Shakedown Read online

  Shakedown

  by J. Gunnar Grey

  Published by Astraea Press

  www.astraeapress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  SHAKEDOWN

  Copyright © 2012 J. GUNNAR GREY

  ISBN 978-1-62135-070-5

  Cover Art Designed by For the Muse Designs

  Edited by Em Petrova

  For veterans of all varieties. Your courage and dedication make you special.

  Shakedown

  McKittrick Canyon

  Guadalupe Mountains National Park

  Culberson County, far West Texas

  “Captain Kelly Bonham? Here he is,” said the SUV’s driver, punctuating his words with a full stop by slamming the vehicle’s door. “Your rescue dog.”

  Yeah. Right. Bonnie rubbed her hands on her fatigue pants. Silly to feel nervous over a dog. It wasn’t like she’d accepted a blind date or anything outrageous. Dogs generally liked her, and the more she saw of dogs, the more she preferred them to every single man she knew. But still her palms itched, as if she’d done something stupid and expected to regret it.

  Through the tinted side windows, all she could see was a dark outline sitting stiffly upright in the rear seat. It seemed to be staring at her. Sure, great. Make me even more nervous.

  The driver trudged around the SUV’s front, a Texas Rangers ball cap tugged down crookedly over his eyes. His lopsided grin tucked up his cheek on one side, leaving the other side of his face serious, and he set a clipboard and two stuffed file folders on the hood in passing.

  “His name’s Pojo,” the driver said. “That’s Papa Oscar Juliet Oscar. He’s a registered German Shepherd but not suitable for showing.” He popped open the rear door and held it for her with a flourish.

  Bonnie wiped her hands again and leaned over.

  From the shadows, the most incredible pair of eyes stared back at her. Not the usual canine brown or black—but amber, gleaming pools of expensive, honey-toned Baltic amber, the sort of thing usually seen strung into a rich woman’s necklace. Wary, thoughtful eyes, staring without blinking as if weighing her in the balance.

  A shock rippled along Bonnie’s spine. This wasn’t a dog that would wash her face, chase a ball, roll over for a tummy rub. This was a dog that made his own decisions. And he was making one right now.

  Without looking away, he yawned, showing off an impressive collection of huge, glistening teeth, a dark mouth, and an amazingly long tongue. His jaws stretched so wide, her head started to spin at the cavernous space opening before her. Then he snapped his jaws closed, teeth clacking.

  And looked away. As if she no longer existed.

  Oh, crap. Had she ever made a mistake.

  Something in her chest plummeted to her abdomen and she swallowed. But her dry throat refused to cooperate. “He’s a bomb sniffer, right?” As opposed to something trained to chew my limbs off, one by one.

  “An explosives detection dog, retired.” The driver leaned in past her, hooked on a leash, and unsnapped the red nylon harness from the seatbelt. “Come on, Pojo.”

  For a moment the brute didn’t move, but actually leaned away from the leash’s gentle tug. Maybe he thought it was all a mistake, too. Maybe he’d refuse to even get out of the SUV, and a cowardly sort of relief washed through her. When he reluctantly turned and jumped from the back seat to the ground, lithe and graceful as a cat, Bonnie shivered. He didn’t look back at her.

  “He’s what’s called a blue Shepherd.” The driver rambled on, as if nothing had happened. “See how his lips and nose are dark grey instead of black? It’s a genetic dilution and considered a fault. They’re born with blue eyes, too, but those change as the puppies get older.”

  Pojo stalked away, head down, sniffing at the scrubby mountain grass. He turned and in the slanting evening sunlight, the washed-out hue of his mask and saddle became more obvious against his clear tan ruff and brindled hindquarters. Along his level back, several chunks of shorter fur rippled as he circled around them at the end of the leash.

  Still ignoring her.

  “So he was injured? Badly?”

