Page 1 of Rusty's Command

CHAPTER 1

Rusty

Rusty Callahan leanedagainst the flaky weatherboards of the rundown house, and as his fingers tightened on his K9’s harness, the stench of rot and something so very wrong seeped through the cracked windows. Soda, his black-and-tan Alsatian, stood rigid at his heel, her ears pricked forward and muscles taut, awaiting his command. Despite her youth, Soda was a seasoned veteran, the best K9 Rusty had ever trained—and that was saying something. He’d been training dogs since a Doberman nearly crushed his skull when he was nine years old.

At the door, his father, Police Chief Dave Callahan, gave a sharp nod at the tactical team, and Officer Perkins swung the battering ram. The door exploded inward, splintering off its hinges, and six tactical officers flooded the decrepit house.

“Police! Show me your hands!” Their shouts carved through the morning calm like a machete.

“Get on the ground!” The chief’s voice bounced off the walls inside. In his fifteen years as Police Chief for Hawaii’s Big Island, Rusty’s father had personally led every major raid. The criminalsmight hide in plain sight, but sooner or later, they all learned – the hard way – that nothing stayed buried on his island for long.

Rusty clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to deny his father’s orders to stay back until his turn to enter with Soda. He should be in there with them. He damn well would be if his military career wasn’t yanked out from under him by an absolute asshole. Nearly every day was a brutal reminder that he wasn’t in Delta Force anymore.

“Don’t move!” another cop barked.

Soda whined, and Rusty brushed her nose. “Steady, girl.”

Waiting for the all-clear was fucking excruciating, like watching lasagna bake when he hadn’t eaten all day.

Over his shoulder, dawn painted the Mauna Loa slopes in shades of gold. Perfect day for surfing. Not that he took advantage of days like this too often.Keep moving. That was his mantra. When he didn’t, the past flooded into his mind like a tsunami, drowning him in sixteen years of what-ifs.

“Clear!” the chief’s voice boomed from inside.

Rusty gripped Soda’s lead, and they crossed the shattered threshold together. Soda’s nose worked the air for narcotics and weapons. Rusty kept her at his heel, away from the four perps face-down and handcuffed on the stained carpet. She might be a detector dog, but she was also a weapon. If one of these bastards tried to run, they would meet eighty pounds of precisely trained fury before they reached the door. Rusty had been on the receiving end of those takedowns many times in training, and even though he had been in full protective gear, Soda’s speed and commitment had been terrifying.

The small house reeked of stale cigarettes and bad body odor. The living room had the usual setup: massive TV, gaming console, and a couple of ratty couches stained with sweat from assholes that had nothing better to do than sit on their assesall day. But Rusty also believed the layout was their half-assed attempt to make the visible parts of the house appear normal.

Soda’s nose twitched and she veered left, leading him through the house like she was following an invisible thread.

The kitchen was cluttered with dishes crusted with whatever the hell these lowlifes called food. Used takeout containers played Tetris on the counter, and empty beer cans filled every other space.

Rusty kept Soda moving. The first bedroom had a grubby mattress on the floor and clothes scattered everywhere like it was a dumpsite. The second bedroom looked like a teenager’s wet dream with top-of-the-range gaming equipment, including a chair with speakers, blackout curtains, and enough empty energy drinks to have catered the Warrior football team for the whole season.

The largest bedroom at the back of the house had a double bed, a rickety wooden chair overloaded with clothes, and a dresser with a mirror topped with white powder residue. The drug was enough to catch Soda’s attention, but other than that, there was nothing to explain the tip-off the chief had received about a major drug operation going on in this dump.

No stash of drugs, no weapons cache, no bags of money.

Rusty headed back toward the living room, and his dad marched toward him, hitching up his pants and wearing a scowl. “You get anything?”

Rusty shook his head.

“I don’t believe this bullshit.” His dad clenched his jaw. “The intel was credible.”

Soda yanked Rusty forward. Her nose twitched as she veered past the cluster of cops standing around the cuffed suspects on the floor and toward a hallway closet. Fresh scuff marks marred the worn floorboards in front of the doors. He pulled them open and Soda’s head snapped up and her nostrils flared with quick,sharp breaths. Her entire body went rigid, and her tail locked straight out behind her like a rudder. She pressed her nose against the back panel, then whipped her head toward Rusty with an intensity that meant she’d hit paydirt.

Four years of working together had taught him every nuance of her alerts. This was her full-body alert, meaning there weren’t just drugs beyond that wall, there were weapons, too.

Rusty pulled aside hanging clothes and plastic storage bags, and his breath hitched when Soda nudged forward with a growl.

“Easy, girl.” A hairline seam barely revealed a hidden door in the back wall. “Hey, Chief, get over here.”

His father appeared at his shoulder, and his expression hardened. Rusty ran his fingers along the edge of the panel until he found the catch. The false wall silently swung inward, revealing narrow stairs disappearing into the darkness.

His father drew his weapon.

Rusty raised his hand. “We’ll handle this.” He unclipped Soda’s lead. “Soda, seek.”

Soda shot down the stairs like a liquid shadow, and Rusty chased after her with his Glock and flashlight ready. The sharp sting of chemicals burned his nostrils, but underneath that tang was something else. Something truly rotten.

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