“Ain’t nobody happy,” the man beside Furst grumbled. He shot Jake a sidelong glance as he disengaged. “I’ll be outside if anyone’s looking for me.”
Jake watched him go, idly wondering how he’d managed to step on the guy’s toes when they’d never crossed paths. Turning back to Furst, he cocked a brow. “What did that mean?”
The firefighter shrugged. “The teams aren’t pleased with the decision not to disarm.”
Jake instantly understood the mild animosity was directed toward him. No doubt word had spread he’d been involved in the decision to let things ride until they came up with a better angle. “Ah. I see.”
“I guess your girlfriend on the carousel is the one calling the shots,” Furst said, crossing his arms over his chest as if settling in for the confrontation.
“A—she’s not my girlfriend.” He was extra careful to leave the “anymore” echoing around in his head off the end of the statement. “B—this literally is her circus and she has this creep’s monkey strapped to her back, so I think it’s reasonable to heed her input. And C—if anyone is going to be responsible for the property damage or delay to the opening, it’s her and not us.”
Furst’s shoulders dropped slightly, but his jaw remained tight. “Sitting back and letting things blow is not what we do.”
“Rushing in when we know we can’t predict the pattern or understand the perpetrator’s motivation would be reckless. We know he can detonate at will, and we know he has eyes on us,” Jake countered. “As long as the price of holding off is repairing a few buildings rather than paying a condolence call to a team member’s family, I think it’s the right course of action.”
“Course of inaction,” Furst replied.
Tiring of the circular discussion, Jake jerked his chin at the man in the suit. “Who’s the tie?”
“Governor’s office.” Furst cracked a wry half smile. “Skittish as a drop of water in a hot skillet.”
Jake chuckled at the description, then glanced back at the doors. “We’ll I’m not going to wade into those waters.” He clicked his tongue and Max was on his feet again, ready to go. “We’re heading for the Swine and Sheep barns.”
“Hope you brought nose plugs,” Furst called after them.
Hitting the crash bar on the tinted-glass door, Jake blinked as they emerged into the bright sunlight once again. Aronson might have different orders for him now the game had changed, but the last thing he wanted was to be ensnared in command debates. He’d been lucky the colonel was willing to listen to the line of reasoning he and Cass had laid out, and now the guy was taking heat for it. The best thing Jake could do for his own career was to put as much distance between himself and the decision-makers as possible.
Other than the Equestrian Center, the Goats and Sheep, and Swine barns were about as far as he could get without leaving the fairgrounds.
“Come on, boy.”
He and Max walked down the hill at a brisk pace. Jake looked from side to side, but did not stop as they passed Cattle Barn 3. He slowed at the opening of Cattle 4 and his gut clenched when he spotted the splintered wood and straw bedding blown past the entrance.
Sergeant Winter sat sideways in the driver’s seat of the cart they’d been using, a bandage on his cheek and his phone pressed to his ear. He raised a hand in acknowledgment when Jake and Max passed, but he didn’t make any move to intercept them.
Jake wondered idly where Winter’s team was but didn’t dwell on it. No doubt Aronson had redistributed them and left Winter to babysit the site on the off chance the bomber might wander through to inspect their handiwork.
He exchanged wordless waves with a couple of other teams as they took the long way around one of the horse barns. The grassy patch outside the Swine Barn was dotted with signs listing judging times and a few sponsor advertisements utilizing the traditional hog call heard at Arkansas Razorbacks events—Wooo, Pig, Sooie!—to their best advantage.
The smell emanating from the barn set Max’s nose twitching, but Jake couldn’t help but grimace. “Phew, pig,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“Sooie for sure,” came the disembodied answer from another stall.
Letting Max take the lead, Jake came around the corner and found one of the Little Rock PD tactical team members engaged in a staring contest with a 250-pound spotted hog.
“Whoa.”
“Says his name is Wilbur,” the officer said dryly.
Jake nodded a greeting. “Hello, Wilbur.”
“You must be a mind reader,” the other man said, his drawl soft around the edges.
“How so?”
“We were about to call for a sniffer,” he said, nodding down at Max. He hitched his belt higher, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Got a mystery bag. A duffel. Down at the end, not inside a stall.”
Jake raised his eyebrows, then checked his watch. It was a quarter to three already. Time was moving way too fast.
