A young woman in a red vest smiles and greets us at the front of the store.
“We’re looking for Myron the groomer,” Chance says.
The woman’s smile drops.
“Oh, um, just a moment. I’ll have to—”
She takes out a radio.
“Ask her what she’s doing,” I tell Chance.
“Who are you calling?”
A moment later, the supervisor from earlier comes around the corner in loud heels. She’s whispering into her cell phone, so I turn an ear in her direction.
“I think it’s the Nine,” she says. “Yes, I understand, sir.”
What is the Nine?
She hangs up and approaches us with a fake smile.
“I’m Dolores. How can I help you today, young man? And young dog?”
“We’re looking for Magic Myron.”
Dolores and the greeter exchange glances.
The greeter says, “We have other groomers on staff who—”
“Myron is our favorite,” Chance says. “He gets along with my dog really well.”
“Myron isn’t working today,” Dolores says.
But we saw Myron this morning.
I exchange looks with Chance. “Ask her when we can come back,” I say.
“Could we make an appointment for another day?” Chance asks.
Dolores taps her heel nervously.
“I’m afraid he’ll be gone for a while,” Dolores says.
“Let’s get out of here,” I tell Chance.
“We’ll come back another time,” Chance says, expertly picking up my cue.
Chance and I speedwalk toward the front of the store.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I have a bad feeling.”
We pass the kind security guard who was on duty earlier. He motions for us to come over.
“You’re looking for Myron, right?”
“He’s our favorite groomer,” Chance says.
“He’s everyone’s favorite. But he had an accident.”
“What kind of accident?” Chance asks, surprised.
I hear the squeal of brakes outside the store and the sound of a heavy vehicle stopping too quickly.
“The kind you shouldn’t ask questions about,” the guard says through gritted teeth.
He leans toward us and his voice drops to a whisper.
“You have to get out of here. They pay people in the store to spy for them.”
“Who pays them?” Chance asks.
Before the guard can answer, the PA system crackles.
“Attention, customers, the store is closing. Please exit through the back immediately.”
Confused pets and owners make their way to the back of the store.
“Why the back?” Chance asks.
“I warned you,” the guard says, and he walks away.
“Let’s go out the front,” I tell Chance. “Right now.”
Chance follows me through the door, and I let out an involuntary yelp.
The parking lot is filled with blue Animal Control vans in a large semicircle facing the front entrance of PetStar. Dozens of AC officers wait by the vans, using them for cover. Most of them have black zappers in their hands. The air sizzles with electricity.
“Back inside!” I shout to Chance.
I turn and see Dolores locking the door behind us, then running into the depths of the store.
“I knew I didn’t like her,” I say.
“The guard was telling the truth about the spies,” Chance says.
I look at the multiple vans surrounding us. I don’t think there are this many Animal Control vehicles in all of Los Angeles County. Who are these people, and what do they want from us?
In the rear of the parking lot the commander of the Animal Control officers stands on the roof of a blue jeep.
“Stay where you are,” she announces through a megaphone.
“How did they find us so fast?” Chance asks.
“Dolores made a call when she heard we were there.”
I think it’s the Nine, sir.
“You’re surrounded,” the AC commander announces. “Walk slowly toward the officers and you won’t be harmed.”
“Do you believe her?” Chance asks, panic in his voice.
I look at the zappers and remember what happened at the group home.
I don’t answer Chance because I don’t want to scare him, but I know one thing for sure. We have to get out of here.
I scan the parking lot, trying to find an escape route. There’s a tight cordon of officers, their trucks parked nose-to-nose, blocking every exit. If I were alone, I might be able to dodge their weapons and leap over the vans, but I have Chance with me, and I can’t risk him getting hurt.
“There’s nowhere to go,” the commander says. “You have to surrender.”
On the edge of the parking lot, a black Honda Accord sideswipes an Animal Control van and races into the center of the cordon. Its horn beeps as it heads straight for us.
I bark loudly to warn Chance, and he screams and jumps back.
The Accord swerves at the last second and screeches to a stop barely a foot in front of us. The passenger side window is open.
“Get in!” a girl shouts.
“It’s the girl from the Apple Store!” Chance says.
Sure enough, Junebug is in the driver’s seat, blue-striped hair shining in the sun.
“Hop in the back,” Junebug shouts, and she revs the engine.
The commander roars into the megaphone. “You in the car. Throw the keys out the window and exit the vehicle.”
“Come on!” Junebug says. “We gotta Command-Option-Escape.”
“What do we do?” Chance asks me.
I don’t fully trust Junebug, but she seems like our best option right now.
“Get in!” I tell Chance.
Chance throws open the back door, and I leap into the car. He jumps in behind me and a second later we’re in motion, Junebug pressing the gas and accelerating through the parking lot, heading straight for one of the Animal Control vans.
“Put on your seat belts!” she says.
Chance quickly snaps himself in and puts a seat belt over my shoulder.
“We’re gonna crash into that van!” Chance shouts.
“Oh, please,” Junebug says, and she jerks the wheel at the last second, squeezing into a narrow space between two vans, so tight that the Accord scrapes both bumpers and sparks fly.
“So much for my dad’s insurance premiums,” she says.
We burst through the cordon, jump a curb, and land hard on the street beyond the parking lot. The tires skid and catch asphalt, and Junebug slams the gas, shooting up Lincoln Boulevard as we make our escape.