gaze toward the back of the grassy dell in the direction of the parking area.

Remi was a war correspondent with their news org who had honed her survival skills by reporting under the world’s most dire conditions.

When Remi took Auralia under her wing, Auralia became a sponge, soaking up every drop of professional wisdom and life-preserving practice that her mentor counseled.

“First aid kit.” Auralia tapped it with her toe, then added, “Stuff.”

“Stuff,” Doli deadpanned. “Awesome. Stuff is usually helpful. What stuff? Give me two examples of stuff.”

“A bottle of pain relievers and a multitool knife.”

Doli scowled. “Security let you through with a knife?”

“Security,” Auralia pronounced slowly. “I plopped the bag on the table, and they pushed the water bottle aside and leaned in its general direction. Do you feel that was protection or performance?”

Doli looked down at the phone number on her arm, then over to Auralia. “That tells us we need to be extra aware of our surroundings. These are Representative Lambton’s peeps. They would call us the outsiders since we’re usually on national and international beats.”

“This is of national interest,” Auralia countered.

“But they’re used to local reporters.” Doli reached for her camera handle and put the lens cap in place. “Nobody likes strangers showing up in their backyard to rip their worldview apart and toss it in the wind.”

“My plan here is simple. I ask my questions on camera—and while I doubt we’ll get answers, you get those reactions you mentioned—and then we leave.

And I mean leave fast. Also,” Auralia pulled two waterproof phone bags on lanyards from the side pocket of the pack.

“My brother, Gator, uses these on his team. He handed me a couple.” Auralia passed one to Doli, then opened the second to slide her cell inside.

“The Iniquus operators aren’t allowed to be more than an arm’s length from their phones, so they wear these when they’re swimming. ”

“Gator Aid Rochambeau,” Doli let the name tumble and swirl around her mouth like she’d taken a first decadent bite from a chocolate dessert.

With a double pop of her brows, Doli let a slow, lascivious smile warm her features.

“Now that is one fine specimen of a man.” She clamped her video camera between her thighs while she moved her cell to the plastic bag. “If only he were single.”

“If only,” Auralia rolled her eyes. “You missed your opportunity.” Auralia folded the top over, pressed the clamps into place, and dragged the cord over her head.

“I’m going to run my cell phone video the whole time.

” She adjusted the length of the lanyard so her phone dangled just under her breast line.

“Maybe you should do that, too. If, as Gator says, ‘things go kinetic,’ we might get some action footage for social media.”

Doli scowled as she put her camera between her thighs to free up her hands. “Why would they?”

“No clue. But the takeaway I got from Remi, when she was telling us about getting mobbed in the London crowd, was the importance of being prepared for an unwarranted attack. Granted, she also said to be careful because the lanyard could be used as a garrote to choke us out.”

“Dying for one’s art?” Doli slid the lanyard over her head. “I don’t know if I’m down with that.”

Doli was the kind of videographer who stood in the middle of the street to get a clear view of the bomb blasting and building disintegration that happened close enough to leave first-degree burns on her skin, so Auralia heard her comment as sarcasm.

“It has a quick release, so chances are low your tombstone will read dead because of her cell phone.”

Doli retrieved her camera that she’d held clamped between her thighs. “How much action are we talking about here?”

“Considerably less than when we were in Sudan last week.” Auralia swiveled her head to take in the atmosphere. “Sleepy, bucolic Northwest Virginia, what could happen here other than us finding a diner and sitting down to a tall glass of sweet tea and a generous slice of pecan pie when we’re done?”

Doli furrowed her brow. “Pick-ahn is how you say it?”

“Yes, why? How do you say it?”

“Pee-kahn.” One-handed, Doli pulled her stick-straight black hair, reaching behind her head to lift the length of her braid over the loop of the lanyard, and Auralia reached out to help. “But here, I’ve heard people say pee-can.”

Auralia laughed. “Like, ‘The toilet isn’t working, use the pee can’?”

“Don’t turn your nose up like you don’t know how valuable a pee-can can be.” Doli lifted her brows for emphasis. “I bring you back to last month in Sudan.”

“I love a good pee-can,” Auralia said. “Very grateful in bad circumstances that conditions don’t get even worse for lack of pee-can.

But I don’t know if I can eat the pie anymore.

You’ve ruined it for me. The pie and finding relief during the Sudan bombings are now tied in my imagination evermore.

” Auralia wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for that.”

“Such a butterfly girl. Don’t let your wings bruise so easily.” Doli lifted her video camera to her eye. “Let’s record a few intros. The clouds keep moving around, and I need to compensate for the shadows.”

Despite being in their mid-twenties, Auralia and Doli had been teamed up on journalistic assignments that had sent them to locations where only seasoned report teams were traditionally assigned—into the lawless places where humanity was exploitative and indifferent to suffering.

The two had borne witness to atrocities so that the world would know what was happening.

If the world knew, Auralia told herself, maybe actions would be taken to protect the vulnerable.

Everyone, she reasoned, had their way of helping. For some, it was making a pot of soup for a sick neighbor. For some, like her uncles, it was a night of toe-tapping zydeco that lifted spirits. For her brother, Gator, it meant carrying a weapon into the fray alongside his fellow Marine Raiders.

For Auralia, it was her work credo: Don’t look away.

It was easy to look away. To shut the door. To turn on something booming and distracting that drowned out thought.

She had to be louder in her efforts to protect the innocent.

And that was what she and Doli were up to today.

Today was absolutely about exploitative atrocities, just not the kind wreaked by the swing of a machete or the pull of a trigger. This came from an evil person who abused humans’ best impulses.

And Auralia meant to stop it.

Auralia grew up in the Bayou, ankle-deep in the ancient magic that infused the land. And she knew that light was defined by its juxtaposition with dark; that sinners and saints breathed the same air.

Some said that the good angel sat on one shoulder and the devil sat on the other, both whispering into the same person’s ear.

Who would they listen to?

Sadly, they had listened to one Wesley Price. And Wesley Price and his golden forked tongue had been doing the devil’s work.

Today, Auralia’s reporting would expose the fact that compassionate citizens had been bamboozled. And she couldn’t help but think her big reveal would leave kindhearted people feeling cynical and jaded.

It might have devastating implications for many charities that did a world of good.

There was a lot to be said for the ethical training she got at university. But theory was a hard way to professionally conduct oneself when things weren’t black and white, when good people were going to be hurt, when her actions, based on honorable intentions, produced unintended consequences.

Who said there were only fifty shades of gray?