Beowolf

Book : Cerberus Tactical K9

by Fiona Quinn

Genres: Women's Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense; hea; women s action adventure; K 9; Cerberus Tactical

Synopsis

They weren’t looking for love. But fate—and a dog named Beowolf—had other plans…

 

Retired military pilot Thaddeus (Nutsbe) Crushed deserves peace and quiet. If his work in tactical operations for Iniquus’s Panther Force hadn’t earned him that right, the fact that he lost his legs in the service of his country should’ve. But peace and quiet went out the window when someone threatened his beautiful new neighbor. Now, she’s his to protect…and maybe love…

 

Olivia Gladstone has no idea who’s after her. Maybe it’s her soon-to-be-ex-husband. Or it could be the terrorist she’s taking to the grand jury. All she knows for sure is that she’s in danger. And since the slobbery support mastiff in her care probably can’t protect her, she’ll need some professional help. Good thing her neighbor seems more than up to the challenge…

 

Olivia and Nutsbe weren’t expecting a happily ever after, but they just might find one. Assuming they can solve the mystery of which brutal enemy (hers or his) wants to destroy them…

Release date: April 20, 2024

Publisher: Fiona Quinn, LLC.

Print pages: 346

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Nutsbe

 

Sitting in his wheelchair, facing the sunlit window, Nutsbe knew what was coming.

His brain clanged with warning bells, his nerve endings sizzled and sparked. Nutsbe was fighting himself even before he had to fight the guy grabbing the back of his chair.

Nutsbe struggled to keep his muscles loose.

It took a concentrated effort not to clench his abs, not to grip the arms of his chair, not to turn his head and look. But Nutsbe knew that any reflexive motion could take him out of the fight before the fight even began.

He was going to ignore his impulses.

Breathe, he reminded himself. Relax.

Planting a foot on Nutsbe’s chair stabilizer to use it as a fulcrum, the backward lurch that followed was always a roller-coaster-belly flight.

As the front wheels lifted from the ground, it was a given that the attacker would jump to the side and out of the way, protecting his knees and shins from the unwieldy metal tumbling toward him. He’d take an extra step back to keep from getting pinned under the flailing weight of a hundred and eighty pounds of gym-hardened muscles sitting in the chair.

When Nutsbe first tried fighting from his wheelchair, he thought the best self-defense move in this circumstance would be to reach over his head and grab his opponent. Using a tight grip to soften the drop, maybe his weight and momentum would drag the attacker down to the ground, where surprise would allow him to get some kind of lock on the guy.

But a human was a human; a brain was a brain.

Few people trained on how to attack someone in a wheelchair. So they jumped back. And that overhead reach always left Nutsbe grabbing at thin air.

With a little practice, Nutsbe figured out how to take advantage of the aggressor’s jump. He learned not to fight on the way down. He spent that moment of disequilibrium tucking his chin to protect his head from taking that initial hit, preventing a cracked skull, the concussive effects of a sloshing brain, and whiplash. Spreading his arms wide, hands facing backward, Nutsbe waited for the jolting stop when he smacked the ground, dispersing most of the energy from his fall. The rest of that energy became the momentum he needed to throw his legs toward his head, rolling over his shoulder, bringing himself upright, hands lifted and battle-ready.

That Nutsbe was suddenly sitting up and reaching offensively for the attacker was unexpected.

Surprises were good in a fight. The brain stuttered as it realigned with the new information. It put the other guy back on his heels.

It was only a split second, but sometimes that made all the difference. It would be Nutsbe’s best shot at subduing an attack.

Nutsbe grabbed his opponent’s pant leg. Curling his fingers into the fabric, he trapped the cloth in his balled fist, preventing the guy’s escape. Then, Nutsbe jerked his elbow along his ribcage, dropping the man backward onto the mat. With his opponent’s leg tethered, Nutsbe’s sparring partner, Chuck, couldn’t do his own rolling energy dispersal. He took the full brunt of the hit.

There was no time for self-satisfaction. In a real-world fight, Nutsbe’s task was to pay attention to how the assailant reacted to the fall. That initial muscle-memory response to a fight could tell Nutsbe the level of his opponent’s combat skills.

Chuck threw his arms wide, curving his head as he tipped over, a trained fighter, not a street rumble junky.

There was good and bad in that. Newbie fighters, with their flailing kicks and wild haymakers, were dangerous in their unpredictability. Knowing that his opponent would be precise and strategic had to come into Nutsbe’s calculations as he moved to stop the attack before the stutter of surprise passed and his opponent recalibrated.

