We've been partners for almost three years. I can read his body language the way other people read facial expressions, and he knows my moods better than most humans ever bothered to learn.
When Ryan died three years ago, I was working with Ajax, my previous K9 partner. We were clearing a route in hostile territory when Ryan's dog alerted to a secondary device. Ajax missed it completely. Ryan saw it first—called out the threat and moved to investigate before I could assess and give the order. He was already advancing when I yelled for him to hold position, but he kept going. Said he had the angle, that his dog had already alerted. The IED detonated before I could pull him back. Ryan and his dog died instantly. Ajax and I survived because we were five meters back, because Ajax had failed to alert in the first place.
I spent months second-guessing everything. Why didn't Ajax catch it? Why wasn't I faster to see the threat myself? Why did I let Ryan advance before I cleared him to move? I should have been sharper, better, more in control of my dog and my team. Ryan had a wife and kids waiting for him. I had no one. The math should have worked differently.
Ajax was never the same after that day. Couldn't work anymore, kept freezing up during detection drills. The Army retired him two months later, and he went to live with a former handler in Colorado. Duke came after, when they decided I needed a fresh start and a new partner. He pulled me back from the edge with unwavering trust I didn't deserve but needed desperately. Three years later, I still carry the weight of that day. Ryan's wife still sends me birthday cards. His kids call me Uncle Dev. Every year it gets harder to look them in the eye and pretend I deserve their affection.
"Show off," Staff Sergeant Jack Malone calls from across the yard, where his own dog is working through detection drills. "Some of us are trying to make our partners look good over here."
I don't dignify that with a response, just give Duke the hand signal for the next sequence. He launches forward, clearing the wall jump with room to spare. Pride hits every time he nails a complex drill. This dog saved my life in more ways than the obvious ones and watching him work reminds me that some things are still worth doing right.
The morning sun climbs higher, already promising heat that will make training a race against exhaustion. I've been out here since before dawn, running Duke through his paces while my mind wandered to places it shouldn't go. Like the wildlife specialist who conducts her surveys near the airfield around the same time I do my morning runs. The one with auburn hair that catches fire in the sunrise and curves that have no businesslooking that good in practical field pants and work boots. Soft hips, full breasts, the kind of body that makes a man want to trace every line with his hands.
Andrea O'Rourke. Andi. I know her name from the base directory. She's been here six months and reduced bird strike incidents by nearly half. She's a civilian contractor, works alone most days, and has a reputation for being competent as hell at a job most people don't think about until something goes catastrophically wrong.
I also know things I shouldn't. Like how her laugh sounds when she's talking to the airfield crew. That she moves through the wetlands with confidence that comes from genuinely loving what she does. Malone mentioned she works evenings at her mother's diner in Pine Valley, helping with the dinner rush.
I shouldn't know any of that. Shouldn't be paying attention. But I am, and I have been for months, even though I've made damn sure to keep my distance. She's a civilian contractor, I'm military, and mixing those worlds leads to complications I don't need. I don't do relationships. Don't let people close. Caring makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability gets people killed.
"Porter!" Malone jogs over with his German Shepherd heeling perfectly beside him. "You planning to run Duke until he drops, or can we mere mortals use the course?"
I signal Duke to return, and he's at my side in seconds, panting but not exhausted. "Course is yours. We're done for the morning."
"Command wants to see you," Malone says, his expression shifting from friendly ribbing to something more serious. "Cain's office. Said to head over as soon as you finished training."
Tension snaps through me. Summons from Lieutenant Colonel Cain aren't unusual, but the timing feels off. "She say what about?"
"Protection detail assignment. That's all I got."
I nod, already running through possibilities. Protection details usually go to Security Forces, including K9 handlers. Unless whoever needs protection has a specific threat that requires Duke's skill set. Or unless Cain wants someone she knows will take the job seriously and not let anything slip through the cracks.
Duke follows me to the water station, where I make sure he drinks slowly enough not to make himself sick. The morning heat is building, and hydration matters as much as any other part of training. While he drinks, I rinse the dust from my face and neck, trying to cool down before heading into Cain's air-conditioned office looking like I just finished running drills.
Because that's exactly what I did, and pretending otherwise seems pointless.
The operations building sits at the heart of Ridgeway, a utilitarian structure that houses base command and most of the administrative offices. I've been here enough times that the Security Forces personnel at the entrance just wave me through, recognizing both me and Duke without needing to check credentials. Duke's ears are up, alert to the change in routine, but he stays tight at my heel as we navigate hallways that smell like floor wax and stale coffee.
Cain's office is on the third floor, and her aide is expecting me.
"Master Sergeant Porter," she greets with a professional nod. "The colonel is ready for you. You can head right in."
I knock once and enter when Cain calls permission. She's behind her desk, Captain Nelson from base security is standing near the window with a tablet in hand. Whatever this is, it's already more serious than a routine protection detail.
"Master Sergeant." Cain gestures to the chair across from her desk. "Have a seat. Duke can stay with you."
I sit, and Duke settles beside my chair with discipline that makes other handlers jealous. Cain is in her mid-fifties, career Air Force with steady competence that inspires confidence rather than fear. She's fair, takes the welfare of her personnel seriously, and doesn't waste time on bullshit. If she's calling me in, there's a real problem.
"I'm assigning you to a protection detail," Cain says without preamble. "Andrea O'Rourke. Andi. Our wildlife management specialist. She's been experiencing escalating harassment over the past couple of days, and as of this morning, the situation has crossed the line into what I believe is an active threat."
Every muscle in my body goes taut at her name. Andi. Someone is targeting Andi. The professional part of my brain catalogs the information, starts building threat assessments and security protocols. The part that's been noticing her for months wants to know who and how fast I can find them.
"What kind of harassment?" My voice comes out level, controlled, betraying none of the sudden tension winding tight through my shoulders.
Captain Nelson steps forward, pulling up images on his tablet. "Started subtle. Items moved in her office, small things she noticed but couldn't prove. Then this was left on her truck yesterday afternoon."
He shows me a photo of a note, blocky handwriting on plain paper.Go home where women belong.
I've seen worse, dealt with worse, but knowing it was meant for Andi makes my jaw tight enough to ache.
