He was headed directly toward them. Rick signaled for Nitro to remain quiet, but the dog’s legs must have been cramping because he extended his hind rear leg. The minor movement across the dry grass was enough. The crunching sound had the figure slowing and raising his head to listen. Although neither Rick nor Nitro moved, and there was no further sound from their direction, that slight noise had spooked the runner. He took off at a right angle to where they were.
“Damn,” Rick exclaimed under his breath. He couldn’t call out for him to stop because that might alert some of the other runners. He’d have to chase him, and the runner looked slim, sure-footed and fast.
Rick took off after him. He was quick, but with his body armor and other equipment, he was carrying a good seventy-five pounds of extra weight. The runner was widening the gap between them and there was no way Rick was going to catch him, short of shedding his body armor and equipment. And that wasn’t happening. He signaled to Nitro, who was loping along at his side. “Apprehend.” He whispered the command and pointed at the figure now at least two hundred yards ahead of them.
Nitro shot off like a bullet, his run as fluid as any Rick had ever seen. There was no energy wasted on vertical motion of his shoulders or flanks. He streaked in a straight and level line toward his target.
Rick couldn’t see that far in the muted light, but he knew when Nitro reached the runner. He could hear the grunt, strangely high-pitched, and saw his silhouette floundering while he tried to maintain his balance. Finally, he fell over and out of view in the tall grass. Rick heard the crash when his body connected with the ground.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RICK CAUGHT UP to Nitro as fast as he could. The dogs were trained in apprehension, with “targets” wearing arm and body protectors to avoid having their skin pierced. In real-life circumstances, there was no such protection, and although the dogs’ intention wasn’t to harm, the longer they held and detained their targets, the more likely injury could result.
Rick’s heart was racing by the time he reached Nitro and the runner, but it skipped a couple of beats when he did get there.
“Out, Nitro. Out!” he ordered the dog.
Nitro obeyed the command and released his target. Rick grabbed the runner by the collar of his jacket, pushed up his sleeve and did a quick check of the arm Nitro had been holding. There were some scrapes and a bit of blood, but nothing serious.
He yanked the runner up to his full height. But the runner immediately started flaying and kicking to try to gain his freedom.
He was a kid—a young one at that—just over five feet tall and skinny, likely no more than ninety pounds.
“Whoa! Take it easy,” Rick ordered. “Tómalo con calma,” he repeated in Spanish, but his words only caused the kid to fight harder to free himself.
“I wasn’t doin’ nothin’,” the kid spat in halting English.
“Yeah, I bet.” When the kid’s foot connected solidly with Rick’s shin, he swore and took a firmer hold of him. “Stop already! Keep this up and you’ll only make matters worse for yourself.”
“I didn’t do nothin’,” the kid mumbled, but his flapping slowed.
“Okay. So what’s in the bag?” Rick indicated the satchel.
“Nada. Nothin’.”
“We’ll see.” Rick instructed Nitro to check the boy and his possessions for drugs. Nitro sniffed all around the boy, circling him once, and sat to his right, staring at the satchel strapped around his chest.
“You know what that means, kid? It means the dog thinks there are drugs in your pouch.”
“No way. I don’t have no drugs!”
“Nitro here thinks you do, and he’s right over ninety-nine percent of the time. That’s almost a perfect record. He seems pretty sure of himself. You know what else? With his track record being what it is, in legal terms that gives me probable cause to search you. Do you understand?”
“Leave me alone,” the kid muttered, and renewed his efforts to break free of Rick’s hold.
“Listen to me carefully,” Rick said in his most authoritative tone. “This is important, and I’m only going to say it once. Got it?”
Obviously intimidated, the kid nodded.
“I’m going to release my hold on you, but don’t think about running. My partner here—” he pointed at Nitro “—is going to watch you. If he thinks you’re planning to bolt, he’ll take you down again. Do you understand?”
“Sí.”
“Good. We understand each other.” Rick gave Nitro the signal for “wait” and cautiously released his grip on the kid. He held out his hand for the satchel and was pleased when the kid passed it to him, albeit with a nasty look. Keeping his peripheral vision on the kid, he opened the flap and wasn’t surprised to find what must have amounted to at least two kilos of cocaine wrapped in plastic. Rick dipped his small finger in to get a trace amount. He touched his finger to his tongue, then spat on the ground. It was definitely cocaine. He brushed the residue remaining on his finger on the coarse grass.
All bluster had deserted the kid. He wouldn’t make eye contact, his shoulders had sagged and, unless Rick was mistaken, he was ready to burst into tears. “How old are you?”
“No es asunto tuyo,” he said, but the meekness of his voice belied the bravado of his words.
“You’re wrong. Since the amount you’re carrying means this is a serious felony, how old you are does make a difference in terms of what I do with you. If you weren’t a minor, you could be locked up for years.”
The kid glanced at him briefly with terror in his eyes. “Catorce. Fourteen.”
“And your name?”
He squirmed visibly.
