Rick carried Zeke to his truck as fast as he dared. He didn’t want to jostle him too much, didn’t want to cause him more pain, or aggravate his injuries and blood loss. At his vehicle, he looked around quickly. Not wanting to set Zeke down only to have to lift him again, he needed help. He saw another cop from his division and called out, “Give me a hand, would you, Steve?”
The cop glanced at Zeke. His brows drew together and his mouth formed a hard, straight line. “It’s terrible what happened to Jeff. Is his dog going to be okay?”
“If I have anything to do with it, yeah. There’s a blanket on the floor just behind the passenger seat. Get it for me, and help me wrap it around Zeke. I want to stem the flow of blood, and keep him warm and still, if possible.”
“Sure.” The cop did as he was asked.
“Now recline that seat all the way.”
“Why don’t you put him in the back? Wouldn’t it be more comfortable for him?”
“My dog’s in there, and there isn’t room for both of them.” Almost as if on cue, a short bark and a whine came from the back compartment of the SUV. Sniff must have sensed Zeke’s presence and his distress.
“Besides, I want Zeke up front with me so I can keep an eye on him,” Rick added.
“All right,” Steve said, and complied with Rick’s directions.
They slid Zeke carefully onto the near-horizontal seat.
“Thanks, man. I owe you one,” Rick said, slapping the other cop on the back. Then he skirted his truck at a run.
He buckled himself in, put a reassuring hand briefly on Zeke’s head and turned on his lights. He needed to get Zeke to the Mission Bay Veterinary Clinic as swiftly and smoothly as possible. He called ahead to make sure they could see Zeke right away.
Despite the short interval, by the time Rick drove into the clinic’s parking lot, Zeke’s breathing had become shallow and labored. His eyes had drifted closed.
Rick carried the dog as fast as he could into the clinic.
“Oh, my gosh! What happened?” The receptionist—not Heather, the clinic’s regular one, but the college kid who filled in sometimes—sprang up from her desk and rushed around the counter.
“He’s been shot. As I told you on the phone, he needs attention right away.” Rick’s voice was hoarse with emotion. They couldn’t lose Zeke.
“Here! We’re ready for you.” She indicated an examination room and quickly opened the door for him. “You’re Sergeant Rick Vasquez, with the SDPD, correct?”
Rick laid Zeke down on the examination table. “Yeah. Good memory, but can you hurry, please? Zeke needs help urgently.”
“Okay, I’ll get Madison right now.”
Rick’s head whipped up. “What? Why not Jane? I need the best for Zeke.”
The girl took a stumbling step back. “I... I’m sorry, but Jane’s off this week.”
Rick fought to keep his temper in check, more for Zeke’s sake than the receptionist’s. He didn’t want the dog to be any more agitated than he already was. “What about Don, then?” He inquired about the other partner in the practice.
She shook her head. “He’s at a conference.”
“Fine,” Rick said tersely. “Get whoever you mentioned in here, then.” Recognizing the girl’s distress through his haze of anger and fear, he added in a more controlled voice, “As fast as possible, please.”
The girl nodded briskly and rushed out of the room.
Rick could see that Zeke’s condition had deteriorated considerably during transport. It made the wait seem interminable, although it couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes before the door finally swung open again.
Seeing the vet enter, he felt a jolt. His immediate reaction was elemental and hormone-driven. The woman standing in the doorway was of average height, with impressive curves obvious even in the boxy white lab coat, and she had long, curly red hair. When she introduced herself as Madison Long, he heard Texas in her sultry voice. He was unaccustomed to his shock at the sight of an attractive woman. He ignored the feeling, astonished that he’d even noticed her appearance when all he cared about was Zeke and his survival.
She narrowed her eyes and he realized he must have been scowling. “Are you qualified to deal with trauma?” he blurted out, to reestablish focus on Zeke and his care. Stupid question, he chastised himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but there was no taking them back.
