Suspect Read Free

the clatter of running Marines approached.
    “Pete!”
    “We’re comin’, man—”
    Maggie bared her fangs and growled.
    Protect the pack. Protect her alpha.
    The fur on her back stood in rage, and her ears cocked forward to scoop in their sounds. Her fangs were fearsome and gleaming as bulky green shapes towered around her.
    Protect him, protect the pack, protect her Pete.
    “Jesus, Maggie, it’s us! Maggie!”
    “Is he dead?”
    “He’s fucked up, man—”
    “She’s fucked up, too—”
    Maggie snapped and ripped at them, and the shapes jumped back.
    “She’s crazy—”
    “Don’t hurt her. Shit, she’s bleeding—”
    Protect the pack. Protect and defend.
    Maggie snapped and slashed. She growled and barked, and hopped in circles to face them.
    “Doc! Doc, Jesus, Pete’s down—”
    “Black Hawk’s inbound!”
    “His dog won’t let us—”
    “Use your rifle! Don’t hurt her! Push her off—”
    “She’s shot, dude!”
    Something reached toward her, and Maggie bit hard. She locked onto it with jaws that brought over seven hundred pounds per square inch of bite pressure to bear. She held tight, growling, but then another long thing reached forward, and another.
    Maggie released her grip, lunged at the nearest men, caught meat and tore, then took her place over Pete again.
    “She thinks we’re gonna hurt him—”
    “Push her off! C’mon—”
    “Don’t hurt her, goddamnit!”
    They pushed her again, and someone threw a jacket over her head. She tried to twist away, but now they bore her down with their weight.
    Protect Pete. Pete was pack. Her life was the pack.
    “Dude, she’s hurt. Be careful—”
    “I got her—”
    “Fuckin’ scum shot her—”
    Maggie twisted and lurched. She was furious with rage and fear, and tried to bite through the jacket, but felt herself lifted. She felt no pain, and did not know she was bleeding. She only knew she needed to be with Pete. She had to protect him. She was lost without him. Her job was to protect him.
    “Put her on the Black Hawk.”
    “I got her—”
    “Put her on there with Pete.”
    “What’s with the dog?”
    “This is her handler. You gotta get her to the hospital—”
    “He’s dead—”
    “She was trying to protect him—”
    “Stop talkin’ and fly, motherfucker. You get her to a doctor. This dog’s a Marine.”
    Maggie felt a deep vibration through her body as the thick exhaust of the aviation fuel seeped through the jacket that covered her head. She was scared, but Pete’s smell was close. She knew he was only a few feet away, but she also knew he was far away, and growing farther.
    She tried to crawl closer to him, but her legs didn’t work, and men held her down, and after a while her fierce growls turned to whines.
    Pete was hers.
    They were pack.
    They were a pack of two, but now Pete was gone, and Maggie had no one.

PART I

SCOTT AND STEPHANIE

1.
    0247 HOURS
    Downtown Los Angeles
    They were on that particular street at that specific T-intersection at that crazy hour because Scott James was hungry. Stephanie shut off their patrol car to please him. They could have been anywhere else, but he led her there, that night, to that silent intersection. It was so quiet that night, they spoke of it.
    Unnaturally quiet.
    * * *
    They stopped three blocks from the Harbor Freeway between rows of crappy four-story buildings everyone said would be torn down to build a new stadium if the Dodgers left Chavez Ravine. The buildings and streets in that part of town were deserted. No homeless people. No traffic. No reason for anyone to be there that night, even an LAPD radio car.
    Stephanie frowned.
    “You sure you know where you’re going?”
    “I know where I’m going. Just hang on.”
    Scott was trying to find an all-night noodle house a Rampart Robbery detective had raved about, one of those pop-up places that takes over an empty storefront for a couple of months, hypes itself on Twitter, then disappears; a place the