Chapter One
Dakota
Sunday
Dakota Kayne dropped the gunmetal grey duffle to the ground, a bright blue Cerberus Tactical K9 logo stamped on the side. He glanced toward his massive German shepherd, Tank, sitting expectantly in front of him. “Let’s see what they’ve packed for us, hey boy?”
Pulling the zipper, Dakota reached in to retrieve a bundle of neatly coiled lines resting at the top. Underneath was a water bottle, energy pouches, a towel, a race number with safety pins, and two tubes of grease paint. He left those in place as he held the handful of webbing and bungee cords under his dog’s nose. “Hey, Tank, have you done this before?”
Tank’s whole body shifted to excitement mode as he leaned forward, tapped his nose on the webbing, then shifted his gaze up to lock with Dakota’s. Big for a German shepherd, Tank was all muscle and enthusiasm. Tank’s biggest muscle by far, though, was his heart. If Tank were doing it, he would give 100%.
This was the first time in almost two months that Dakota and Tank were together.
Dakota had been down in Colombia, working a Secret Service mission. For two months, Dakota missed Tank with the same intensity of homesickness he had fought down when he deployed to the Middle East back in his military days.
Dakota had only just arrived back in the States Friday night. He had spent his Saturday doing the domestic things that needed attention after a long time away—filling the fridge, chucking the dead house plants, and opening the doors wide, despite the March chill, airing out the stale, unused smells that expand in a home when a door never opens to let in a blast of wind or sunshine.
That night, while Dakota was busy emptying his suitcases and throwing a load in the washing machine, Reaper, the lead trainer over at Iniquus’s Cerberus Tactical K9, had called to check in. “Hey, man, I know you’re scheduled to come to the campus and work with Tank on Tuesday, but we’re a man down on our race team. We’d appreciate it if you could run Tank for a good cause.”
“How’s that?” Dakota asked, pouring a capful of detergent into the washer tub. He’d get to see Tank earlier than planned, so whatever this was, the answer was an eager yes.
While Dakota was on mission, Tank had been living at Iniquus’s Cerberus Tactical K9 kennels for advanced scent training and certification in printing ink detection, along with sharpening Tank’s tactical skills to the razor-blade’s edge of Cerberus standards.
“Grace Del Toro, one of the Strike Force wives, is on a team that’s putting on a charity event for the children’s hospital tomorrow, and things took a step sideways.”
Dakota had no idea what his “Sure, I can help. What do you need?” was going to get him into.
But that’s how he now found himself laced up in his trail running gear this bright Sunday morning, standing with all three Cerberus Tactical K9 teams—Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie—in the roped-off parking lot of some Virginia farm just off the highway south of D.C.
There must have been close to two hundred people with dogs of all shapes and sizes scattered around the lot. Most of the dogs had basic leashes clipped to their collars, not this crazy setup he’d pulled from the bag with what looked like straps that went around the thighs.
Like a garter belt, maybe?
That’ll be a new sensation.
With a flick of his wrist, Dakota unraveled the rope system so he could see the length of the contraption.
Tank knew exactly what this was and exactly what came next. His tongue hung low as he panted in anticipation.
“Okay, good, that’s one of us who has a clue.” Dakota looked over as a couple of the Cerberus operators strapped their tethers around their hips.
“Here we go.” Dakota put his foot into the loop. He tried to mimic how the men stepped into the center, pushed the wide panel low on the back of their hips, then secured it in place with the various straps. “You’ll give me a heads up before I get tangled in this spider web of a contraption, right?”
Tank’s yip could be anything from “Let’s go!” to “You look like a fool, dude. You’re wearing it backward.”
Dakota would guess Tank probably meant that second one.
The goal for today’s event was to raise money for the children’s hospital project—building an accessible playground and a safe trail to get the kids off the pediatric floor from time to time and out into the sunshine and fresh air.
Who could turn down an opportunity like that?
The way the hospital was going about raising that money sounded genius. The event paralleled their hospital’s end goal of gathering outside in nature to feel better and have fun in community.
The charitable committee had hired an outfit that put together K9 obstacle runs. Doggos from all over signed up to race five miles, running the hills, lizard crawling under netting, splashing through ponds, and climbing walls.
It was the kind of event that got lots of people posting about their cool experience.
Lots of rattle and shake.
Lots of eyes on the event would hopefully drive a steady flow of funds from far and wide to fill the coffers, and the project would get the funds needed to greenlight the playground.
The problem for the committee was that a pop-up outdoor concert by some new social media sensation was suddenly soaking up local interest, and the competition for eyeballs would overwhelm the charity event's pull. The hospital committee had really leaned into the idea of getting exposure from viral posts and influencer participation. And it didn’t look like they were going to fill the spectators’ ranks the way they’d anticipated.
Grace believed they needed a wow factor, not just Joe Blow running his chihuahua, Spike. Though, honestly, if Spike came in a tutu, Dakota could see how that might work just fine.
