Page 9 of Rusty's Command

“Dad.” Rusty thrust Sarah’s phone across the desk’s worn surface. “Just look at the damn photo.”

“I looked.” His father’s voice had the same edge that he used to send Rusty to his room when he was a kid. “Similar cross. I get it.”

“It’s not just similar. It’s identical.”

“There are probably millions of gold crosses like that. Regardless, we have protocols?—”

“Protocols? Bullshit!” Rusty’s words echoed off the glass window and he lowered his voice. “That girl was half-dead this morning, and this girl is missing. And you want me to tell her mother to fill out a form?”

“What I want, Russell, is for you to stop making promises you can’t keep. You’re not in the service anymore.”

The words hit their mark. Always did.

Soda pressed against his leg beneath the desk, steady as ever, while Rusty fought to keep his voice level. “Sarah needed help. You’re up to your eyeballs with that drug bust this morning. What was I supposed to do? Turn her away?”

His father jabbed the desktop, rattling his nameplate. “You’re private security. We’re the police. It’s time you figured out the difference.”

The old argument landed like a punch to the gut. Same words, different day, same dismissal of Rusty and the private K9 protection team he’d worked damn hard to be part of.

“We’ll look after Sarah. Go home, Russell.” The chief swiveled his chair toward the window overlooking Hilo Bay, dismissing him with the same finality his mother had shown that night nearly thirty years ago when she’d driven away, leaving Rusty standing in the driveway. “We’ll handle this.”

Rusty’s grip tightened on Soda’s lead until the leather creaked, then he crossed the chief’s office in three strides and yanked open the door. Forcing control into his voice, he strode to the interview room and opened the door. He met Sarah’s red-rimmed eyes. “The chief will be out to help you soon.”

She strode to him and gripped his arm. “Thank you.”

He didn’t have it in him to respond. With Soda at his side, he strode past the curious glances of the desk sergeants and aimed for the exit.

Rusty shouldered through the exit with Soda at his heels. The parking lot was half-empty, most units were still out, dealing with the morning’s drug bust. He yanked open his truck door, then paused, gripping the frame. No fucking way was he going home. Going home meant four walls closing in, meant memories of Hannah’s brutal lies mixing with his mother’s cold goodbye. Going home meant drowning.

The job was his lifeline, it had been since Delta Force, since Brotherhood filled the void the military left behind.

The station’s glass doors burst open, and a woman stormed out and raced down the concrete steps. “Unbelievable! A whole station full of cops and not one of them can?—”

His gut clenched.Sienna.Two decades hadn’t changed that fierce stride or her tumble of copper-colored hair. Memories he’d buried deep resurfaced like drowning men demanding attention – her wild laughter, her body against his, summer nights together when they’d been young, stupid, and immortal. Now her face was tear-streaked, her breathing ragged, and his chest ached at how distressed she looked.

He slammed his truck door, and Soda leaped from the back, falling in beside him as he approached. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She whirled around, clutching a Jack Russell terrier to her chest. Pickle–his neighbor Dee’s yappy menace. She must be staying at her aunt’s place again. He cataloged details: dirt smudging her Nikes, hands trembling where they clutched Pickle against her chest, eyes darting like a spooked puppy.

Her gaze swept over his tactical gear and lingered on Soda’s K9 vest. “Are you a police officer?”

No recognition flickered in her green eyes. Thank God. “Private security. Brotherhood Protectors.” He kept his voice steady and professional. The last thing he wanted was for her to recognize him. Clearly, she needed help, and he couldn’t walk away, not with her eyes darting to the shadows like that and her hands trembling where she gripped the unnaturally quiet terrier. That spoiled canine usually ricocheted off walls like popping corn. “What’s wrong?”

Soda’s ears pricked forward, alerted to something.

Sienna glanced over her shoulder, scanning the fence line like she expected demons to materialize. Pickle’s usual yapping was replaced by a low whine against her collarbone. “I need the police.” She tried to shoulder past him, clutching Pickle like a shield.

“They’re tied up with a major case,” he said, using the same tone he reserved for skittish witnesses. “I’m a protection officer. I can help you. What happened?”

“Oh. Well . . . I saw . . .” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “There were men. They umm?—”

“Did they hurt you?” he clenched his fists.

Soda inched forward, hackles rising.

“No. Well, no. But they were burying something. Someone.” Her arms tightened around Pickle’s small body. “When they saw me, they . . . they tried to shoot me.”

“Shit. And you’re okay?”

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