Santa Rosa County,Florida
Ryder Creed had a bad feeling about this search.
It started as a prickling sensation raising the hair at the back of his neck. He couldn’t ignore it even as he raced to catch up with his dog. Already he regretted not putting Bolo on a leash.
The dog’s sleek, lean body weaved through the trees, sprinting into the woods. The Rhodesian Ridgeback had long legs that leaped and glided. He slowed to drag his nose over some shrubs. His glances back at Creed were only a courtesy to see if his handler was keeping up. He huffed as if to say, “Nope, not here.” Even then the dog didn’t stop and trotted on, this time faster.
Creed struggled to keep the dog in sight. His boots crashed through the prickly undergrowth that snagged his jeans and threatened to trip him. He could no longer hear the sheriff and deputy behind him.
Hell, he couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart and the tromping of his feet.
When the crunch underfoot switched from snapped twigs to broken glass, his stomach fell to his knees.
Bolo’s paws.
Creed’s gut instinct was right. He should never have let Bolo off-leash for this search. Not here in unfamiliar territory.
Fallen leaves barely concealed the garbage dumped on the forest’s floor. Bottles, cans, plastic takeout containers littered the area. Chunks of concrete, a rusted dishwasher, a ripped-up recliner—the trash heap was deeper here. None of it slowed down his dog.
Then suddenly, Creed couldn’t see him at all.
“Bolo!” He tried to level his tone, but the panic spilled into his voice.
A handler never sends his dog into a dangerous terrain, no matter how capable and sturdy the dog was. What was he thinking?
There was a surprised yelp. And Creed skidded to a stop.
He held his breath, not an easy task with his chest heaving and his heart pounding.
Another shriek. High pitched.
But it was human. Not dog! He was certain.
It didn’t matter. Creed’s pulse began racing faster. That prickle at the back of his neck was on fire.
“Bolo, heel,” he shouted though he still didn’t see his dog.
This was not good.
Creed tripped over a discarded microwave tangled in the brush. He caught himself before he fell. Hands outstretched to take on the impact smacked against a tree trunk instead. The stitch in his side suggested he stop. The same place where a recent knife injury was still healing. And despite the pounding that had moved from his chest to his head, he could hear his business partner, Hannah saying, “Rye, you really don’t understand what rest yourself means, do you?”
Beyond the branches, Creed could clearly see a mattress teetering on the debris pile beneath it. On the other side was the Ridgeback. Bolo stood in front of a man who had obviously just minutes ago sprung from the dirty mattress, and now was pressed up against a huge live oak.
“Bolo,” Creed called to him. His voice hitched as he sucked in air and tried to catch his breath. “Bolo...heel.”
It wasn’t the correct command, and the dog pinned his ears as if waiting for Creed to get it right. Bolo cut his eyes toward his handler without moving the rest of his body and without taking his attention away from his target.
Behind him, Creed heard voices and footsteps. Sheriff Norwich and her deputy were finally catching up. The man against the tree stayed put, arms dropped to his sides. Legs spread. Eyes wide. Creed suspected Bolo had frightened him awake. He was feeling sorry for the guy until he saw the man’s arm slowly rise.
How had Creed missed seeing the knife in the guy’s hand?
“Hey, stop! The dog’s not gonna hurt you. He’s a scent detection dog. He’s not a police dog.”
“What’s going on?”
It was Norwich. Creed could hear the snap of a holster.
“Sir, drop the knife.”
But the man wasn’t listening. He hadn’t even acknowledged their presence. Instead, he glared at Bolo, his body frozen in place. He leaned awkwardly against the tree. Without warning, he launched himself forward, swiping the knife at Bolo.
The dog yelped, and Creed broke into a sprint. He dived over the dirty mattress between them, knocking the man backwards. The guy sprawled over a holly bush, but he hadn’t dropped the knife.
Creed struggled to get to his knees. That stitch in his side told him to wait. Bolo brushed against him, his nose lifting Creed’s arm, checking on him. But now, Bolo’s ears pitched forward. His eyes shifted to the man with only a glance back to Creed as if asking, You want me to take this guy down?
“No, Bolo. Stand down.”
Creed grabbed the dog’s vest. He wanted to see if the knife had cut his dog, but instead, he dug his fingers around a strap, getting a tight hold and pulling back just enough to let Bolo know to stay put.
The dog was overly protective of Creed. He was thin, but lean, all muscle and stronger than he looked. He had taken down bigger men than this guy, all in defense of his handler. But the man didn’t seem to get the message. He scrambled back to his feet. His eyes wild and focused on the dog. His hand ready to swipe.
Bolo began to tug. Hard. A low growl started deep in his throat.
“Drop the knife,” Norwich yelled.
Creed felt the deputy behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the service revolver, steady and leveled at the guy’s chest, center-mass. And yet, he still ignored her.
“Drop the knife. Now,” Norwich said, coming in closer.
The man was young, maybe early twenties. His hair flopped around his face, thick and unruly. It was hard to tell what color his dirt-gray T-shirt used to be. There was something about his eyes that Creed didn’t like. They darted around and kept skittering back to Bolo. It was more than just being startled awake, and Creed wondered if he was high on something. Which made him even more dangerous.
“I wasn’t trying to hurt nobody. I was aiming for the dog.”
Creed wanted to yell that was why he tackled him, but Norwich beat him to it.
“Well, sir, this dog is an officer of the law.” Norwich sounded calm but very much the voice of authority. The man’s eyes immediately flicked to hers, a glimpse of concern floated across his face. “Attacking him,” she continued, “is no different than attacking one of us.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Creed and Bolo weren’t law enforcement. They were independent contractors hired to conduct a search. But after dozens of searches over the years, he knew Sheriff Norwich considered him and his dogs a part of her team.
“The stupid dog attacked me. I was just minding my own business. Taking a nap. That dog attacked me.” He gestured with the knife to make his point as if forgetting it was still in his hand.
“Hold on.” Creed heard Norwich say as he readjusted his own body to protect his dog.
It wasn’t until the sheriff stepped forward that Creed realized she wasn’t telling the guy with the knife to “hold on.” She held her hand up to her deputy in a “stand down” motion. She did, however, have her own weapon in her other hand, dropped at her side and ready.
None of this seemed to matter to the guy with the knife. If anything, it made him more anxious. Ten feet away, Creed was close enough to get cut with another lunge. Close enough, he smelled the guy’s sweat. The right side of his face twitched, and so did the fingers around the knife’s handle.
Creed could sweep the guy’s feet out from under him if he didn’t have to worry about Bolo. The dog vibrated with his own pent-up energy, but he tapped the ground with his big front paws. His approach was always a straight-forward approach. Nothing fancy. Pure and simple. Bolo was alerting, telling Creed, Here you go. I found what you wanted.
But it wasn’t possible. This guy was definitely not the teenager they’d set out to find. Now, Creed regretted putting them in this predicament.
Then suddenly, Bolo tilted his head. His body went rigid. He heard the incoming threat before Creed could notice. It wasn’t until he saw the top of the tall grass rustling back in the distance.
Behind the guy with the knife. Behind the tree. Shrubs separated. Twigs snapped. Something was running toward them. And it was coming fast.