Page 2 of Rusty's Command

His tactical light swept across steel drums and elaborate lab equipment. Plastic-wrapped cubes were stacked hip-high along the back wall. “Hey Chief, you need to get down here.”

His dad and two more officer’s flooded into the room.

A flash of movement darted between a row of drums.

“Police K9!” Rusty yelled across the room. “Stop, or I’ll set the dog onto you.”

The dumb bastard bolted for a set of rickety stairs at the back of the area, taking them two at a time.

“Soda! Get him!”

Soda launched up the stairs like a guided missile.

The suspect fumbled the door handle with panic blazing in his wild eyes. Before he could escape, Soda struck. Her jaws locked on his right arm, and the impact slammed him against the door. He howled as she drove him down to the metal grating with brute pressure that eliminated any possibility of resistance.

“Police! Don’t move!” Rusty’s father thundered up the steps, trading his weapon for handcuffs as Soda pinned the suspect to the landing.

The suspect remained frozen in Soda’s grip. It was a smart move on his part. She would rip his arm off if he fought against her.

“I’ve got him,” Dad called.

“Soda. Release.”

Soda’s jaws unclamped, but she stayed coiled and focused. A low growl rumbled in her throat, and as she bared her teeth, Dad secured the suspect’s arms behind his back, reading Miranda rights that echoed off the concrete walls, along with the man’s whimpers.

Rusty swept his flashlight across the drug lab and the beam cut through the dim haze. The tip-off had been solid—this was a major operation. His dad would be equal parts furious that such a sprawling drug den had grown right under their noses, and relieved that the bust was clean, netting both product and perps.

Ever since the Yakuza had sunk their claws into Hawaii, taking down one branch of the so-called “Dragon of the Pacific” only led to another sprouting in its place. Like cutting weeds—the roots ran too deep. Within weeks, new players would sprout up to fill the void. Especially now that Viktor Wang had clawed his way to the top. The third-generation Japanese-Chinese head of the Yakuza operated under a twisted code of honor, one that made him both predictable and infuriatingly untouchable. So far.

Rusty’s dad had raged for months about Wang and how the bastard had poisoned their hometown. Yet, even with the rot Wang left in his wake, the cops were always a step short of the evidence needed to take him down.

Maybe this haul of drugs would finally be the break they needed.

Rusty doubted it. Wang was too good at erasing his footprints.

He shook his head, casting another glance at the colossal stash. The sheer size of the operation was staggering, a reminder of just how deep the rot went. As he moved toward the far corner of the room, something shifted on the ground.

Rusty froze, his pulse spiking. He drew his weapon and edged forward, flashlight steady on the source of the movement. “Oh, Jesus.” Holstering his gun, he sprinted to a woman crumpled on the concrete floor like she’d been tossed aside.

She lay face-up, barely breathing, with dried vomit crusting her chin and neck. Some fancy-ass bathrobe spread beneath her like broken wings, and she wore nothing but underpants. As he rolled her into the recovery position, a gold cross with tiny red rubies glinted at her throat.

He pressed two fingers to her neck and felt a faint pulse. Relief mingled with urgency as he tugged the robe closed over her chest, his gaze catching the embroidered name on the pocket:Pearl.“Dad! We need medical down here ASAP.”

The words caught in Rusty’s throat as memories ripped through sixteen years: blue lips, dried vomit, his desperate screams for help . . .

His father’s presence at his shoulder yanked him back to the present.

Movement exploded from the shadows. Rusty’s world narrowed to a pinpoint of fury as the same helpless rage that hadhaunted him for sixteen years erupted. He launched after the runner, each pounding step carrying the weight of his failure.

He caught the bastard in six strides, driving him into the concrete wall with all the force of his past demons. The asshole fought back, fists flying and coming at Rusty like a maniac. Rusty’s punch connected with devastating precision on the asshole’s nose and the crunch of cartilage flooded him with savage satisfaction. Blood sprayed from the man’s nose. His second punch snapped the man’s head sideways and his skull met concrete with a sound that echoed through the dungeon.

The roar in his head drowned out everything – his father’s shouts, the perp’s gurgling breaths, his own ragged panting. He drew his fist back again and again, each blow fueled by sixteen years of guilt and grief. He wasn’t in a dingy basement anymore, he was kneeling beside his fiancée’s cold body, wishing he could undo so much.

“Stand down!” His father’s voice barely penetrated the chaos in his mind as strong hands yanked his arm back. “God damn it, Russell! That’s enough!”

The perp slumped to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. “You’ll regret that asshole.” He spat toward Rusty, and the bloody globule splattered two feet from his boot. “I didn’t do nothin’. I was just looking after her, that’s all.”

Those words ignited fresh fury. Looking after her? Bullshit! Rusty drew his boot back to kick the fucker’s ribs.

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