Nutsbe grabbed Chuck’s foot, twisting the heel, forcing the man onto his stomach. Like with the head, the person who controls the foot controls the opponent’s body. As soon as Nutsbe had Chuck on his stomach, he pressed the guy’s heel toward his thigh, depriving his opponent of a quick-release tactic. With a hurried shuffle over the pebbled red mat, Nutsbe positioned himself between Chuck’s knees to keep him from successfully twisting free.

Chuck’s nimbleness and athleticism allowed him to crawl forward when Nutsbe’s stress hold would trap most people. Instead, Chuck was able to flip onto his back, putting Nutsbe at a severe disadvantage.

In a split second, Nutsbe had shoved himself into position, sliding either leg around Chuck’s thigh and gripping him tightly in place.

As Nutsbe rolled onto his elbow, he rammed Chuck’s foot under his armpit, trapping Chuck’s ankle. From there, Nutsbe sucked in his stomach, curving forward to make a small space between his chest and Chuck’s leg. That was the magic of this move. Once Nutsbe got Chuck’s calf fully wrapped into a nice tight hug with his left arm, he could grab that wrist with his right hand. In a street fight, Nutsbe would continue his roll forward. Adding his weight to that joint lock would destroy his opponent’s ankle.

Chuck patted Nutsbe twice on the shoulder while saying, “Tap. Tap.” A sign that Nutsbe should immediately stop and release.

Boundaries were about safety.

No means no in all civil society.

Billy raced his wheelchair forward, stretching out his hand to make a slashing motion through the air.

The fight was over.

Spinning in his wheelchair, Billy faced the dozen or so students ranging in front of them and said, “From here, class, the only help for Chuck is from a friend. Hopefully, Chuck came to this fight alone. If the aggressor had buddies around the corner, the violence and destruction would notch up considerably. Knock him out, break his ankle, anything it takes to keep it from being a pile-on.” Billy turned his head toward Nutsbe. “Over before you even got started.” He shook Nutsbe’s hand. “Well done.”

Nutsbe sat on the mat, his thighs wide for stability. He had detached his below-knee prostheses for this demonstration, and they were across the room, leaning against the wall.

Silicone cups covered Nutsbe’s implanted metal bone anchors that held his prostheses on with a quick-latch system, thanks to osseointegration—a way to implant hardware into the bone so an amputee can easily attach their prosthetic legs. Using the silicone covers was a safety step Nutsbe took to protect his sparring partners should he kick out and accidentally make contact.

Chuck popped up to stand and took a few bounces to reset his system. He caught Nutsbe’s gaze. “New move.”

“You have to stay fresh.” Nutsbe grinned up at him. “Stale fighting leads to apathy. That’s never good.”

“Never.” Chuck reached out to shake Nutsbe’s hand and then plopped down so they sat side by side.

Looking over the beginner-class students, sitting absolutely still, with their eyes wide and their brows up around the hairline, Nutsbe thought they looked spooked.

Billy must have thought the same because he started with, “No one’s going to dump you on the ground today.” He maneuvered his chair around to face the class square on. He sat there, gently smiling, giving them a moment to process what had just happened.

Watching someone getting tipped in a chair hit a nerve.

Even knowing it was coming, even having the mats beneath him, even having explicitly asked his fighting partners to push him hard for his own benefit, Nutsbe found that backward drag terrifying.

After a moment, the anxiety settled.

“Since this is your first class, we thought a demonstration was important. My name is Billy. I’m paralyzed from the waist down from a car accident when I was in my teens. That’s Chuck.” He extended his hand Chuck’s way. “We’re instructors here. For well over a decade, we’ve worked with people with disabilities using all manners of assistive apparatus, tools, and weapons. By weapons, I mean both dedicated weapons that you’ve prepositioned on your body or on your assistive technology but also weapons of convenience—pens, phones, lamps, anything within reach—for self-defense. As you train, we’ll keep you as safe as possible but challenge you too.” He stopped and turned to Chuck, tag team.

“Billy and I have each been martial arts trainers for around fifteen years. We started training in various martial arts forms when we were kids. We also both have doctorates in physical therapy. Your own medical team will be directing your work with us. So you come as you are. You show up. We figure out your strengths and how to overcome your weaknesses together. You do you. No comparing allowed. Focus on you and your own self-defense and sense of security.”

There were head nods and murmurs.

