Gabriel tapped his chest to remind his nervous system that his gun wasn’t holstered on his hip.
Whiskey was a tracker, not a fighter, and if she became a target, he’d need to neutralize the threat.
Daniel told him about a year ago that he’d gone out to a pig farm with a search-and-rescue team to pan the dirt in the pig pens. They did it using gold pans, like old-timey prospectors had, but with a much more gruesome objective.
They were looking for teeth.
Daniel said that if you threw a naked body in with the pigs, they’d eat it down, bones and all. Then they’d shit out the teeth.
Gabriel had thought Daniel might be pulling his leg. There was some brotherly back-and-forth from time to time—Gabriel had rubbed it in a few times that he was an Army Ranger while Daniel was a mechanic. Daniel gave Gabriel hell for working in a darkened office staring at images while he and Whiskey were out beating the bushes looking for the bad guys.
That was fine; they just had a different style of trying to be on the side of the better angels.
That string of thoughts took him back to yesterday’s attempt at saving the victim in an FBI jacket. Gabriel wished he’d gotten word about how that had panned out.
He took his eye off the trail long enough to pull his phone from his thigh pocket and glanced down.
Nada.
He put the phone away and made sure to press the flap down tight.
Crunching leaves had Gabriel looking over his shoulder.
Reaper was running to catch up after staying back to search what looked like a meth shack.
“Nothing, huh?”
“There was a lot,” Reaper said. “Just no kids.”
“Is Whiskey still on a scent, or is she just having fun in the woods?” Gabriel asked.
“She’s locked in. She was trained with a puppy named Chaser.”
“Whiskey and Chaser?” Gabriel asked. “Happenstance?”
“When the owner met Whiskey,” Reaper was breathing heavily as he dropped down to a jog just behind Gabriel, “the pups were round about the same age, and he changed his dog's name because he thought it was clever.”
“Not bad.”
“Chaser was a runner. He loved to get on a scent and race after it full tilt. When the two worked together, they would really get moving.”
“Maybe when they were on the same trail, they were more confident,” Gabriel said. “Two noses are better than one.”
“Alone, Whiskey is easier for a handler on the trail. But look at her; she’s on it, and you can tell because it makes sense. The trail isn’t straight to the northwest. We’ve been leaning leftish, as I’d expect.”
“You expect them to go leftish?” Gabriel calibrated his tone to match Reapers. Loud enough to be heard through his panting, but not loud enough to be a distraction or to miss ambient sounds that might give them a clue. “Is there a reason?”
“I’ve read that humans worldwide just seem to prefer going counterclockwise. We always look left.”
“I thought that had something to do with most people being right-handed. Right-legged. The dominant side being longer, stronger, so it turns the body a tiny bit, but over space and time that adds up. That’s what they told me in the military.”
“Possibly. But worldwide, no matter the culture or the handedness, it seems humans prefer counter-clockwise.”
“You’d think it would be the opposite in the southern hemisphere.”
“All right, funny guy, eyes peeled, ears attuned, settle into your pace. From my time training Whiskey, I can tell from her vocalizations we’re getting close to those kids.”
“That sound she’s making, that’s not howling.”
