“Goddamn—” Cloister got out.
Then he saw Bourneville, still locked on target as she cut across the desert.She was faster than Cloister, but not fast enough to catch a moving vehicle.
Shame no one had ever told her that.
She was at full run now, almost flying in between strides.The truck was starting to pick up speed, but Cloisterheardthe grate of the gears as the prowler fumbled his shift.He didn’t get a chance to try again.
Bourneville hit the side of the road andleapt.She went through the open window and hit the prowler with enough force that he sent the truck swerving over the road.Her tail waved through the open window, back feet scrabbling for purchase on the paint, and the prowler’s thin, shocked scream carried back along the flat road.
The truck veered again.Bourneville was thrown further into the cab as it swung back across the road.It skidded off the concrete and onto the loose gravel median.Threadbare black tires spun for purchase, but just sprayed what footing it had out behind them.The truck pitched over the side and bounced down the bank to crash onto the desert floor.
Despite everything, Cloister couldn’t help the shocked huff of laughter that escaped him.
Best damn K-9 in Plenty.He didn’t care what the other handlers said.
He bullied his legs back into motion, the jar of his soles against hard tarmac painful as he headed to see if she needed a hand.
Snarlsandswearingfilledthe air.
Cloister jumped down off the road and jogged across the crash-scored earth to the upturned truck.He scrambled up the underside using the blown-out tire and the drive shaft for purchase to reach the driver’s side door.The dirty metal was hot enough to sting as he dragged himself up.
“Gerrofme!”the prowler yelled as he flailed at Bourneville with fists and a heavy wrench.It gave a meaty, fur-muffled thud as it hit Bourneville’s shoulders and back.She was locked onto the prowler’s arm, his cheap jacket ripped to shreds as her teeth punched through to flesh beneath.Her paws scraped over the dash and kicked off the steering wheel as she tried to get purchase.
Cloister braced his knee on the door, metal denting under his weight, and reached in.He grabbed Bourneville by the scruff of her neck—all hair, a handful of loose skin, and tensed muscle underneath—and snapped, “Aus.”
She let go.Cloister braced himself and hauled her up out of the truck in one smooth yank.Thick black nails scraped the already battered paint job as she scrabbled for purchase to get her feet under her.She was panting and wagging her tail as she emerged.
Inside the cab, the prowler twisted around and scrambled out of the driver’s seat.His sweatpants slid down, caught on the cracked leather upholstery, to reveal a slice of back welted with scabbed cuts and scratches.He left a slug-trail of blood behind him as it dripped from his torn-up arm.As he reached the back of the cab, he put his shoulder to the crazed sag of the cracked back window.It gave under his weight with a crackle, chunks of glass spilling into the bed of the truck.The man crawled out through the hole, arm clutched to his body as he scrambled to his feet.
Bourneville grunted.It was her version of “shall I,” a gruff noise in the back of her throat.
“Warte.”
“Cloister didn’t wait to see if she acknowledged the “wait” command.She would.He scrambled to his feet, his weight making the door panel depress with a hollow clang, and went after the prowler.As he scrambled down, he gestured for Bourneville to go around.She leapt down behind him and slunk along through the scrub, not quite in a crouch but low to the ground.
The various tarps and bags in the back had been thrown out when the truck overturned.They had rolled away into the scrub, caught under scraggly sage bushes and hung-up rocks.A quick glance didn’t show any of them moving or stained with blood.The seams had given up on a couple of them, and old shoes and wires were what spilled out.
Not a body.
Good news and bad at once.
The prowler was on his hands and knees, crawling through the bags as he looked for something.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” Cloister ordered as he strode forward.“I’m a deputy sheriff, and you’re under arrest.”
It was habit, suspension or not.
“You think you can still fucking fool me, Strawman?”the prowler spat over his shoulder.He fumbled at a tarp, leaving bloodstains on the rough canvas.“I got proof now.On the dashcam.Military issue robot dogs being set on a sovereign citizen?Careless.Desperate.I got close this time.Too close, huh?”
“You should talk to Javi,” Cloister muttered.He heard Bourneville shift her weight behind him, her nails scraping on the door, and threw his hand up to keep her in place.“You need to—”
The prowler made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat as he found what he was looking for.He dragged it, clumsy and one-handed, out of the folds of fabric and rolled over onto his back.Sweat dripped down his face as he pointed the shotgun at Cloister.
“What comes out when I shoot you?”he asked, whale-eyed and manic.“Straw or blood?Blood or straw?”
Cloister stopped, weight balanced on the ball of his foot.The ache of exhaustion dulled as his body dredged up the last dregs of adrenaline to flood his bloodstream.He could taste it on the back of his throat, like salted metal or bile.
“You don’t want to do this,” he said as he held up his hand.“It won’t end well.”
