1
AT THIS RATE,he’d never walk again.
Dawson Mulligan lay back on the padded bench of the leg lift machine, sweat dripping into his ears, his body soaked, his leg burning, his breaths a little vocal as they emerged from his chest. He even sounded like a guy who’d hit the mattresses.
He shook his head and glanced at his adopted dog, Caspian, who sat with his back to him, watching the front door, like he might be on duty or something. Why the dog didn’t sprawl on the gym floor like every other mutt he’d owned, he hadn’t a clue. He looked over at the Doberman-Labrador.
“C’mon, Casp, do me a solid. Fetch me my towel. It’s right there, on the bench press seat.” He motioned toward his towel, which was hanging on the red seat.
Caspian looked over at him and sighed, the equivalent of an eye roll.
“Nice. I’m not entirely sure why I keep you around.”
The dog’s tail thumped once, twice.
Dawson moved his foot so that it rested on top of the pad, set his watch, then closed his eyes against the burn and let his knee sink down to a straightened position.
Three minutes of burning hellfire raking through him, the crowning finale of his daily—no, three-times daily—PT.
Country music played on the loudspeakers of the workout gym in the Tooth, aka, the headquarters for his cousin Moose’s Air One Rescue team. A local radio station playing, of course, a hit by country music favorite Oaken Fox. The smell of his recently nuked pepperoni Hot Pockets lingered in the air, along with the reek of his sweat. He probably should have waited to down the bottle of Gatorade until after his workout.
It wasn’t like he was running any marathons anytime soon. But now his gut ached, and frankly, he’d put on ten pounds since the shooting.
Two more minutes. He should probably add a few sit-ups, work up a real sweat.
Pain sweat didn’t count.
He moaned as he sat up, his heart thumping as his knee turned to flame. Caspian glanced at him, then came over and set his head on Dawson’s lap.
He ran a hand over the dog’s head, not sure why the animal became needy every time he finished PT. Dawson could barely take care of his own emotional chaos, but fine. “Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done.” He pushed the dog away and leaned forward into a stretch. His leg started to tremble. One minute.
“Hey, boss.”
Caspian let out a bark as his former partner, Flynn Turnquist, walked through the door, her copper hair pulled back in a tidy bun, her green-eyed gaze taking Dawson in. She held up her hands, glancing at Caspian, then over to Dawson’s knee—probably landing on the thick vertical scar that ran from his thigh to his shin—and then back to his face. She forced a smile. “Not sure why he barks every time I come in. He knows me.”
“I don’t know either.” He put a hand on the dog’s head, and Caspian sat, his tail swishing again.
Flynn wore a pair of black pants, boots, and a heavy wool jacket that she unbuttoned. “Looks like you’re having fun.” She scooted his towel over and sat on the bench press, taking off her leather gloves.
“So much. It’s a party. Tell me they convicted Ravak.”
She sighed. “Hung jury.”
He closed his eyes, bit back a word.
His watch buzzed. Three minutes. He moved his leg off the rack and eased back on the bench. He’d have to put it on the floor, bend it at the knee, but maybe not quite yet. His watch beeped, an elevated heart rate alarm. No duh.
At his feet, Caspian whined, put a paw on his knee.
He again put his hand on the dog’s head, ran his thumb around the floppy ear. “I agree. Not fair.” He looked at her. “What happened?”
“They couldn’t agree on the charge. First-degree murder is hard to prove—not without motive.”
“His motive was revenge.”
“Doesn’t prove premeditation. Could have been a crime of passion.”
“I saw his eyes. He wanted us to watch.” WantedDawsonto watch. “So he waited until I got there. Until the chief told SWAT to go in—”