“How about just your first name?”
“Matías,” he mumbled.
“All right, Matías, where were you going with this?” He held up the satchel.
“To meet a man in front of a coffee shop and give it to him.”
“Do you know the man’s name?”
“Not his name. Just that I answer when he calls me Manuel.”
“Is that your real name? Manuel?”
He shook his head. “No. I am Matías. But Manuel is what they said he would call me.”
Rick went on to ask about who “they” were, trying to get as much information from the kid as he could about the cartel. Matías didn’t know much. He was just a pawn and utterly petrified at this point. Rick radioed in what he’d learned, hoping they’d be able to catch the kid’s contact. “Why do you do it?” Rick asked finally, eyeing the sickly yellow-purple bruise on the boy’s cheek.
“My familia, they make me.” He cast his eyes to the ground. “For the dinero. The money. If I don’t do it, my father hits me.”
Rick was feeling sorrier for the kid by the second. “Do you keep any of the money?”
“No!” He looked dismayed at the suggestion. “Padre takes it all.”
Rick couldn’t help thinking back to his own circumstances in Tijuana when he’d been just a little younger than Matías. If his parents had lived and he’d stayed, he had no doubt he would’ve been forced to run drugs, too.
“After you handed over the pouch to the man, what were you going to do?”
Matías kicked a pebble at his feet. “You know. Go home to my familia.”
Rick could read the lie as clearly as if it was written on Matías’s face in indelible ink. He sighed. “Let’s try that again.”
Matías had obviously reached his breaking point. “I was gonna run away. Stay in California.” He sniffled.
The similarity to his own early life grabbed Rick by the throat and threatened to choke him. “And what then? What were you planning to do?”
“I dunno. Maybe get a job.” He looked up and his eyes shone, not with tears but with determination. “Go to school. Make
money.”
“You know smuggling drugs is illegal?”
“Sí,” he acknowledged, and hung his head.
“And you know it’s also illegal to enter the United States without proper authorization?”
“Sí...”
The kid was completely dejected. The bravado had deflated right before Rick’s eyes. “Even though you’re a minor—young,” he clarified at the questioning look, “there are still consequences, ah...consecuencias?”
Matías had no words left. He nodded mutely. “I’m sorry, señor.”
Rick looked around him, ascertaining there were no other cops in sight. He wondered, as he always did at this juncture, if he what he was doing was right. It certainly wasn’t the legal thing, but he felt he had no choice. “Matías, I’m going to keep your bag...”
“No, señor! I’ll be in big trouble.” The panic was evident on his face, in his voice. “My father will kill me.”
Rick wasn’t sure if Matías was exaggerating or not, but hoped the kid wouldn’t have to find out. “Let me finish. I’m going to keep your bag. I’ll need to turn it in. I’ll say I found it. Nitro and I are going to walk back there.” He indicated the direction they’d come from, where they’d set up their surveillance. “When we get there and I turn around, I don’t want to see you. Got that, Matías?”
The kid nodded with fervor. “Sí, señor. Thank you very much.”
“Do the right thing, kid. Go find an organization called Child Services, okay? They’ll help you. Do something worthwhile with your life. Not drugs. There’s no life there.” With those parting words, he called Nitro and they headed back to their surveillance post.
In these circumstances, Rick didn’t uphold the law the way he’d sworn to do, but how could he in good conscience? He knew what would have happened to the kid if he’d turned him in. The consequences would be even more dire if he’d sent him back to go to his father empty-handed. He thought of the livid bruise on the kid’s face. Maybe it wasn’t a stretch to think his father would’ve killed him. Rick hoped that rather than going back, Matías would choose to keep going forward and he’d find a life in California.
He wished the kid well.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MADISON STOOD BESIDE the aqua therapy tank at the San Diego Animal Rehabilitation Center. It was a huge glass-walled tank, with metal supports, fitted with a hydro-treadmill.
Zeke stood in the middle of the tank, the warm water halfway up his torso, his favorite squeaky chew toy clamped in his mouth. To help him feel more at ease and guide him if he needed it, one of the center’s technicians stood in the water with the dog.
“He seems comfortable enough,” the technician, Gordon, said.
Madison nodded. “Yes, he seems pretty relaxed. Ready for the treadmill?”
“Yeah.”
Madison pushed the appropriate combination of buttons on the control panel, and the underwater conveyor started slowly. It alarmed Zeke and he faltered, but Gordon kept his hands on him, steady and soothing, and Zeke began walking slowly.
“Let’s keep it at this pace until he gets used to it. Maybe for the whole session today, since it’s his first time.”
“Good idea,” Gordon agreed.
After a short period of uncertainty, Zeke seemed to adjust to the slow walk. Madison heard the door open. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled broadly. She’d told Rick that she planned to start Zeke on aqua therapy today and suggested that if he could find the time, he was welcome to watch. “I’m glad you were able to stop by,” she said as he strode over.