Chuck reached out his hand to indicate Nutsbe. “Our guest playing an attack victim slash guest speaker today is Tad Crushed with Iniquus Security, otherwise known as Nuts-be Crushed.” As usual, there was a beat while people put his name together in their minds, and a titter swept over the group. “You want to say something to start us off, Nutsbe?”

Nutsbe gave a wave. “Yeah, Tad or Nutsbe, it’s your choice. I go by either one. As you can see, like many of you, I have below-the-knee amputations.” He lifted one leg, then the other. “When it comes to self-defense, using my wheelchair has some unique challenges.” He laid his hand over his heart. “One of the things that made me feel the most vulnerable when I was first going out in public with my new body structure was the idea that I was an easy target. I’ve adjusted my thinking. Anyone can be a target.” He rocked from hip to hip to find a more comfortable position. “At Iniquus, I work with a team of retired tier-one operators. It seems every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to throw down with them to see how well they’d fare against a Delta or a SEAL. One-on-one?” Nutsbe pulled his chin back and shook his head. “Not well, I promise you. But anyone can get a lucky punch. You lose a tooth, break a jaw, get shoved into a sharp corner, and split open your head. Anyone can find themselves in a tight spot. Even my teammates—some of the most effective hand-to-hand fighters in the world. My best advice? Vigorously avoid a fight. You’re here to build some skills in case avoidance becomes impossible one day.” Nutsbe signaled Chuck to come around. “Chuck and Billy asked me to go over some basic fighting concepts with you.”

Nutsbe laid back down and signaled Chuck to climb on top of him.

“Let’s start here with three psychological factors you’ll lean on as you train: resilience, perseverance, mental toughness. Those are three attributes that all of you have been developing.” Nutsbe added, “Qualities you already have. Now, you can learn to apply them to another skill set.”

Chuck settled his hips above Nutsbe’s. Immediately, Nutsbe brought his forearms into play, guarding his neck and face.

“Controlling your mind is paramount. When you’re flat on the ground with someone on top of you, panic sets in. It’s natural. Even after all my training, I feel it. I want to push him off or struggle to get away from him. But what would that serve? I’d only be exhausting myself and benefiting the attacker.” He cranked his head around to see the class. “Don’t help your attacker.” He turned back and gave Chuck a nod to let him know to engage. “Let’s see what could happen if I flailed. First, if I take my guard away to push or pull at him or try to get leverage—”

Chuck’s fists came in with slow-motion punches to show the holes that Nutsbe was creating as he floundered around. Chuck’s fists made light contact with Nutsbe’s nose, eyes, throat, and jaw.

“Do you see that?” Nutsbe brought his arms back into guard position. “Now try it.”

As Chuck threw a punch, Nutsbe pressed it away and returned to his guard. “If you flail, not only can he get his punches to land, but he can use your momentum to get you to roll.”

Chuck lifted up enough so that Nutsbe could turn over.

“Face down on your stomach is a dangerous place to be,” Nutsbe said breathlessly as his lungs compressed with Chuck sitting on his back. “A few punches to the head or neck, and you’re unconscious or worse.”

When Chuck shifted around as he feigned those strikes, Nutsbe had to battle-breathe through the welling panic. After years of training, he still had trouble detaching from the sensation of drowning. “They can wrap your neck and squeeze your carotid. Eleven pounds of pressure, ten seconds, and you’ll go night-night.”

Chuck moved to put Nutsbe in a sleeper, sending off do-or-die signals in Nutsbe’s brain. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, as soon as he felt Chuck’s pressure, Nutsbe tapped out. No reason to torture himself for a demo.

Instantly, Chuck flung himself off. And with relief, Nutsbe turned to the side to address the class. They looked every bit as horrified as they had when he was dumped from the chair. Nutsbe thought these demos might be seeding new anxieties. It wouldn’t be his tactic for a new class, but he’d trust his friends’ years of experience. They had planned things this way on purpose.

Nutsbe pushed himself to a seated position and tapped his hand on his chest. “Fear tightens the lungs, making breathing hard. No air, no good ideas. Fighting without a plan, without training, without a next move increases anxiety—the sense of claustrophobia. It leads to panic.” He pointed at the mat where he’d just laid. “I was feeling panic creep up when Chuck got a lock on my throat. For real, here, we’re humans. And that’s a biological system that’s part of our survival DNA. But panic is your enemy. It’s exhausting. You make erratic choices. Remember, a fight is a game of strategy. You move, they move. The best moves win. And by win, I mean you get out of the situation. Two points here, TV and movie fights are bunk. The bad news: The human body can’t withstand what the script writers put on paper. The good news: Fights in the street last mere seconds, even with trained martial artists, possibly a minute or so. It’s fast. And then it’s over. Okay? We just need you on the winning end of the whistle. You can do that.”

