Eight years old. Gray creeping in around his muzzle, spreading toward his eyes. Slower to rise in the mornings than he used to be. The math wasn’t kind—working K9s retired around nine, sometimes ten if their bodies held out.
I couldn’t afford a bad send. Not anymore.
“Moving!” I fired twice more over the shield. The suspects ducked behind the desk, and I gained two steps before they popped back up. The shield took another round—this one high, skimming the top edge of my helmet. Shit.
Jolly’s body was a coiled spring against my thigh. He didn’t understand waiting. He understood go. He understood find. He understood the electric joy of the work, the moment when his teeth closed on a sleeve and the fight ended because he willed it to end.
He didn’t understand that someday I’d have to ask him to stop.
Three more steps. We were close now, maybe twelve feet from the barricade. Through the narrow slit in the shield, I watched the shooter behind the desk. Watched his hands. Watched the rhythm of his fire—crack, crack, crack, then a pause as he dropped the magazine.
Reloading.
“Jolly,fass.”
The command for attack was barely out of my mouth before he launched. Seventy-five pounds of Belgian Malinois and German shepherd mix, moving like a missile. He clearedthe gap in three bounds, soared over the barricade in a blur of dark fur and white teeth?—
“Move, move, move!”
I shifted the shield and rushed the barricade, drawing my sidearm as I ran. The officers behind me flowed forward. Jolly hit the first shooter before the man could seat the fresh magazine, and they went down in a tangle of limbs and snarling fur.
The second suspect spun toward me, weapon rising.
“Drop it! Drop it now!”
He froze. My sights were centered on his chest. Behind me, three officers had their weapons up, all trained on the same target.
The gun clattered to the floor. He raised his hands.
“Clear! We’re clear!”
Officers poured through behind me, flooding the space.
Jolly had the first one pinned, teeth locked on his padded sleeve, body positioned so the man couldn’t rise. His tail was wagging.
Of course it was. Even in combat mode, Jolly’s tail never stopped.
“Aus.”
He released. Sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling, looking at me like he expected applause. I pulled a ball from my pocket and tossed it to him. He caught it midair, crunching down with satisfied intensity.
The lights came up.
Fluorescent tubes flickered on overhead, washing the room in institutional brightness. The smoke machines cut off, leaving the air hazy but clearing. Martinez was sitting against the wall now, his “wound” nothing more than a red paint splatter across his tactical pants.
Paint rounds. Training gear. The “suspects” were officers in full bite suits, already peeling off their protective layers.
I pulled off my own helmet and set down the shield.
Donovan emerged from the west corridor, his tactical vest still dusted with drywall from the breach. He crossed the room and gave Jolly a quick scratch behind the ears before straightening to face me.
“Hell of a send. You got Jolly nice and close to the bad guys before exposing him.”
I shrugged. “He did the hard part.”
Sergeant Eric Vance caught my eye from across the room. He’d been running overwatch on the breach team, coordinating the two-pronged approach with Donovan. A decade on the force, at least the last six running the tactical unit. Solid build, calm eyes, with quiet authority that made younger officers straighten up when he walked past.
“All right, let’s debrief.” Vance’s voice cut through the chatter. “Martinez, you’re dead. Congratulations. Someone get him a tag.”
