he commanded, and the Malinois took off, sprinting downstairs and out the door. Sirens were blaring, lights flashing on the pavement. Backup had arrived, but Justin ignored everything but his K-9 partner.
Please, God, don’t let it be too late for Portia, he begged silently as he followed Quinn around the side of the house and across the backyard. The night was cool, the moon high, and he could see Quinn easily, loping toward the woods at the edge of the yard. Confident, excited, tail up, ears alert, nose dropping to the ground every few yards.
The scent trail was fresh.
They were right on the heels of Boyd and Portia. With a dog as well trained as Quinn, it would be easy to overtake them. Portia would be moving slowly. At least, he thought she would be. She’d be dragging her feet, trying to slow progress, because she was smart, and she’d know just how much she could push before Boyd reacted.
That was what Justin was telling himself.
He didn’t know if it was true.
Sure, his daughter was smart—an A student who excelled at both math and English—but their bond was still tenuous and new, their knowledge of each other limited, and he really had no idea how she’d react to being kidnapped.
They reached the tree line, and Quinn trailed back toward Justin, then circled around a place where the grass seemed to have been smashed down and trampled.
“Looks like someone fell,” Gretchen said, flashing her light on the spot. He hadn’t expected her to stay at the house and wasn’t surprised that she’d followed him. Her methods of approaching crime scenes were spot-on. She’d been an MP for six of her nearly eight years in the air force. He’d seen her military record. She was well-known for her dedication and professionalism, and he’d seen both during her time at Canyon Air Force Base.
Right now, though, he didn’t want to spend time discussing the crime scene or working out the details of a plan. He wanted to find his daughter.
“You know that you can’t approach this any differently than you would if we were searching for someone else’s child,” she added, as if she’d read his thoughts and knew exactly what he intended.
“Kidnapped child,” he replied, but she was right. If he were searching for anyone other than Portia, he’d be meticulous as he surveyed the scene, approaching the situation logically rather than running on emotion and adrenaline.
He frowned.
Gretchen was right. He needed to slow down. He also needed to start thinking like a military police officer rather than a panicked father.
“But your comment is noted. I need to approach this like I would if it were any other case.”
“Do you think she fell on purpose?” Gretchen asked, her light dancing over the crushed grass and darting toward the woods that stretched out beyond his yard.
“Maybe. Portia knows what he’s capable of. She might have been trying to slow him down so that Quinn and I could catch up.”
“Smart girl,” she murmured, meeting his eyes. Hers were a dark rich chocolate, her features delicate and pretty. With her height and slim build, she wouldn’t have been out of place on a fashion runway. A few weeks ago, a drunken airman had made the mistake of underestimating her. She’d been trying to arrest him for disorderly conduct, and he’d taken a swing at her, laughing about how he wasn’t going to be taken down by a pretty little girl.
Seconds later, he’d been on the ground and in cuffs.
“Not so smart when she decided to blog about the Red Rose Killer,” Justin said, “but in every other area, she seems to have a good mind. Let’s hope she’s slowed him down enough for us to catch them.”
“He’s going to be expecting us to use Quinn. You know that, right? He’ll be watching, making sure that we’re not coming up from behind.”
“We don’t have any other option,” he said, watching as Quinn nosed the ground near an old spruce.
“What did he say in his text?” she asked.
“That he had her, and he’d give me three guesses as to where they were.”
“So, he thinks you’ll know where he’s taking her.”
“He likes to play games. You know that, Gretchen.”
“You two have a history together. I know he was here before he was dishonorably discharged. Did you have any run-ins with him? Maybe something happened in a particular location that stuck out in his mind?”
“We had plenty of run-ins. I was beginning as an MP. He was a cocky, insubordinate bully.”
“You had a high opinion of him even then, huh?”
“I don’t have time for a trip down memory lane.”
“You don’t have time not to take the trip. He said he’d give you three guesses. He must think you’ll be able to find him. It’s what he wants, right? Not Portia. You.”
She was right. Again.
“Right. We had a few run-ins. He was in a couple of fistfights with weaker recruits, and I broke things up. I caught him drinking once when he should have been in the barracks, and I wrote him up for that. I’m sure he can remember more incidents than that. He’s proven his memory and his ability to hold a grudge.”
“Is there any particular incident that stands out? Maybe one that got him into more trouble than any other. Or had the potential to.”
There was. He hadn’t thought about it in years, but his last run-in with Boyd had led to an investigation into his conduct. Eventually, his commanding officer had filed a complaint of insubordination because of Boyd’s attitude and inability to take orders. That had led to his dishonorable discharge, but Boyd had always blamed Justin.
“Yes,” he responded. “I caught him torturing a puppy once. He had free time on a weekend. I happened to be off duty and was hiking in the woods on base. I heard something yowling, and I followed the sound, thinking that maybe a fox or coyote had gotten itself into trouble. There’s a cabin about a mile from here. Hidden in the woods.”
“I’ve been there,” she said. He wasn’t surprised. The cabin had been on the property before the base existed. A hunting cabin or a rustic home built in the early 1900s, it had been left standing by the air force and was sometimes used as a hiding place during K-9 scent training.
“The sound was coming from there. I wasn’t trying to be quiet when I approached. I figured if there was an animal that wanted to get out before I arrived, I’d rather have it gone. Boyd walked out the door as I was crossing the clearing. He had a knife in a sheath on his thigh, and for a couple of seconds, I thought he might pull it on me. I asked what was going on, and he said he’d found a dog trapped in the chimney and freed it. He walked away. I went in the cabin, and found the German shepherd puppy. He was really young. Maybe nine or ten weeks old.”
“Was it dead?”
“No. His fur was singed, though. Like someone had been holding a match to it. I had no idea how he’d gotten there, and I still don’t. I brought him to the base vet and found out the poor guy had a broken hind leg and a couple of cracked ribs. He survived, and I fostered him until he was able to go into our working dogs training program. Scout is now one of the best German shepherds on the team, one of the four superstar K-9s. Or he was until Boyd released the dogs.”
“Scout is one of the three still missing?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“I’m assuming you turned Boyd in to your commanding officer after you found Scout?”
“Yes. He said nothing could be done without proof. I wasn’t satisfied with that. A guy who’d hurt an animal is just as likely to hurt a human being. I went to Boyd’s commander and told him the story. Boyd already had a history of insubordination.