On the screen, the dark figure of Radic sidled along an iron fencerow that enclosed the gardens. There were no streetlights, but Tucker toggled Kane’s camera to night-vision mode.
The image on the screen scintillated into brighter shades of green, revealing more of the street, exposing a parked SUV—a Russian UAZHunter. Two men climbed out. Radic hurried forward and met them. The trio huddled together.
“What are you all up to?” Tucker mumbled.
Only one way to find out.
He radioed a dual set of commands to Kane. “CLOSE IN. LAY LOW.”
Tucker knew his partner would understand. The breed had been picked by the military due to their fierce loyalty and intelligence. Kane exemplified both, with a working vocabulary of a thousand words and an understanding of a hundred hand gestures. Even more impressive was Kane’s ability to follow a chained link of commands. Only a few military working dogs could do this.
Pride warmed through Tucker.
Still, as Kane edged around the corner, Tucker held his breath.
Be careful, buddy.
With the commands branded into him, Kane rushes to a raised planter bed on the far side of the street from his prey. He stops and inhales the scents that wash through the narrow street.
He smells the sharp ammonia marker of other dogs that fills the air around the shelter. They are old... layered over the course of many days. Still, instinct stirs his desire to lift a leg, to claim this spot.
He drives that down and pushes the scent away. He draws in others, letting the smells build what his eyes can’t see.
—the earthy notes of mold from a gutter.
—the acrid ripple of street tar.
—the burnt smoke of oil and engine.
—the musky ripeness of sweat and dank skin.
He concentrates on the last and dashes low, sticking to the shadows on this side. He reaches another planter and halts into a crouch.
His ears prick to the pattering timpani of cat paws on a steel balcony overhead. A strained hiss of threat follows, which he quickly dismisses. Instead, he turns the bells of his ears to the voices. They rumble in bass tones of urgency and furtiveness.
He can hear each utterance. But he knows from experience that this is not enough. The command still rings inside his chest.
CLOSE IN.
He leans out and spots the cluster by the truck. He waits until no eyes glint toward him—then sprints low. His ears continue to track for any sign of alarm. He reaches the next planter and keeps high. His muscles tense, claws hard against stone.
The truck now stands between him and the targets.
Voices carry, but not loud enough.
He ducks clear of the planter and stalks across the street to the truck. He drops behind a tire. It reeks of hot rubber and the singed hair smell of its brakes. He slips lower, satisfied with the intensity of others’ rumblings.
This is confirmed in his ear. It is not a command, only acknowledgment of the truth.
“Good boy, Kane.”
Tucker trotted through a crisscrossing of alleyways, maneuvering farther from the river. He made a final turn and increased his speed. He aimed for where the maze dumped into the narrow street bordering the botanical gardens. According to his map, he should exit thirty yards behind the truck.
He had already coordinated with Kowalski. The big man was rushing down the riverside thoroughfare to close off the other end of the street. Together, they would have the truck and the three men pinned down between them.
He continued to eavesdrop on the trio’s conversation. They were speaking in Russian. A real-time translation program converted their talk to English, but with the three men arguing all at once, the program stuttered and lapsed.
Still, Tucker understood enough.