Grace decided that Cerberus was the secret sauce for success.
Phone calls were made.
Iniquus Command was thumbs up.
They invited Dakota to join, wondering if a Secret Service special agent could keep up.
And here they were.
Granted, Cerberus competed with their K9s in tactical events all over the world. It was how they built their international reputation for excellence. And that was why, after Tank proved he was qualified for a training position and his name was put on the wait list, Dakota had had to save for a year in order to afford Tank’s training in their Cerberus certification program.
Worth every penny as far as Dakota was concerned. In a pinch, this training could save both their lives while working in the field.
And as for today, Dakota could see how the inclusion of the Cerberus teams could push the charitable algorithm into green.
Dakota reasoned it through this way: Who gave the most money to charities? Women.
And what do women want?
Given his track record of late, Dakota was the wrong person to ask. But he’d assume ex-special forces operators in wet T-shirts with their war dogs, fighting to be the first over the finish line, might be something that would catch the female eye.
“Oy there, mate, you ready?” Halo, one of two Aussies on Cerberus, stopped beside Dakota and reached out to re-adjust Dakota’s lines. “First time, hey?” He clipped the bungee lead between Tank’s harness and Dakota’s belt.
“I’ve done mud runs before, and I was in the military. But strapped to a fur missile this way? Yeah, this is a first. Any advice?”
“Well, mate,” Halo’s accent had a friendly ease, “I’d make sure you tell Tank to stop before he pulls you out of your runners.”
“Please don’t do that,” Dakota told Tank. “We’re here for the kiddos and to have some fun.”
“Just a warning, then,” Halo said, “We’ve been working with Tank on his water skills. When cold water touches his belly, he freaks out a bit.” Holding the length of his long lead neatly coiled around his fingers, Halo used a hand signal to move his Malinois, Max, between his legs. “You didn’t swim him when he was a pup?”
“I’m a triathlete. My swims are too long. So, no. I guess I messed up on that one.” Dakota put his hand on Tank’s head, “Sorry about that, buddy.”
“No worries,” Halo said. “Sure, he has a moment of freak-out when his chest gets wet. Just spin him around in the right direction and start swimming. He’ll switch gears, and he’s good to go.”
“Thanks.” Dakota lifted his hand as Halo and Max jogged toward the group of Cerberus Malinois. The Malinois were going to be the first to take off at the starting line. Mainly because Malinois could eat dog food and, by alchemy, transmute it into rocket fuel.
The German shepherds turned it into jet fuel.
Rockets launched first.
Though, to Dakota’s way of thinking, it shouldn’t really matter what kind of fuel they were burning. The dogs would be held back by their person's speed.
Hopefully.
If not, then they’d crash and burn.
“Fun times!” Reaper called out as he approached, hand extended. “Glad you could make it.” They clasped in a welcoming shake. “Today, you can see for yourself what Tank’s been up to lately as he gets ready for his final tests.” He bent to scritch behind Tank’s ears. “Word of warning, Tank knows what he’s doing here. When he takes off running, he’s going to pull you along—a blessing and a curse, right? You’re going to be racing faster than you ever have over an uneven surface. It’s going to feel disorganized in your brain. It’s not unusual to feel out of control, even to panic a bit as your speed increases significantly. Breathe into the sensation. But you also need to communicate with Tank, so he doesn’t pull you off your feet and drag you face-first. The road rash would be epic.”
If Tank was setting the pace, Dakota was more concerned about having enough lung capacity than the road rash. “You’ve been through this course?”
“We ran it yesterday to test everything out for the organizers. We found a couple of places that seemed too dangerous for the weekend warrior types. So they had to re-engineer a couple of spots. All in all, it was a great time.” Reaper leaned down to scratch Tank’s neck. “Word of warning, in past evolutions, the shepherds don’t like that the Malinois are out front, so they try to prove they’re in the same running league. They’re not. Fact of life. But you may want to lean back pretty hard until the Malinois turn out of sight.”
“Got it.”
“You’ve carried him on your shoulders?” Reaper asked.
“I have, but he was a lot smaller.”
“When you get to the obstacles that require a carry, and it’s not working out, you can always hug him to your chest like he’s a baby, front paws over your shoulder.” Reaper pointed at Tank. “Just watch because he likes to keep running those back legs of his, and you’re in shorts.”
“Copy.”
Tank weighed a good ninety pounds now. The last time Dakota had slung Tank over his shoulders, Tank was a worn-out pup. Now, Tank was a whole lot of dog to drape across Dakota’s shoulders.
“Also, when you get to the wall, the sign says to leave the dog clipped to the side and go over by yourself. We’re all carrying the dogs on our shoulders over the wall. There’s an event photographer stationed there, and we’re doing our best to get those viral shots online to bring in the money. At Cerberus, climbing walls with our dogs on our shoulders is part of our protocol. Tank knows the deal. But if you’re at all worried, I’d follow the sign.”