The V that had formed between her brows deepened. Her curt “Of course” sounded haughty, and made him angry for some reason...probably at himself, if he was honest. During the drive to the clinic, his feelings of guilt had extended from Jeff to Zeke, and that hadn’t helped his disposition. He was desperate for them both to pull through.
Then the veterinarian was all business. She asked him to explain what had happened and began her examination.
When she manipulated Zeke’s leg and the dog yelped, Rick’s angst spewed forth. “You’re hurting him,” he accused.
She looked aggravated. “I’m trying to diagnose him.”
“Well, can’t you give him an anesthetic or something to ease the pain?” He couldn’t stand to see the dog suffer. “You...”
The door opening interrupted Rick, and one of the techs rushed in.
Ignoring Rick, the veterinarian spoke to the tech. “Oh, good, Sean. Can you please hold Zeke still and try to keep him calm while I finish my examination?”
“Sure,” Sean replied, and moved into position beside the examination table.
When Zeke whimpered again, Rick threw his hands up. “You can’t let him suffer like this! Can’t you just...”
“I have to determine the extent of his injuries before I can sedate him,” she cut in. “I need you to stay quiet and let me do my job.”
“But...”
“Sean,” Madison interrupted and addressed the tech with a voice that brooked no argument. Her gaze, steady and angry, rose to meet Rick’s. “Since the officer is being a distraction, please escort him out so he can wait in the reception area and we can do our best for his dog.” As she lowered her eyes to Zeke, her expression softened and her whole demeanor changed. “We don’t have time to waste quarreling.”
Rick was about to object, insist that he had to stay. He needed to know what was happening with Zeke. When he felt Sean’s hand on his arm, he wanted to argue or resist, but realized it wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Zeke. It would only take valuable time and energy away from his care. Whether Rick liked it or not, this doctor was Zeke’s only chance, and antagonizing her would do no good. He didn’t bother to correct her that he was a sergeant or that Zeke wasn’t his dog. Both facts were irrelevant.
He shrugged off Sean’s grasp. “I can manage on my own,” he grumbled, and left the room, with Sean closing the door none too gently behind him.
Rick moved restlessly about the waiting area, occasionally stopping to stare out the window. He worried about Jeff. He worried about Zeke. He fumed at the way the bust had fallen apart, and berated himself for not having been there to begin with. The guilt, anger and worry were an ugly maelstrom in his gut.
He called his parents to tell them he was okay. He knew they’d be worried because they would’ve heard the news by now. He called his sister, Sophie, as well, since she’d left him a couple of frantic messages. He assured her, too, and asked that she call their brother, Daniel. Rick phoned Logan next to get another update on Jeff’s condition and the state of the investigation.
Jeff was out of surgery, but the doctors still couldn’t give any guarantees that he’d make it. They’d done all they could for him, Logan reported, but Jeff had lost too much blood, and the internal damage had been extensive. There were no developments with respect to the investigation. All they knew of the shooter at this point was that he was probably Mexican.
Rick couldn?
??t believe how what should’ve been a straightforward bust had gone so wrong. They’d received a tip, as they often did. It wasn’t from one of their usual confidential informants, although they’d dealt with this CI in the past. Nothing major, but enough to establish a degree of credibility. With the time frame so short, they’d never properly validated the tip.
Would he have taken any additional precautionary measures if he’d been called in? In retrospect, he felt that an abandoned vehicle would have been a yellow if not a red flag for him, but would he have thought so in the moment? Or would he have been so anxious to get the bust that he would’ve done exactly the same thing they had? He let out a string of expletives as he spun away from the window.
And nearly bumped into Andrea or Angela or whatever the part-time receptionist’s name was. He hadn’t realized she’d approached him.
“Um, would you like some coffee or water...while you wait?” she asked.
Her eyes were round, and she linked and relinked her fingers in front of her. Rick exhaled heavily. It wasn’t like him to take his feelings out on other people. It was also rare that his temper got the best of him. He sighed and smoothed the harsh edge to his voice. “I’m sorry. Yeah, a coffee would be good. Thanks.”