“To be extra clear,” Chuck said, coming to his feet and planting his hands on his hips. “You only have one goal in a fight. Survive and move away. Fighting back is about getting free. You’re not an avenging angel. You’re not trying to punish anyone. You’re not showing them a thing or two.”

Nutsbe nodded. “Cool, and precise, and in your rearview. Justice happens in court, with a prosecutor managing the battle. Okay?” He glanced up at the clock. “All right then. That’s my time. I’m going to leave it to your instructors—also my instructors, so I’m sure I’ll see you on the mats.” He sent them a grin to show them that this was fun and he hadn’t been hurt.

Chuck went to the side of the room to retrieve Nutsbe’s prosthetic legs.

“How many fights have you been in, Nutsbe?” a student asked.

“Real-world?” Nutsbe reached for his legs, then focused on clasping them into place. “Zero.”

“But you were in the military. Iniquus Security, right?” He pointed toward the logo on Nutsbe’s compression shirt. “They only hire ex-deployed military. So before you lost your legs, how many fights?”

“I was in the Air Force. I dropped cruise missiles on the enemy. Personally, I hope and pray I never have to fight. Property? Take it.” He stood up and moved back to his wheelchair, setting it upright and sitting down. Nutsbe found it was easier to roll out to his car rather than push his chair along. “The only reason I would fight is to protect my own body or that of someone who needed my help. I’ve never found myself in either circumstance.”

Chuck brought Nutsbe’s gym bag over.

“What does this tell me?" Nutsbe balanced it on his lap, pushing the silicon covers into a pocket, then pulling out his gloves to keep his hands clean from wheel filth as he headed back to Headquarters and his meeting with the FBI Joint Task Force. “Two things. One, chances are good you’ll never need these skills. Attacks aren’t inevitable.”

“But you train,” the man insisted. “You do expect it.”

“Point two, I have found that when I carry a first aid kit in my car, I never need it. It’s at the times when I leave the damned kit on the kitchen table to re-stock the bandages that melted from the heat in my trunk that I come across an accident or what have you. Put another way,” Nutsbe moved a hand to his chest, “in my life, I’ve found that being prepared is its own kind of insurance policy against the event ever taking place.”

The guy tipped his chin up a little higher.

“Personal observation,” Nutsbe said. “My philosophy both at work and in my personal life is prepare and hope like hell you’re never put to the test.”

 

CHAPTER TWO

Olivia

 

Bursting through the side door of the courthouse, the glare of the midday sun momentarily disoriented Olivia. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes, scanning the parking lot for a gaggle of reporters who might be staking out this exit. Finding it clear, Olivia mapped a beeline to her car.

Dressed in her professional uniform of a straight skirt and high-heeled shoes, Olivia didn’t want to take a single step more than absolutely necessary.

The nose of her car peeked out enough for identification, and Olivia started toward the adjacent public parking lot. She would leave home extra early on court days to ensure having one of the few coveted spaces here. She loved how the summer-thick trees cast a shadow of privacy over her vehicle. After being the focus of the jury’s eyes for hours as she methodically walked the coroner through the prosecutorial line of questioning, Olivia was looking forward to a moment of respite, a picnic in the back seat, and the counterweight wholesomeness of a chat with her best friend, Jaylen.

Today, Olivia had the rare chance to simply fish her phone from her purse instead of waiting to get to her car’s glove compartment.

The defendant’s brothers had made threats. Not specific enough threats to bring charges, but they’d pushed their toes right up to the line. So much so that Judge Madison issued prior approval allowing Olivia to have her phone on her person while in the courthouse.

It wasn’t often that a federal judge would approve a phone in the courtroom—even on airplane mode—but in this instance, there was a genuine fear that if Olivia left her phone in her car per the courthouse rules, she wouldn’t be able to call the police for help as she left the building.

Threats to federal prosecutors weren’t the norm.

They also weren’t that infrequent.

Olivia appreciated the judge’s concern.

While she was prosecuting a single monster doing the unimaginable, Olivia believed that the defendant’s two brothers were in on the crimes. Her team didn’t have the solid evidence that a federal case required to initiate a trial.