  “Not him, no. He and his handler were sniffing out a minefield near Khost, and the handler stumbled over a tripwire. One of them bounding anti-personnel mines.” He rubbed the back of his neck and ducked his head. “Cut the handler in half, but Pojo only caught a few bits of stray shrapnel.”

  So the dog had seen his handler killed. That sounded like trauma and not a good thing at all. People went round the bend from less. One of her team members suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. The first time he’d flashed back, he’d had screaming fits in the hospital loud enough to be heard in the next hall over. He’d rolled out of bed, taking the bed with him. He’d had to be sat on and medicated.

  One clear ray of golden sunlight splashed across Pojo, backlighting him and darkening that grey to charcoal. Then he stepped past it, nose cutting through tufts of grass and snuffling loudly. What happened when a war dog flashed back? Considering those teeth, did she want to stick around and find out?

  The driver held out the leash. She didn’t want to take it. The brute on the leash’s end twisted her about somewhere deep inside. But already the red nylon was winding around her legs. If she didn’t take it, Pojo was going to tie them together, and the driver was too much a Southern country boy for her taste. She slipped her hand through the loop and stepped away.

  Time to shake her down, boys.

  The twist inside her tightened at the thought. In the days of sail, a newly-built ship, with a new crew and a new captain, would take a short, noncombatant cruise first thing off the stocks. The captain would feel out the ship’s behavior, the officers would sort out the crew, and the crew would learn their duties. A shakedown cruise, it was called.

  She was going to shake it down with a dog that had more teeth than the law allowed, a dog with a brain that might or might not be in fully functional condition. A dog that clearly wasn’t impressed by her at all.

  He still hadn’t looked at her since jumping from the SUV.

  The driver unloaded a giant bag of expensive dog food, carried it through her open cabin door, and reappeared without it. He scribbled a note on the clipboard’s paper, scratched an X beside one line, and held it out. “Sign on the line, and he’s yours.”

  Decision time.

  That twisting rebelled, and panic spiraled up into her throat, closing it off. She couldn’t do this, didn’t want to do this. She was an electronics technician, an intelligence officer—not a dog handler or canine psychologist. This beast needed a specialist, someone who could help him adjust to civilian life. Someone who’d know when the time was right to cut short the experiment and put him down.

  As if he read her thought, Pojo lifted his head from the lawn and glared at her, amber eyes gleaming. Like a dog possessed by something evil, something that wanted to rip her heart out and play chew-toy with it.

  Or a dog who’d branded her a coward at first sight.

  She’d proved during the war that she wasn’t a coward. To the team, to her commanding officer, to herself. No need to prove it to a possibly crazy dog.

  Then again, it’s entirely possible he’s not. Not crazy, that is. And that would make her—

  Bonnie pushed the leash up her wrist, grabbed th
e clipboard and pen, and signed.

  The driver started shuffling papers. “I set his records on your kitchen counter. Here’s a receipt—” he handed it over, “—and congratulations on your newest family member.”

  Yeah. Right. So much for the family tree.

  ****

  “All right, kiddo. It’s just you and me.”

  With the SUV and its rumbling engine gone, silence descended on Frijole Ridge. Around her, the clearing atop the mountain’s shoulder seemed to expand—the SUV, the driver, the decision all had crowded her, and only with everything settled could she sense the surrounding stone and forest again. The sheer rock face reared above her log cabin, folding a cleft around its rear wall like an open book propped behind a little wooden box. Pine, oak, ash, and autumn-hued bigtooth maple flowed down the hill into the Canyon beyond.

  The sun perched atop McKittrick Ridge, fat and golden, and thin streamers of orange and pink stretched along the horizon. The forest canopy below ruffled, cat’s paws of wind stirring the branches tipped with reds and golds, and then the breeze rolled up the slope for the first time since morning.

  Bonnie closed her eyes as the canyon’s warmth breathed across her face. Not much more of that left. The nights were already hinting it might be time to wake up the fireplace.

  “Guess I need to show you our boundaries, kid. Whaddya say?”