Yeah, right. Dakota was much too competitive to take the easy route. He liked the challenge.
“If you go over, there’s deep sand all around, so everyone’s legs are safe. There are a couple other spots where it will be easiest to pick Tank up to run the obstacle. There’s a log over a mud bog, and they have another cameraperson posted there.” Reaper grinned. “Choice is yours, run across with your K9 in your arms like a superhero, or fall in and make a splash for the camera. Either one should get the clicks and help the kiddos. And that’s what we want.”
“I’m starting to think that falling into mud is why you invited me along.” Dakota was only half kidding.
Reaper grinned and clapped him on the back as he took off toward a petite blonde woman with her hand in the air and a grin on her face.
“I’ll give it my best, buddy,” Dakota sank to a squat next to Tank. “But since I’ve never tried throwing you over my shoulder to climb an eight-foot wall before, there might be a learning curve, is all I’m saying.” He scritched Tank between his ears. “They do this for a living. We’ll figure it out together. We have each other’s backs.” Dakota stood. “Be patient with me, okay? All those cameras. This is gonna be hella humbling.”
“Gentlemen,” Reaper called out, “gather ’round.”
Dakota snatched up the duffel, and he and Tank jogged over to join the group at the back of the transport, where they stood on the edge of the pack of Cerberus shepherds.
There, Dakota spotted two labs, a blond and a black. And, unexpectedly, a mastiff named Beowolf with his handler, Nutsbe, wearing a Panther Force Tactical logo on his shirt, was running with bilateral prostheses.
Reaper raised his hands. “Thank you to all of those who came out on your day off. We’re here with the best of intentions—helping kids in need. Today, we’re going to be in the public eye.” He pointed to a poster duct-taped to the side of the vehicle. “We want to do our best by our youngest and most vulnerable, but we still need to maintain our anonymity. You probably already found face paint in the duffels.” He turned and tapped the poster. “These are the stripe patterns, positions, and color combinations that will thwart AI in recognizing your face and successfully putting you into someone’s database. The dogs were entered by their race numbers. We’re going to try to command them with hand signals and voice, but try not to use their names around cameras, for all the obvious security reasons.”
The men nodded.
When Dakota was in the sandbox and out with K9 teams, they never used their dogs' names in public, lest someone overhear, call the dog to them, and hold a military war dog hostage. At $100,000 to get the canines operational, it would be a big financial hit. But it would be an even bigger emotional hit for the units. And should the dog be used against an allied team, well, that would just all kinds of suck.
Better to never use the dogs’ names.
“All of your names were placed on the roster as your call signs. No last names.” Reaper looked over at Dakota. “We haven’t put you in yet. We didn’t know what you went by.”
“Raisin,” Dakota said.
The Cerberus men turned Dakota’s way with laughter in their eyes.
“Raisin,” Reaper repeated. “Okay then.” He tipped his head toward the transport. “Bottle of water in the back of the vehicle if you’re feeling parched and need to plump yourself back up.”
Laughter rippled amongst the men.
That was fine. Dakota was used to it. The guy with the mastiff was named Nutsbe because his last name was Crushed. Dakota would pick his moniker “Raisin Kayne” over “Nutsbe Crushed” any day.
“Alright, Raisin, and the rest of you. Pick a camouflage configuration from the poster. Have the guy next to you apply your war paint. Be efficient with time, put your bags back here.” He pointed toward the back of the vehicle. “And then, head to the starting line. We’re going to give the crowd a good show. Lots of publicity equals lots of donations. Let’s give them exciting footage and make this day a win for the kids.”
Hawkeye turned to him, sticks of face paint in Iniquus' gunmetal gray and royal blue in his hand. “Do you care which design?”
“Whichever you want.” As Hawkeye smeared a line down the side of Dakota’s nose, he thought that he should get a picture of the different patterns. He’d learned face paint for combat, but he’d done that training before AI technology made identification a touch of a computer button.
Hawkeye handed the paint sticks to Dakota so Dakota could return the favor. They flung their bags into the back, and Hawkeye looked over Dakota’s harness configuration. “You’re strapped in right. Your first time doing a cani-cross mud run?”
“First. I’m gathering advice.”
“Move your feet as fast as you can.” Hawkeye slapped him on the back, and like a school of fish, they made their way to the starting line.
Dakota moved Tank to the outside of the group, where they might have a little extra maneuvering room, giving Dakota time to figure out how all this worked.
Tank turned his head and eyed him as if to say, “Oh, we’re going for it.”
A whistle blew, and a voice boomed through the bullhorn. “Heat One. Cerberus Tactical, take your places.” The Malinois gathered along the start line, barking their agitation at being held back.
“We’re going in THREE. TWO. ONE!”
The gun cracked the air. The crowd’s cheers swelled around them.
And the Malinois were off!
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