They had Kyle Offsed dead to rights, though. He was going to trial, trying to avoid the life sentence he so richly deserved.

Kyle hadn’t left jail since his arrest for the murders. That was to protect the public. There was also the benefit—whether Kyle agreed or not—of protecting him from his partners in crime. If his brothers thought Kyle would bring lynchpin evidence against them or testify to their shared culpability, it was possible they’d try to silence him—blood was not thicker than jail time.

When presented with the mountain of evidence against him, Olivia's team had hoped that Kyle would take a plea deal to a lesser charge and name his brothers.

But that hadn’t happened. Yet.

Once the jury found Kyle guilty, and he faced a life-without-parole future, there was always the possibility that he would ask for sentencing leniency. He might even get it if he offered up some useful information that would scrape his brothers’ scum from out of the societal pot. Olivia was sure that the Offsed brothers would go a far piece to make sure that never happened.

With Kyle tucked out of their reach, Olivia knew that one way the whole vile Offsed brotherhood might try to slide free of repercussions was to get a mistrial. And it occurred to her that if she, the lead prosecutor, were to suddenly vanish, the Offseds might think that the trial would vanish, too.

That’s not how things worked.

But was Olivia willing to risk her safety on the assumption that the Offseds were interested in doing an Internet search?

No.

As Olivia sent another glance around the parking lot for any possible listeners, she pressed the quick dial for her boss’s paralegal, Gail.

“Hi, Olivia. Do you need Steph?” Gail’s voice was a chipper mismatch to Olivia’s exhaustion.

“Is she free?” Olivia lifted her fob and beeped her car open.

“Beeping, you must be on lunch break. She’s right beside me but on another call if you want to hold.”

“I can do that.” 

“How’s the trial going?” Gail asked.

“The jury seems bored,” Olivia admitted as she opened the back passenger side door and climbed in. With the sunscreen blocking out the windshield and the trees protecting from the side, Olivia felt she had a good amount of privacy. “I think they watch too much TV and came to the trial believing it would have a stronger entertainment value. I bet they’d give this a one—maybe a two-star review. One lady keeps nodding off and waking up with a snort. The judge gave her a warning.” Olivia dragged the door to her, shutting it with a bang and a quick flick of the locks.

“I need the jury to focus. I’m trying to build enough of a knowledge base that they don’t let Kyle off because they believed some bizarre plot twist they watched on some CSI show.”

Pleased that she had pre-positioned the front seat as far forward as it would go before going into court that morning, Olivia had plenty of room to maneuver as she dragged the top off her cooler. She set the lid on her lap upside down, with the edges making a catch-all system for her food. Any crumbs or spills needed to stay trapped and off her clothes.

“So, what’s going on with the jury?”

“Right now,” Olivia said, “my witness is factually correct, but his presentation is dry as toast.”

“This morning was the coroner, right?” Gail asked. “I mean, science isn’t for everyone.”

“At this point in the trial, all they’ve heard was a lot of circumstantial evidence, and I need the jury to buy into my legal theory as we move forward.”

“You’ve got this.” Gail’s Gen Z supportiveness made Olivia smile. “Tomorrow, you’re calling your witness. She survived it. She’ll be compelling.”

Olivia unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite, setting it on the tray. “Only one eyewitness. You know? Five victims and only one survived,” Olivia said, looking at her sandwich, stomach churning. She had to eat. But for now, she’d set the sandwich down to give her stomach a second to settle. “Though, I’ve been—” Her phone rang with a second caller. Olivia looked down at her screen, saw Mickey’s name, and swiped to cut the connection. “I’ve been getting weird vibes from my witness.”

“Weird like you think she was making things up?”

Olivia forced herself to take a bite of sandwich as the phone rang again—Mickey. She swiped it off. “No. She most certainly isn’t making things up,” she said, talking past the food. “Witnesses get cold feet, sometimes. They don’t want to come in and relive.”

“I can understand. Ah, Olivia, Steph says she’ll call you back as soon as she gets off the phone. I need to go grab something for her.”

“Yup. Thanks.” As the connection ended, Olivia looked at the green leaves dancing in the breeze. It was soothing.

“You know what I need right now?” she asked her cheese sandwich. “A bit of wholesomeness.” She tapped her quick dial for Jaylen and was immediately greeted with a shriek from the receiver.

“Hey,” Olivia said, pulling her water bottle from the cooler. “Was that a cry of pain or delight?”