She was sure he was about to give her a kiss, but she didn’t feel comfortable with it in front of Gordon. Rick must have read the look in her eyes, because he straightened and instead leaned his forearms on the top rail of the tank. Madison made the introductions. Rick greeted Zeke, too, and the dog showed his pleasure with a tail wag and, toy still in his mouth, a muffled bark. Madison was pleased to see that he didn’t stumble on the treadmill. He maintained the steady gait she’d set for him.
“How’s he doing?” Rick asked.
“Well. Really well, for his first time in the tank.”
They watched Zeke for a few minutes, then Rick broke the silence. “Okay, you have to excuse my ignorance, but what does walking in the water do for him that a normal walk wouldn’t?”
“Let’s just go for a few more minutes, Gordon. We don’t want to overdo it today,” Madison said before she turned to Rick. “Aqua therapy’s been proved effective in rehabilitating injured or elderly dogs, and helps strengthen the patient’s muscles without causing undue stress. The water buoyancy decreases excessive force on the joints and provides resistance for the range of motion.”
Rick looked back at Zeke. “He seems to be enjoying it.”
“They usually do. We keep the water warm, and that aids with pain management, increases blood flow and circulation and helps with the elasticity of soft tissue. It means he’s more comfortable in the tank. Plus, we can adjust the water height to accommodate any size animal. We can customize the workout to each patient’s specific needs. Okay, that’s it for today, Gordon,” she said to the tech, then punched a few buttons and started draining the water from the tank.
Released from the tank, Zeke shook off the water and hobbled over to Rick. Rick scratched and rubbed him to the dog’s delight, but raised his eyes to meet Madison’s. “He’s limping badly. Did the exercise hurt him?”
Madison placed a towel on Zeke’s back and began drying him gently. “He might feel a bit of discomfort, but no, it didn’t hurt him. With aqua therapy, most patients are more likely to use an affected limb when they’re standing or walking underwater, and we often observe an improvement on land after just one session of underwater treadmill walking.” She tossed the damp towel into a hamper and ran a hand affectionately along Zeke’s back. “We’ll see if that holds true for this boy. I’m hoping the treadmill exercise will provide a quicker return to normal than would be possible otherwise. It has the added advantage of being an energy outlet for him.” She clipped the leash to his collar and handed it to Gordon. “Would you walk him around a bit for me? I’d like to see how it affected his gait.”
Gordon did as he was asked, and Madison and Rick watched Zeke while he moved around the room. Madison had been correct. He still favored his hind leg, but he wasn’t keeping it completely off the ground. Still, she didn’t want him to overexert himself.
“Thanks, Gordon,” she said, and kneeled to call Zeke to her for some well-deserved hugs. “Please take him back to his pen and give him some treats. Do another session with him today—same speed and duration—before his owner picks him up, okay?”
Gordon nodded.
As she was about to follow Gordon out of the room, Rick placed a hand on her arm. She gazed up at him.
“Thank you.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you for what you’re doing for Zeke. For what you do for all our dogs. For caring.”
Madison was breathless, looking into Rick’s deep, coal-dark eyes. He dealt with violence—with the ugly underbelly of society—every day. Yet here he was, with emotion evident on his face, thanking her for doing what she loved, for taking care of animals that needed help. She raised a hand and placed it gently on his cheek, feeling the day-old bristle scrape against her palm.
She wanted to explain to him that thanks weren’t necessary. That she did what she did because she couldn’t do anything but. “I’m happy I could help Zeke” were the soft, simple words that came out.
Madison was finished for the day and so was Rick. The
y drove to a small coffee shop by the oceanfront.
Madison ordered a regular and Rick a decaffeinated coffee. They took their coffees to a corner table by the window and chatted for a while.
“You don’t want the kick of caffeine?” she asked.
“Oh, I love my coffee strong and I get enough of a jolt in the morning to last me. If I drank it caffeinated all day long, I’d be bouncing off the walls. I don’t need that kind of stimulant,” he said with a smile.
She smiled, too, but his comment made her recall something he’d said a while ago, about his exposure to the world of drugs when he was a child, and that made her think of the discussion she’d had with his mother, Hillary, about Rick being adopted. His early life had to define him in some ways, and she wanted to understand. “Your childhood. It couldn’t have been easy,” she said tentatively.
He finished his coffee, and to her astonishment, he laughed. “That’s an understatement!”
Madison cleared her throat and finished her coffee, too, not knowing quite what to say.
Rick took her hand in his. The smile was gone from his face. “Come walk with me.”
His grasp on her hand was light, but she felt the tension radiating from him.
Once they were outside strolling along the boardwalk, he said, “Let me tell you a story.”
She nodded when he glanced at her. “You already know I was born in Tijuana and lived there until my early teens.”
She nodded again.
“Suffice it to say that it was not an easy childhood. Tijuana is a drug-cartel stronghold. A city with high levels of gang violence, especially during the heyday of the drug cartels when I was a kid. They’ve curtailed crime considerably, but it was very different when I was growing up. My father...” His voice drifted off.