Chapter 1 #3
A tall stucco wall ran perpendicular to the edge of the gully. The surface of it was scuffed with the scrubbed-off ghosts of old graffiti. Bourneville’s line, the red dulled from being dragged, trailed along the base of it back the way they’d come.
Before Cloister could follow suit, there was a sudden flurry of excited, sharp barks that meant she’d got something. It was followed by a loud crack and a startled high-pitched yelp that cut through the still night air.
Cloister dropped the lead and pulled his gun as he broke into a run. He held the weapon low in both hands. The red length of the long line disappeared under a dense mass of sage that grew up against the garden wall, woven between the woody stems.
Of course it did.
Oh well, it wasn’t like he’d asked Javi to waste money on dry cleaning his gear.
Cloister dropped to the ground. From this perspective he could see the shallow groove worn into the hard ground. He squirmed under it, using knees and elbows to drag himself along.
At the other side was an opening between the end of the wall and the vinyl fence that ran down the side of the house to mark off their drive. Cloister scrambled through the gap and hauled himself to his feet on the other side.
At the far end of the garden, Bourneville barked furiously as she bounced off the door. It jarred open a crack, and someone inside threw their weight against it as they tried to keep her out.
“Bourneville,” Cloister snapped. He walked quickly across the lawn, body angled to the side to reduce his profile, his gun braced at hip level. His eyes flicked into the shadows of the garden as he checked for anything out of place. “Stop!”
Bourneville stopped mid-bark and obediently backed away from the door. Her eyes stayed glued to it, though, and her ears were flat to her head.
“San Diego Sheriff’s Department,” Cloister ID’d himself as he got closer. He freed one hand from the gun and reached down to grab the handle on Bourneville’s harness. “Open the door.”
There was a pause.
“I don’t like dogs.”
“Yeah?” Cloister said. “She’s under control. Open the door, sir. Please.”
Sometimes the “please” just worked to underline the fact that it wasn’t really a request. The door slowly swung open to reveal a meaty red-haired man in black clothes.
“Come out,” Cloister instructed him.
The man glanced from Cloister’s face to the gun to Bon and back. “I don’t have to do that,” he said. “This is my house.”
Cloister’s gaze dropped from the man’s face to his clothes, his jacket and jeans stained with red dust at his elbows and knees. The same way Cloister’s uniform was after he’d crawled into the garden.
“Is it?” Cloister asked.
The man shifted his weight onto his back foot and tightened his grip on the door, knuckles white as they pressed against grimy skin. He had something in his other hand that he concealed behind his leg.
He didn’t hold it like a gun. A knife? Hammer? Either way….
“Don’t,” Cloister warned him.
Instead of listening, the man slammed the door shut as he took off into the house. Bourneville collected herself, muscles tense, shoulders high, and hackles up. She was ready to go. All she needed was…
“Fuss,” Cloister gave the command crisply.
Bourneville shot forward. She hit the door before the lock could catch and burst through it. Her nails scratched on the tiled floor of the kitchen as she shot under the heavy kitchen table and into the hall after the suspect.
The door flew back, hit the wall with a crack, and swung back again. Cloister caught it with one hand on the rebound and shoved it open as he followed Bourneville. He went around the table and into the hall, just as Bourneville made a flying leap at the man’s back.
Sixty-six pounds of German Shepherd hit him just below his shoulder blades.
He gave a startled grunt—although what else had he expected—and pitched forward.
His feet went out from under him on the geometric-patterned rug that ran the length of the hall and landed with a bone-rattling thud.
Bourneville rode him down onto the floor and snarled, a low, dangerous sound, as she braced her paws on his back.
Upstairs, a door slammed, and a groggy, alarmed voice demanded, “What’s going on down there? I’ve called the police.”
On the floor, the man swung his arm up and back, a blunt, heavy Taser gripped in his hand. Before he could deploy it, Cloister stepped forward quickly and slammed a booted foot down on the crook of the man’s elbow. It smacked back down into the ground, and Cloister used his weight to keep it there.
“I told you once,” he said as he holstered his gun. “Don’t. Maybe, this time, listen.”
The man’s fingers clenched around the Taser. Bourneville lowered her head and snarled right in his ear. Hot breath did what Cloister’s warning hadn’t. The man, reluctantly, let the Taser go, and it fell onto the carpet.
Cloister called Bourneville off and knelt down, knee in the small of the man’s back, as he pulled a set of plastic cuffs out of his belt.
“Why do you always run?” he asked conversationally as he slid the thin rings around the man’s wrists and cinched them tight. “You’d think word would get around it’s a bad idea.”