“Delight. Miss Tilly-Matilda is full of herself this morning.” Jaylen offered up an exasperated sigh. “I swear I don’t know what this child thinks she’s up to, but I just picked her up from her highchair. And now I know how she ate her spaghetti all-gone so quickly. She just dumped it into her diaper. It’s dripping down her legs. It’s only noon, and somehow, I smell like a pig farm. Do you think I’ll get into a shower at some point? Are you on lunch break? Wait, it’s one o’clock? No wonder my stomach is gurgling.”

As Jaylen rattled through jars in search of food, Olivia tapped the speaker on her phone then dropped her cell into the cup holder. Sliding her high heels off to give her feet a break, she spread her toes and rubbed her soles on the carpet. It was an enormous relief after a morning on her feet.

“Okay, I’ve got the makings of a PB and J and some baby carrots. I’m set.”

The phone rang a third time—Mickey.

“Do you need to take that?” Jaylen asked. “Who’s calling?”

“The shithead.”

Jaylen’s next sentence had the gummy sound of words spoken through a mouth full of peanut butter. “In the middle of the day?”

“Yeah.” Olivia took a swig of water. “Well, next Tuesday is divorce court. That Wednesday, I wake up a free woman.”

“Why is he calling you, though?”

“I don’t care. Listen, I need to eat, so you’re on speaker. Tell me about your day.”

“Lonnie is out of town until Friday, of course. Other than that it’s been just normal mommy stuff. Oh, here’s a story for you. I told you I got Tilly a big-girl toddler bed?”

“Yup, she like it?” Olivia unscrewed her container of day-old roasted broccoli, settling in to listen to the sheer banality of her best friend’s life. Jaylen was a touchstone of normalcy, leading a life messy with vegetable gardens, dogs, a bearded goat, and a dimpled dumpling baby. Olivia needed that steady dose of ordinariness, so she didn’t think that all of humanity was as depraved as the violent criminals she prosecuted.

And Jaylen, in turn, needed someone with an adult brain to talk to throughout her day. They kept each other sane.

“I dressed Tilly like a princess, and she laid down under her glitter blanket and fell right to sleep for her morning nap.”

“Aww.”

“You’re a prosecutor,” Jaylen said. “You know better than to jump to conclusions like, aww.”

Olivia chuckled as she took a bite of sandwich.

“I had trouble sleeping last night, so I thought I’d take advantage of Matilda’s nap and get one in for myself. I slept hard, only waking up to Tilly singing to herself.”

“Cute,” she said, past the food in her mouth.

“Objection. Not cute. While I was sleeping, Tilly took a red magic marker and colored my comforter.”

Olivia swallowed and coughed. “The white one?” Olivia’s phone rang. “Jaylen, it’s my office. I have to take this, don’t go away.” She tapped the button. “Hey, Steph. What’s up?”

“Three fires I thought you should hear about ASAP. And Gail said you were on lunch break.”

“Yup,”

“I asked you if you could sit in on Malik’s deposition for the grand jury after you're done with court tonight. I know you’re swamped with your current trial, but since this new case is your bailiwick, I want to lean on you a bit as the Offsed case resolves. It’s a lot. I understand that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steph, I asked to be involved. I’m good to go for tonight.”

“Keep in touch. I think that deposition is going to be postponed.”

Olivia’s lips sank into a frown. “This doesn’t sound good.”

“Malik was supposed to come in this morning to talk with me,” Steph said, “but he was a no-show.”

“He’s one of the coffin nails you need to bang into place. You called him to check in? Could he have gotten the date mixed up?”

“I called his cell,” Steph said, “his office, his home line. I reached out to his emergency contact number—his girlfriend—she’s pretty frantic because she hasn’t seen or heard from him in a few days.”

“Do you think something happened? Something beyond cold feet?” Olivia pursed her lips hard with concentration. This was a national security case, and a lot was riding on this grand jury outcome.

“I don’t know, but he’s risking his cooperation status. Speaking of cold feet—"

“Uh oh.” Olivia put her hand on her forehead, feeling a wash of dread flood her system.

“The Offsed case. I got a call from Candace. That’s actually what spurred this phone call. She says she’s very ill and won’t make it to the witness stand tomorrow. She wants to know how to tell the judge she’s down for the count with an aggressive, debilitating flu. She’s in bed and doesn’t think that she’s going to be up again for weeks.”

