Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(97)

He loved me.

That was the good news. But something weighted his voice, and I finally realized it was the other shoe, poised to drop.

“Go on.” I looked at him, because that seemed required, too. Like refusing the blindfold at your execution.

He flattened his hand, ran his palm along his forehead. “I just—you bring a lot with you. And not all of it is good.”

Another nod. Me, being agreeable.

Behind us, the horizon smoked and burned—fire and ash and dust.



I called Avi and told him about Clyde, and shared what Dougie had said about the injury.

“Call me when you are ten minutes out,” Avi said. “Then bring him around to the back. We will be ready.”

A while after that we hit Denver and pushed through the early start of rush hour, weaving through traffic, sometimes using the shoulder when we hit an impassable snarl. Dougie and Clyde snoozed on, oblivious. I directed Cohen to merge onto I-70 and keep heading west to the exit for Washington Street. From there, he should proceed north toward East 58th.

“The North Washington area? We’ll be heading into warehouses.”

“It’s where Clyde’s trainer has his center. No neighbors to bother when the dogs bark.”

“And he’s a veterinarian?”

“The best. He used to train and care for K9s for Mossad. I wouldn’t trust anyone else.”

As soon as signs for the National Western Complex building appeared, I called Avi and told him we were fifteen minutes out.

Twelve minutes after that, Cohen pulled into the parking lot of a vast, nondescript warehouse surrounded by an eight-foot fence and without a single sign to give away what happened inside. I directed him to drive along the side of the structure and into a second lot in the back. Dougie woke as we parked, switching immediately from crashed out to full-on alert.

Avi met us with a gurney and two techs wearing surgery gowns and caps. Gently we eased Clyde out of the vehicle and placed him on the stretcher. The techs rolled him into the building, and the rest of us hurried after.

Inside, another tech joined in, and Avi’s team jumped into action. They got oxygen on Clyde, inserted an IV catheter into his front leg, and checked his vitals while Avi examined the wound.

Awake now, Clyde rolled his eyes toward me, probably more bewildered by the attention than the pain. He was still on a morphine high. I couldn’t get close enough to touch him, but I put everything I had into my eyes.

He quieted.

Avi finished his exam and stepped back. He glared at me, then softened as he took in my wounds and Cohen’s. “I thought you were on vacation.”

“Things got out of hand.”

“You seem to have that gift.” He turned to Dougie. “You are the medic?”

“Yes, sir. All handlers are taught basic veterinary care.”

Avi looked at me, then back to Dougie, connecting the dots while Dougie filled him in on what he’d done to treat Clyde, including the morphine.

“You can stay,” Avi said to Dougie. Then he pointed at me. “You go to the hospital.”

“It’s not an option right now.”

“Then go to the other examination room. I will send one of my techs to take a look. Him, too. Cohen, right? This is your detective? What were you guys doing today? No, do not tell me. Do not ask, do not tell, good policy.” He rounded on one of the techs. “We need X-rays. What are you waiting for?”

“You’re going to be fine, Clyde,” I said. “I love you.”

The last thing I saw before Avi closed the door was Dougie in a disposable cap and mask standing next to my partner.

Handler and K9, together again.



Cohen and I took seats in the next room. It smelled of antiseptic and anxious dog. Posters advertised deworming medicines and vaccines. A barrage of barking echoed through the room from the training center on the other side of the wall.

Under the stark fluorescents, Cohen’s bruises looked even worse. I worried that maybe there were other injuries—broken bones, damaged organs.

I shifted in my seat. “You look like shit.”

He laughed. “You look in a mirror lately?”

But the laugh was faint, and he was holding a hand to his ribs.

A young woman with an auburn ponytail came in and closed the door behind her. “I’m Sara. Avi has asked me to take a look at you.”

We introduced ourselves. She smiled, eyeballed us, then gestured Cohen onto the surgery table.

“Remove your shirt, please.”

She and I both sucked in a breath at the bruises that purpled Cohen’s chest and left side.

Sara rolled a lamp over to the table. “You are in a lot of pain?”

“I’ve been better.”

“One to ten, with one being the lowest and ten being unbearable.”

“Call it a four.”

She raised an eyebrow, and I said, “He’s being macho.”

“We’ll go with six.” She snapped on latex gloves and ran her fingers along his ribs.

He gritted his teeth. “Maybe seven.”

Sara was efficient as she moved around him. “Does this hurt? How about here? What do you feel when I apply pressure to this area?”

When she finished with his face and chest, she moved on to his hands. She rolled a tray table over and asked him to spread his fingers. He did so, but I read in his eyes what it cost him—too much like what he’d undergone in the trailer.