Page 7 of Rusty's Command

Another bark. He’s definitely in the right tunnel. Or was he?

“Pickle!” She listened intently to the echo pattern. The right tunnel. It had to be the right tunnel which was getting narrowerwith each step. She ducked slightly as the ceiling lowered. “No organic turkey breast for your dinner tonight.” You little bugger.

The sound of water dripping grew louder, and somewhere ahead, Pickle barked again, the echo shorter this time. Closer? She hoped so because the last thing she needed was to get lost in this hellish place.

“There you are.” Pickle was in a small chamber, bouncing on his stubby legs near a fist-sized hole in the wall. A few tufts of brown fur caught in the rocks showed the mongoose’s escape route.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you little shit.” She scooped up the wriggling dog.

He licked her face and wagged his tail like he’d just accomplished something amazing.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before Aunty Dee’s sixth sense kicks in.” She adjusted her grip on the squirming bundle of fur. That woman had an uncanny ability to know when something was wrong, like some kind of kupuna radar. When she was a teenager, visiting her aunt, Aunty Dee had caught Sienna sneaking home dozens of times, appearing with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, somehow knowing exactly how many tequila sunrises she’d had at whatever beach party she’d found.

Three weeks ago, that same intuition had kicked in again. Aunty Dee had called out of nowhere, with her voice full of that knowing tone.

“You’re not eating, are you?” she’d said. “You’re sitting in your bedroom, letting grief eat you alive.” Before Sienna could even protest, flight details were being emailed over. “Hawaii will heal you, luvvy. It always does.”

Pickle squirmed in her arms, trying to get back to his mongoose hunt. “Oh no, you don’t. We’re going home.”

Sienna turned back the way she came, and her phone beam danced over the glassy lava ripples. At the fork in the tunnel, voices drifted through the darkness. She paused mid-step, sweeping her light around and straining to locate the source of the voices.

Curiosity pulled her toward the sound. Maybe some tourists had wandered into the tunnel and got lost. Wouldn’t that be rich, the geeky cybersecurity specialist playing hero in a lava tube? She pictured her next meeting: “So how was your trip to Hawaii, Sienna? Oh, you know, just rescued some lost tourists while jogging through volcanic caves.”

A bitter laugh caught in her throat. Who was she kidding? Nobody at work gave a flying fig what she did outside of her grueling work hours where she spent every day peering at her dual monitors, trying to dodge her supervisor Brad’s creepy sneers. At the Christmas party last year, the sick bastard had cornered her in the kitchen, and with his breath reeking of bourbon, he’d pressed her against the wall.

She shuddered at the memory.

She’d vented to Paige about him as they’d sipped mai tais, and they’d howled with laughter when she’d described how she’d rigged Brad’s Teams account to randomly switch his background to images of pigs wallowing in mud during important client calls. His face when a fat hog appeared behind him, snout-deep in slop, during the quarterly board meeting had been priceless.

“Damn you, Paige.” The words scraped up her throat. “Why did you leave me?”

The question echoed back unanswered, just like all her calls and texts that final day.

Ahead, daylight filtered down through a small exit tunnel, creating a pale pool on the floor. The voices grew clearer as she approached, and the ground sloped upward toward the opening,creating a ramp-like exit. It was steep, but she could get out that way if she tried.

“Jesus Christ!” A man bellowed.

She froze in place.

“Dig faster, you lazy prick!” The voice cracked like thunder.

Her heart pounded as she retreated into the shadows. Pickle squirmed in her arms, and she tightened her grip, pressing him against her chest.

Metal struck earth with a sharp ping that echoed off the cave walls, followed by a grunt of exertion. She inched closer to the opening, and her heart raced as she peered around the jagged edge of rock to look out to the sunshine.

Two shirtless men were digging a hole in a rare patch of soil surrounded by rippled black lava and a couple of gnarly trees. Behind them, something was wrapped in a blue tarp.

The larger of the men leaned against his shovel, and the dragon tattoo across his back seemed to twist with each breath. The beast’s scales shifted in the sunlight and its claws wrapped around his ribs like it was trying to tear through his flesh.

At his feet, the second man was in a large hole and digging with savage intensity. His chest tattoo was a temple scene straight out of ancient Japan. Dark storm clouds were the backdrop to warrior figures locked in battle, lightning strikes illuminating their faces in a way that made them look more demon than human. Thick tribal bands wrapped around both men’s arms, and the black geometric patterns rippled as the big man shoveled more dirt.

These weren’t tourist tattoos from some Waikiki parlor. This was serious ink, the kind that told stories of power and violence. The kind that were earned.

Jesus. Who are these guys? And what are they doing? And what the hell is in that blue tarp?

Was that a body?

Bloody hell, I’ve watched too many crime documentaries with Paige.

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