Olivia’s sole surviving witness. “I can ask for a continuance. Judge Madison will want documentation from a doctor, of course. How did she sound to you?”

“Like she was laying it on thick,” Steph said. “But I’m a cynic. Maybe she was talking to me while she was clinging to her toilet bowl, getting ready to spew.”

“She’s been so brave. Really an amazing young woman after all she went through. And here we are so close.” Olivia stared out the side window, focusing on a squirrel clinging to the tree trunk. “I’m not buying the timing of this illness. Did she say anything else?” Olivia drummed nervous fingers on the cooler lid.

“Yeah, that the last few days she thinks she keeps catching glimpses of Kyle’s brothers.”

“We have protective orders in place. Did Candace call the police?” Olivia asked.

“The men are on motorcycles with helmets on, so right now, she’s not a hundred percent sure. She’s guessing from the shapes of their bodies. But I think that’s what’s got her terrified. She’s moved to a temporary place—a friend’s empty rental. I have the address. I’ll text it to you as soon as we hang up.”

Olivia’s lungs caught. “Motorcycles?”

“Another reason I’m calling. You told me you haven’t been able to sleep this last week because of the motorcycles revving in your neighborhood. If you think that the Offsed brothers are harassing you, maybe you should consider staying at a hotel until sentencing.”

Well, that would make all the sense in the world that the sudden late-night intrusion of motorcycles roaring up and down the neighborhood roads was the Offseds trying to rattle her in court. But how would they have found out where she was living?

“Olivia?”

“Do you know how many people in Northern Virginia have motorcycles? The chance of me being a target is slim to none. Candace, maybe. But she’s moved. She happened to get sick the day before her testimony? I’m a cynic, too. We need to focus on getting Candace in tomorrow, even if she’s clinging to a puke bucket.”

“How do you want to handle this?” Steph asked.

“Okay, new plan. I’m going to assume she’s terrified and doesn’t want to be retraumatized by being in the same court with Kyle, dredging up the story, and getting cross-examined. So she needs support.” Olivia shifted her hips farther back in the seat and sat up straight. “I’m going to call Bob Palindrome.”

“Cerberus’s court support pooches? Good idea if Candace will go for it. And if the judge signs off. Short notice, though.”

“Very short. Before I reach out to Candace with the offer, I’ll see if it’s even a possibility with Iniquus and the judge.”

Her phone buzzed—Mickey. She tapped him silent.

“Defense might hate the idea,” Steph said.

“Defense won’t have much of an argument,” Olivia leaned back until she felt the cool leather through her silk blouse. “Look, I only have a few minutes until I need to be back in court.”

Her phone buzzed—Mickey.

“Who is that?” Steph asked. “Do you need to take it?”

“Robo call. I’m on this Candace debacle. I’ll keep you abreast.”

Olivia ended the office call, then typed a message for Mickey: Call me again, and I’ll file for a restraining order. She looked it over and erased it before she pressed send. The last thing she needed with less than a week until divorce court was something that might make her look paranoid or aggressive to the judge.

She pressed the button. “Jaylen?”

“I’m still here.”

“Sorry. Work. Okay, you were telling me that Tilly colored your white comforter?”

“And the walls in red magic marker. I didn’t even know we owned a red magic marker.”

“Water soluble?” Olivia shoved her last bite of sandwich into her mouth and reached for her celery sticks.

“Nope. Permanent.”

“Ouch.” 

“I have to get some stain-covering paint at the hardware and repaint the wall,” Jaylen’s voice muffled as she called out. “Hey! Don’t pull the dog’s ears, Tilly. He doesn’t like that.” Olivia waited as Jaylen handled the situation, then returned to the call. “I’m going to bleach the heck out of the comforter and see if I can salvage it.”

“Did you get mad at her?”

“How could I?” Jaylen asked, her voice warmed with a smile. “Tilly was delighted. She told me it was pretty. I imagine she was doing it as a gift, a nice surprise for when I woke up. So what could I do? She’s two. I got her a pad and told her we only make art on paper.”

“I hope it works. Still, you need to hunt around and see if this pen has a twin.”

“I can hear you chewing,” Jalen said. “Is that celery?”

“With peanut butter and raisins.” Olivia shoved the rest of the food into the cooler with their wrappings.

“Harkening back to your youth?”

“It’s what I had in the fridge.” Olivia wiped her fingers on her napkin and opened her phone contacts. “I’m down to an inch in the milk carton and an array of condiments. I’m eating chef’s surprise–basically what I could piece together until I can get to the grocery store.”

