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One
Mark Gallagher spoke softly to his dog as he pulled his phone from his pants pocket to call his partner, Ragnar Johansen, who was sitting at a bus stop within shouting distance.
“Act chill for a minute, Red,” he told the dog.
Red was a big Labrador mix, a good hundred pounds.
“He found it?” Ragnar asked over the phone.
“Hey! Yeah!” Mark said loudly for anyone who might have been watching or in earshot.
Red sat for a moment at his feet. He had already indicated the house where the young woman was being held.
“He found it, and we can move,” Ragnar said. “Red is one damned cool canine.”
It wasn’t Red’s size that made him so unique. The Krewe members all called him “Special Agent Red” since he was a service dog in many ways, but he was highly trained in other areas.
Red was excellent at finding people—both the living and the dead.
“He found this house, and hopefully Sally. Alive,” Mark said softly.
The young woman had gone missing, and according to her parents and friends, she wasn’t the type to just disappear. And while a dozen possibilities could be considered in any disappearance, they’d been immediately concerned.
Two women from areas just outside of DC had also recently disappeared.
Only they were later found—dead.
“Heading around the back now. It’s number 1405. I checked with Angela. The house has been rented by an Alex Grant. Angela says it’s a pseudonym.”
“So, it’s really Carver,” Ragnar said. “But this is your plan. Um, I’ll take the front. I’ll come up with a ruse—selling Girl Scout Cookies won’t work.”
“I don’t think so,” Mark said dryly. His partner not only had a Scandinavian name—he looked as if he’d stepped off the set of a Viking movie.
“Maybe I’ll be selling life insurance.”
“I know you’ll make something work. We’ll go,” Mark told him, and ended the call.
It was going to be tricky; the man could be holding a young woman. The young woman could die. But they didn’t have a search warrant and the laws weren’t always on their side.
But right now, life came first.
“Now, boy, if you will,” Mark said softly to the dog.
Red let out a woof and took off at a dead run. Mark pretended to lose the leash, running after the dog into the yard.
He was grateful there was no fence.
Red went around to the back. Mark, following after him, heard the doorbell ring, and he knew his partner was at the front. He gave the bell a minute to be answered, and then nodded at Red, who loped to the back door, throwing himself against it.
“Red, hey boy, stop, please!” Mark said. Of course, the dog knew to keep going.
It worked as he had hoped. Their suspect, Jim Carver, after answering the doorbell and hearing the ruckus in the other room, was soon at the back door, swearing. But as planned, Ragnar had taken the opportunity to enter the house after Carver had answered the ringing doorbell.
Red pushed his way into the house, barking furiously at Carver.
“What the hell?” Carver yelled furiously. “I’m going to have this animal put to sleep—and you!” He stopped, staring at Ragnar. “What the hell?” he repeated. “I said you could come into the foyer, and now, you’re in my house! Get the hell out!”
“I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said.
“What? You didn’t hear anyone screaming!” Carver said. “You—you’re cops—”
“Sorry, there goes my dog,” Mark said.
The dog raced through the kitchen, and Mark hurried after him, followed by Ragnar and Carver with Carver threatening them with lawsuits with every step.
The door to the basement was closed.
“I told you. I heard someone screaming,” Ragnar said. “There’s more screaming!”
“No one is screaming!” Carver protested.
“The dog hears it. He’s going crazy,” Mark agreed.
“You people! This is illegal! This is my residence—”
“Taken under a pseudonym. Reasonable cause for entry, then again, you did let me in. And now? Someone is screaming. We can hear it!” Ragnar said.
“You do not hear screaming!” Carver protested. “And a pseudonym! What the hell? I will have my day in court!”
“Oh, yes, you will,” Mark agreed. He stared at the man. “What? You don’t think we hear screams? Is your victim dead already?”
Carver backed away, staring at him.
The basement door was locked. Ragnar and Mark looked at one another and thudded their shoulders against the door simultaneously. Mark barely regained his balance; steps led down to the basement below and a fall could have been serious—even deadly.
Red barked furiously again, weaving through their legs and tearing down the steps.
Carver realized he’d been made; he turned to take off running, grabbing a Smith & Wesson pistol off the table as he did.
Mark didn’t know for sure if Carver was the man who was now the scourge of a dozen police agencies and the FBI.
“The Embracer” as he had been termed in the press.
But Carver had been holding Sally Smithson. Red was never wrong.
“Drop it!” Mark thundered, drawing his own weapon from beneath his jacket.
Carver fired wildly. Mark fired a warning shot.
“Drop it!”
Carver started running.