When she left to get it for him, he stared at the closed door to the exam room. Why was it taking so long?
His cell phone rang, and he answered it.
Jeff had gone into cardiac arrest.
CHAPTER TWO
MADISON HELPED SEAN wheel the gurney on which the sedated dog was lying to the clinic’s recovery area. Once Zeke was settled and she’d given Sean strict instructions for his care, she washed up the best she could. She was a mess; it had taken nearly two hours, but she was optimistic that Zeke would be fine. That was worth anything to her. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t as bad as she’d first suspected. The bullet must have just grazed him, and the damage was limited to the muscle and nerves in his right rear leg. An artery had been nicked, accounting for the significant blood loss, but his handler had been smart and acted quickly to stanch the flow. He’d likely saved the dog’s life.
With some rehab therapy, Zeke would recover, as long as he didn’t develop an infection. That was always a risk in cases like this, and she’d watch for it. She’d have to talk to the dog’s handler, though—Rick, Angela had told her—and strongly urge him to consider retiring Zeke. The dog might only be six years old, but he shouldn’t work again. With any luck, he’d enjoy eight or nine more years of just being a dog. However unpleasant the handler had been, it was clear he cared about his dog, so she figured it would be an easy sell.
Madison stripped off her soiled lab coat and stuffed it in a hamper. She thought about the groundbreaking platelet-rich plasma research she was part of at the San Diego Animal Rehabilitation Center. Zeke could be a candidate for a trial because of his muscle and possible nerve injury. But she was getting ahead of herself in her enthusiasm for the early success of her research. Whether platelet-rich plasma therapy was right for Zeke or not, she’d see to his rehab. If not through PRP, then definitely through aqua therapy.
She washed and dried her hands, then took a deep breath. She didn’t relish facing the truculent cop, but at least she had encouraging news for him. She didn’t want to consider what his reaction might have been otherwise. Was it just her personal experience, or did great-looking guys always have attitudes or tempers that were off the charts? This cop certainly proved her theory.
The cop in question was standing by the window when she entered the reception area. He had one hand jammed in the pocket of his pants and was holding a Styrofoam cup in the other. There were no other clients waiting. Fortunate, she mused, because if the strained look on Angela’s face was any indication, the cop’s disposition hadn’t improved.
Madison had a definite aversion to ill-tempered people, but she accepted that in this case he had a legitimate reason. She would’ve been surly, too, if it was her Alaskan malamute, Owen, who’d been injured. Yes, police dogs had a job to do, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t a very real attachment between a handler and his dog. Perhaps it was even greater, since their very lives could depend on each other.
He was looking outside, and yet with the tension almost visibly rippling off him, she doubted his mind was on the tranquil green space the practice maintained for its patients next to the building. The slope of his shoulders and the fatigue evident on his face told their own story. He was hurting and vulnerable.
He must have been deep in thought, too, since he seemed oblivious to her presence when she approached him. Of course, the comfortable, soft-soled clogs she wore might have had something to do with it.
She took another minute to study him. Tall, with wide shoulders that narrowed to a lean waist, he was obviously fit. She knew K-9 cops had to be. He had thick, jet-black hair, not closely cropped as many cops favored, but more stylish with loose waves. She guessed that, working narcotics, he’d go undercover at times, and a brush cut on a physique like his all but screamed cop.
She took a couple more steps forward. “Excuse me, Officer...”
His head snapped toward her. She must have observed him in a weak moment. Now his shoulders were squared and there was no sign of vulnerability.
“How’s Zeke?” he demanded.