“When will that be?”

“The grocery? Hard to say. Hey Jaylen, I’ve got to go.” Olivia scrolled until she got to Bob’s number. “Thank you for being so normal. Truly, you’re my fulcrum.”

“Fulcrum? Okay, I’ve been called worse things. Phone me later.”

“Yeah, once I’m out of court for the day. Love you. Kisses for Tilly.” With a frown, Olivia pushed the cooler cover to the side while she called Bob. She listened to the ringer: once, twice.

“Bob Palindrome.”

“Bob, it’s Olivia Gladstone from the U.S. Attorney’s office. I’ll cut to the chase. I need a last-minute dog.”

“Olivia from the Eastern District office, good to hear from you. I, uhm, could you tell me a little more? What’s a last-minute dog?”

With a quick explanation of her situation, Bob said, “Okay, I have a court-certified dog available. The problem is that he needs a court-certified handler. Both Cerberus Tactical K9 teams are in the field along with their support personnel.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Olivia said quietly.

“Don’t despair. I have one other certified handler I can ask. Tomorrow, you said?”

“Yes.” Olivia glanced at her watch and slid her feet back into her shoes.

“Do you know what time?”

“My witness will be called after the lunch break, say around one o’clock or so.” Olivia scraped her teeth over her lip. “Would it be okay with you if I act as if things will work out? I haven’t broached this with the judge yet, and I also need to ask the witness if this will help. I can call you back once I have my ducks in a row and confirm. I’m doing this a little bit backward.”

“Just tomorrow afternoon?” Bob asked.

“The witness will be testifying tomorrow. And she mentioned that she’d like to be present when the jury reads their verdict.” Olivia looked toward the building, thinking it would save her walking time and foot pain if there was a closer parking spot. She didn’t see anything open along the road. “No telling when that would be. I think let’s concentrate on one thing at a time.”

“If I can get the handler’s schedule cleared, we need to get everyone in a room tonight—you, me, the witness, the handler, and the dog.”

“You’re bringing in Valor, aren’t you?” She opened her door, stepped out, and swept a hand over her clothes. “I know her pretty well already.”

“Valor is out on a mission. The K9 I have available is Beowolf.”

“Beowolf?” Reaching for her purse, Olivia slammed the door and lifted her fob to engage the locks. “Sounds monstrous. Has Beowolf been in court before?” She turned and started back toward the courthouse.

“Yeah, he’s been a court-certified support K9 for the last two years in both D.C. and Northern Virginia. I’m not sending you some mutt we just picked up at the pound.”

“I’m sorry.” She stepped out of the way of the pickup truck, speeding toward the exit. “Sorry. I just had Valor in mind.”

“Beowolf’s actually the reason Cerberus got involved with doing this kind of community service. But hey, just so the judge doesn’t think you pulled a fast one, you should let them know that Beowolf—that’s with an O as in wolf and not a U—"

“Oh, it would have been so much funnier if it were two Os like Beo-woof.” She woofed the last sound.

“Ha! And so obvious when you say that. Too late now. Beowolf with just the one O is a bullmastiff.”

“Mastiff?” She was breathless from her quick pace. “How big are we talking about here, Bob?”

“Three feet at the shoulder. Two hundred pounds, give or take. No take, just give—two

hundred pounds plus some.”

“So, like a pony?”

“That’s about the right image.” Bob chuckled.

Olivia stepped onto the sidewalk. “Does he fit on the witness stand? We have to keep him out of line of sight with the jury.”

“He can be surprisingly compact when he needs to be.”

“Okay, well,” Olivia smiled at the image in her head, “I’ll say mastiff and see if any questions follow.”

“Gentle giant.” Bob’s voice sounded amused.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll keep that descriptor in my pocket.” Olivia grabbed at the door as a man moved in ahead of her. “I’ll pursue it with the judge and the witness. I’ll call you back with an update. Thanks, Bob.”

She pressed the red dot to end the call. Resting the edge of her phone on her chin, Olivia tried to imagine the tiny box available for witnesses, the size of the chair, the size of Candace, and now add to that a two-hundred-pound dog. This’ll be interesting. She tapped her screen and scrolled through her contacts until she came to Candace’s number.

Standing away from the line moving through the metal detection machine, Olivia made her last phone call before she needed to be back in the courtroom. “Candace? Olivia Gladstone, here.” She painted her voice with concern. “Hey, I heard you weren’t feeling well.”