Chapter 11 - The Rogue Run
The roar of twin four-wheel-drive engines ripped through the peaceful silence of the forest three hundred yards down the mountain.
Through the rain-streaked window of the cabin, I watched two matte-black Chevy Suburbans crawl up the overgrown logging trail. They had killed their sirens and headlights, moving in the gray morning twilight like mechanical ghosts.
These weren't King County deputies. Deputies would have had lightbars flashing, loudhailers blaring commands for surrender.
These men moved in tight tactical formations, spilling out from the trucks wearing sterile black combat fatigues, Kevlar helmets, and carrying suppressed short-barreled rifles. Six men. Private contractors. The cleanup crew sent to finish what the municipal warrant couldn't.
"Titan, down," I murmured.
The Malinois dropped instantly, his chest pressed flat against the floorboards behind the heavy stone fireplace, invisible from the outside. His black muzzle was silent, his nostrils flaring as he processed the scent of gun oil, wet nylon, and synthetic rubber drifting up on the cold updraft.
The lead contractor signaled with two fingers. Four men split into pairs to flank the cabin’s perimeter, while the leader and his point man moved straight toward the rotten cedar porch.
They weren't planning on taking prisoners. The man on the left pulled a concussion grenade from his chest rig, pulling the pin with his thumb.
I didn't give them the chance to breach.
I leveled my Benelli M4 through the front window frame and pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The heavy double-aught buckshot shattered the old glass, catching the point man square in the ballistic chest plate, the kinetic energy lifting him off his boots and throwing him off the porch into the muddy gravel.
"Contact front!" someone screamed outside.
Suppressed automatic fire immediately tore through the front wall of the cabin. Wood splinters exploded like shrapnel, antique pictures shattering, the tin kettle on the woodstove violently venting steam as three rounds punched through its side.
"Titan, flank right! GO!"
Titan exploded out the back kitchen door, an untraceable blur of black and tan tearing into the dense ferns.
I dropped to a crawl, rolling through the side pantry, kicking open the low cellar door that led into the crawlspace beneath the floor. Bullets continued to shred the living room above my head, the contractors stepping onto the porch to lay down suppressing fire.
Outside, a sharp, terrified shriek echoed from the east tree line.
Titan had rounded the perimeter, striking from the blind spot of the flanking team. He didn't engage in a prolonged grapple; he used the terrain, hitting the rear rifleman at thirty miles an hour, his jaws locking onto the contractor’s gun hand, ripping the rifle free into the brush before disappearing back into the thick cedar trees like a ghost.
"Where is it?! Shoot that damn dog!" the team leader yelled, swinging his rifle toward the misty trees.
His distraction was my opening.
I rose from the side foundation, bringing the Benelli up, firing two successive rounds into the engine blocks of both Suburbans. The heavy copper slugs cracked the radiators and shattered the steering linkages, disabling their transport in two violent deafening blasts.
The remaining two contractors turned their weapons toward me, but Titan struck again.
He lunged from the high embankment above the trail, landing full-force across the shoulders of the team leader. The hundred-pound impact drove the man face-down into the jagged granite rocks. The leader’s rifle skittered down the ravine, his helmet flying off as Titan pinned his neck to the mud with an iron paw, teeth hovered half an inch from his jugular, snarling with such ferocious intensity that the remaining contractor threw his hands into the air, dropping his weapon into the dirt.
"Don't move! Don't let him bite!" the surviving contractor screamed, his face sheet-white. "Call him off!"
"Titan, steady," I said, stepping forward, the smoking barrel of the shotgun leveled at the man’s eyes.
Titan didn't move an inch. His throat vibrated with a continuous, low-frequency roar, his amber eyes fixed on the throat of the man beneath him. The contractor’s chest heaved in terror, his fingers clawing at the mud, feeling the heat of my dog’s breath on his bare skin.
I reached down, stripped the radio headset from the downed leader, and clicked the transmission switch.
On the other end, an icy, polished voice spoke with an arrogant drawl: "Team One, status. Is the animal neutralized? Has the handler been secured?"
Councilman Raymond Cross.
I brought the radio to my lips. "The animal is healthy, Raymond. But your contractors are out of business."
A stunned, dead silence fell over the frequency.
May you like
"Marcus?" Cross’s voice shook slightly. "You're digging your own grave, Officer. You have no idea the scale of the people you're crossing."
"I know exactly who they are," I said, glancing at the captured rifles and the disabled trucks. "And Titan and I are coming for the trial."
