ENRIQUE FLINCHED AT the burst of gunfire. That slight motion nearly made him lose his balance. He’d been hiding in the corner of his closet for a while, as high up as possible, bracing himself with his back against one wall and his feet against the facing wall. It wasn’t the first time he’d hidden there, trying to avoid discovery, but at twelve he was almost too big to fit. His muscles spasmed from the exertion. He rubbed his thigh, trying to get the blood circulating.
The next round of gunfire sounded as if it came from the hall. Despite the stifling heat in the dark, cramped space, he felt icy perspiration on his brow. The door to his room banged open, accompanied by a rapid exchange in Spanish and the clatter of booted feet rushing in. He bit down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. He heard a swooshing sound, which he guessed was the cover being torn off his bed; under it, he’d stuffed a couple of pillows to resemble a body. He’d prayed they’d take their shot and not bother to check if he was there.
He wasn’t that lucky.
A loud crash—likely a piece of furniture toppling—startled him. Movement halted as the cartel enforcer yelled again to someone outside the room.
Then he heard heavy footsteps approaching. His closet door was yanked open and light flooded in. Looking sideways, he saw the barrel of a machine gun slide in and ruffle the hanging clothes that were concealing him.
The barrel paused a mere six inches from his hip. He knew he was as good as dead if they found him. Petrified, the boy held his breath...
And waking from his nightmare, the man bolted up in bed, drenched in sweat and gasping for air.
Rick Vasquez raked back the damp hair from his forehead with both hands and glanced at the glowing red numerals of his bedside clock. Still shy of five in the morning. He’d barely had three hours’ sleep, but getting any more was out of the question. This was not how he’d hoped to start his day.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, he gave himself a moment to let the vestiges of the nightmare fade and his heart rate level out.
Sniff, his narcotics-detection canine partner, scurried to his side and nuzzled him.
Rick straightened and stroked the yellow Labrador retriever’s head. He felt Sniff’s tension subside. He and Sniff had been working together since the day he’d joined the San Diego Police Department’s K-9 Unit six years ago. They were as connected as it was possible for any man and dog to be. The contact steadied him as much as the dog.
Sniff slid down and stretched out across Rick’s bare feet, head nestled between his paws.
Rick exhaled heavily. It had been a while since he’d had the nightmare. He recalled the fourteen-year-old kid he’d caught the night before, crossing the San Ysidro border from Tijuana into San Diego with a kilo of marijuana, and he should’ve expected that the nightmare would revisit him.
He gently nudged Sniff off his feet and stood. Placing his hands on the small of his back, he stretched and yawned. He wasn’t due at work until the evening shift, but he’d go in and have a strenuous workout to clear his mind. He had plenty of time before he and Sniff were scheduled to be at La Valencia High School for their drug-abuse awareness session. His yawn turned into a smile. He and Sniff loved the work they did counseling inner-city youth about the dangers of drug use. If, through their efforts, they managed to keep just one kid from using or selling drugs, that made it worthwhile. But he hoped their influence was much wider-reaching than one kid.
Rick tugged on a pair of gym shorts and a San Diego Police Department T-shirt that had seen better days before letting Sniff out in the backyard. He winced at the dog’s awkward little hop as he navigated the final step of the deck. He’d make a point of taking him to the veterinarian again, although there wasn’t much that could be done for the dog’s morning stiffness.
It was all part of the aging process, he acknowledged philosophically but with regret. He had to face it: Sniff was no longer a young dog. Police dogs tended to be retired early because they had a dangerous and demanding job. Sniff was exceptional at what he did and enjoyed doing it. That was the main reason Rick hadn’t already initiated the process to retire him, but well aware of Sniff’s physical limitations, Rick was careful not to overexert him.
Maybe it was time. Sniff had more than earned the right to retire, Rick thought as he stuffed street clothes into his duffel.
After Sniff had his breakfast, Rick helped him into the back of his police-issue Ford Explorer. On the way to the division, he pulled into a Starbucks to grab a breakfast sandwich and a coffee. Before he had a chance to indulge in his meal, his radio signaled.
“We have a situation,” the dispatcher announced.
Rick took a sip of his coffee and cursed as the hot liquid burned his tongue. In sharp contrast, apprehension chilled his skin.
“What kind of situation?”
“We have an officer down.”
The chill slithered up his spine. Rick knew it would be one of his team if they were contacting him. “Who?” he inquired.
The voice on the other end was barely audible. “It’s Jeff.”
“What happened?” Jeff Bradford was one of his best officers and specialized in narcotics, just as he did. Rick prayed the injury wasn’t serious.
“We received a tip at oh-four-hundred this morning about a drug shipment coming in. We