Madison raised an eyebrow at his brusque tone. She tried to rationalize again that it was out of concern for his dog and rushed to give him the good news. “Zeke’s prognosis is positive. I was able to repair most of the internal damage. There might be some sustained muscle and nerve injury, but we’ll have to assess that once he’s recovered from the immediate trauma and the surgery. I’ll watch for infection. Barring that, Zeke should recover well.” She could see the relief on his face, softening the harsh lines, and his whole body appeared to sag. She glimpsed the vulnerability again and warmed to him a little. He must care deeply about his dog, she concluded.
“My expectation is that he’ll require rehab,” she said. “At the appropriate time, once we’ve assessed his needs, I’d like to discuss some experimental work that I’m involved in that might be beneficial for Zeke.”
“Experimental? What are the risks? I don’t want Zeke to be a guinea pig if there are any risks.”
So much for warming to him. Did he really think she’d do anything that wasn’t in the absolute best interest of an animal? “As I said,” she continued in clipped tones, “we can discuss the options at the appropriate time. In the meanwhile, I want to talk to you about his future.”
He frowned. “What about his future?”
She might not intimidate easily, but this cop set her nerves on edge. She thought she heard her own gulp and hoped it wasn’t audible to him. Thinking of Zeke and what he’d been through firmed her resolve. Whether he’d like what she had to say or not, she had a responsibility to her patient. “You should retire Zeke,” she said emphatically.
He paused, and seemed to reflect on it. “Is that a medical opinion?” he asked curtly.
“No. It’s a humane one,” she retorted.
“Well, it’s not up to me. How long will you need to keep Zeke here?”
“Probably a week but, as I said, he’ll likely need rehab. And he should be retired from active duty.”
“Yeah. I heard you the first time.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Unless you need anything else from me, I should get going.”
Need anything from him? How about a personality? Or a little courtesy? A simple thank-you would’ve been nice. He couldn’t fathom how much it took out of her when she feared she might not be able to save a life. With Zeke, it had been touch and go because of the amount of blood he’d lost. “No. We’ve got everything we need.”
He crushed the coffee cup, tossed it in a waste receptacle and started to walk away. Unexpectedly, he paused. “Look, thank you for what you did for Zeke. For sav
ing his life.”
It was almost as if he’d been reading her mind. Without the harsh undertones, she liked the deep timbre of his voice. How strange that goose bumps formed on her arms.
“Just doing my job,” she said, wanting him gone because of the sudden discomfort she felt in his presence. When the front door chime sounded, she glanced toward it, and the tightness in her chest eased. She smiled broadly when she saw her next clients, twelve-year-old Tammy Montpelier, her mother and their miniature Doberman, Gustav. “I’ll be right with you,” she said before shifting her attention back to the cop. In that brief moment, his frown had returned. What was it that made him so moody? It had to be more than concern for his dog, since she’d told him the dog would be fine.
“I’ll be in touch tomorrow to check on Zeke,” he said.
“No problem.” What an odd man, she thought as she watched him walk out the door. Leading Gustav, Tammy and Mrs. Montpelier to an examination room, she tried to block Rick—and the disconcerting sensation he stirred in her—out of her mind.
* * *
RICK’S EMOTIONS WERE a muddle. He felt light-headed with relief over Zeke. At least the dog was going to be fine. He wished the same could be said for Jeff. The last he’d heard, the doctors had restored Jeff’s heart function with a defibrillator, but he was back in the OR. The doctors were concerned, although they said he had a fighting chance. And Jeff was a fighter.
Rick tried to ignore the worry, but that just left the anger and guilt to consume him.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that what had happened to Jeff and Zeke was his fault. Intellectually he rationalized that it was nonsense, but it didn’t negate the feeling. Jeff was a good cop but relatively young. With his own experience and more personal insights into how the cartels operated, Rick wondered again if he would’ve been able to detect that it was a trap. The simple fact that they’d had a tip—from a questionable informant—and that the van was found apparently abandoned should’ve been reason enough to exercise extreme caution. Who’d abandon a vehicle voluntarily if it contained drugs? Why hadn’t the Narcotics Task Force guys see that, if Jeff hadn’t?