NINETEEN
Saturday
“Seattle Police, K-9 Unit. Announce yourself.” Officer Rick Powell’s voice boomed through the open door. “If you do not announce yourself, we will send in the dog. If you surrender now, you will not be harmed!”
Rick kept the leash taut and his hand steady on his K-9 partner’s back. The dog’s training held him still, but Rick knew the Belgian Malinois wanted to go, his muscles quivering to be set free to work again. Only absolute devotion to Rick held the dog back.
Kneeling beside him, Rick crooned the German command for stay and stroked the fur along Axle’s back. I understand, buddy. I’m ready to work, too.
The city block surrounding the early-twentieth-century brick town house had been cordoned off. SWAT team members were poised for action, waiting for the signal that would allow them to penetrate the building, too eager to capture the killer inside to mind the pouring rain running down their stoic faces. Intel indicated the suspect was home and hiding. If their information was correct, then he would soon be calling prison home. Rick believed it was more than he deserved, and it was about time.
“Ready?” Sergeant Terrell Watkins asked Rick.
“Very,” Rick answered.
Terrell was Rick’s supervisor, but the two had been friends for a long time. It was Rick’s first day back on regular duty after an extensive medical leave, and Terrell knew better than any of the others around him how important it was to Rick to be back in the field.
Rick nodded his head in the direction of a wiry man pacing the sidewalk behind the two of them. “But maybe not quite as ready as Shelton is to get this guy.”
Terrell’s gaze followed where Rick pointed and chuckled. “No kidding.”
Detective Gary Shelton deserved the credit for cracking this case. Three unsolved and particularly gruesome murders had terrified the city of Seattle for over a year. It was Shelton who had finally identified Julian Hale as the man responsible for the deaths of those women. And it was Julian Hale whom they believed was hiding inside this town house now.
Investigating the killings had consumed the detective’s life, and bringing Hale to justice had become Shelton’s personal mission. They were so close to making that happen. Rick leaned forward, anxious to serve this warrant. He hoped that capturing Hale would allow Shelton some much-earned peace.
Rick called his warning into the house once again, his voice even louder and deeper. “You are surrounded. Announce yourself now.”
Axle squirmed, his tail thumping on the doorjamb. The dog knew it was go time.
Stroking Axle’s fur, Rick’s fingers brushed across the healed scar running along the dog’s side. Rick had similar scars across his own abdomen. A quick flood of panic raced through his body. Were they both ready to face what was about to go down? Don’t go there. This is a new start, no wallowing in the past.
“This is your last chance to surrender.” Rick’s warning echoed into the house, answered only by silence. He unclasped Axle’s leash, but kept his hand firm on the dog’s back, containing him. Axle’s tail thumped harder and faster. No answer came. No one exited the building.
No more chances.
Axle’s muscles quivered in anticipation. Rick might have doubts, but Axle didn’t. The dog whined as if to say, “Let me go!”
Pride for Axle pushed away the panic. After a confrontation with human traffickers had left both Axle and Rick near death, the dog had defied all the odds and all of the claims that he would never recover. It was only their first day back, but Rick knew that Axle was stronger than ever and more than capable of doing what was needed. He drew strength from Axle and raised his hand, shouting the command to search. “Reveire!”
That one word ignited the built-up energy within Axle’s body, propelling the dog forward off his haunches. He disappeared into the house as the men outside waited for barking to alert them to the hidden suspect’s location. After several moments of silence, they couldn’t wait any longer. The SWAT commander’s signal sent Rick and the rest of the Metro team crashing into the house with weapons raised.
The baritone shouts of “Police!” and the urgent calls of “Go, go, go!” harmonized with the high crystal notes of shattering glass, all of it fueling Rick’s adrenaline. He caught sight of Axle and trailed after the dog through the chaos, tuning his ears for the sound of barks. Come on, Axle, show me where the bad guy is hiding.
Between the men and the dog, the systematic search of the small town house didn’t last long. Shout after shout of “Clear!” filled Rick with more disappointment. His sense of justice cried to see this man in handcuffs. Julian Hale had to be in here somewhere.
Rick followed Axle up the stairs to a landing, where he spotted a pull-down attic entrance in the ceiling. He lowered the trapdoor, revealing a wooden staircase. Could Hale be hiding in the attic? Rick trained his gun on the stairs and called out his standard warning one more time. He gave Hale no longer than a heartbeat to comply, then shouted the command to go ahead: “Axle, geh voraus!”
Rick envied the dog’s unwavering bravery. Without a second of hesitation, Axle shot up the stairs, eager for a new area to search as if he couldn’t remember the stabbing they had both lived through. Rick remembered clearly the streetlights flickering off the slashing blade, the sight of Axle airborne, latching his teeth into the man wielding the knife, the feel of pain so searing Rick hadn’t been able to believe it was his own. It would all be forever embedded in his memory.
But Axle was right. Those memories had nothing to do with the job at hand. There was a serial killer loose. Getting Julian Hale behind bars before he hurt someone again was the only thing Rick should be thinking about. Axle was relying on his training, and appeared as unwilling to admit defeat as his human coworkers. Taking the dog’s lead, Rick shook away the bad memories clouding his mind and focused.
He crouched low, taking the stairs much slower than Axle had done. Although he was convinced by this point that Hale probably wasn’t up there, he wasn’t taking any chances. He bent and entered the attic space gun first, his eyes fighting to adjust in the dim light coming from a window in the sloped ceiling. The gray drizzle outside made it even darker, but soon his eyes were able to make out the layout of the room.
The attic had been remodeled from its original intended storage space. Two overstuffed chairs and a small love seat were arranged into a conversational sitting space in the