  Pojo had again stretched the leash as far as he could. He sat stiff and erect, hind legs primly folded, his big rounded ears focused like twin radar antennas into the canyon, his nose twitching. The breeze combed through his ruff and little tufts of thick fur waved across the red nylon harness. His bottlebrush tail stretched out behind him, tip quivering. So many scents would be carried on that breeze—mule deer, javelina, coyotes, maybe even the cougar the park rangers had mentioned last time loneliness had driven her to the station. It was a whole new world for this war dog. Perhaps the interest it aroused in him would be the calming influence he needed.

  Even if he wouldn’t look at her.

  “Pojo.”

  One ear flicked her way. He stood, shook out his coat, tugged against the leash, and then sat again, staring down into the canyon.

  Nope, he wasn’t going to make this easy. Males. Why does everything have to be a fight?

  Bonnie sucked in a deep, slow breath. She could let him ignore her, but that was an invitation for him to walk all over her in the future. A better idea was—not to beat him up, but let him know who was boss. Who led the pack, as a canine psychologist might say.

  She didn’t look at him again. Sauce for the gander. “Pojo, come.”

  A soft sound, neither a whine nor a sigh but something indescribable in between, rose from the tense dog.

  If this didn’t work, he really would consider her a coward. Or worse, ineffectual and helpless. With a dog this big, she couldn’t afford that. She took another deep breath for luck, ignored her hammering pulse, repeated the command, “Pojo, come,” and without looking down, set off walking toward the forest on the clearing’s right.

  The leash tightened then slackened. A surprisingly easy surrender. Head down, tail held stiffly, he stalked around her and ranged toward the first stand of alligator juniper. His head eased sideways. He was watching, not her, but the canyon.

  Still.

  He’d given in. But he hadn’t given in.

  Around the clearing’s perimeter she led him, past the junipers, piñon and ponderosa pines, littleleaf walnuts and glorious bigtooth maples, to the rear of the cabin, where the trees thinned out. Only madrones, with their peeling grey bark, clung to the slope above. Pojo sniffed each tree, combed the mountain grass with his nose and sneezed, and glared around like a disgruntled king. Past the little storage shed tucked under the rock face, past the bathroom vent and window, past the log ends sticking out as they turned the corner.

  Still not looking at her. Behind the unfinished barn, as yet innocent of the horse the rangers had agreed to, and past her renovated World War II Willys MB Jeep, where he didn’t even sniff. Maybe if he knew how much it cost to fill that gas tank, he’d be more impressed.

  When they reached the clearing’s far side, where the dirt-and-gravel road curled over the mountain’s shoulder overlooking the canyon below, Pojo froze. Again his ears shot forward and he snuffled, more loudly than the breeze now sighing through the forest branches. One paw touched the road then drew back. He sat, staring into the canyon’s now-shadowy depths, nostrils flaring and the tip of his tail twitching.

  As if he could sit there, scenting the wind all night.

  Nope, not gonna happen. The last arch of the burnt-orange sun peered above McKittrick Ridge, spying on them, and the warmth was no more than a fond memory. Shadows lay softly over the clearing, gathering beneath the branches and slipping silently across the lawn. Some dried oak firewood from last year still sat, ready to light, in the firedogs. Tonight would be a good night to strike autumn’s first match.

  “Pojo, come.” Without looking—hey, it worked last time—she turned and headed for the still-open front door.

  Again a tug at the end of the leash. The pressure released a split second later. Yep, she had his measure. She’d shown him who led their little pack. The pressure on her neck and shoulders eased. Buoyancy lifted her steps as they climbed the gentle slope. Pojo circled around her, leading the way toward the cabin. His head still slanted to the side, keeping one eye pinned to the canyon yawning behind them. Presumably the other eye watched where he was going.

  Then again, maybe not. At her little flowerbed, he stepped over the river-smoothed rocks that formed the border, rather than onto the worn path to the door. He paused, back arching, and before she caught on, he three-stepped for balance and lifted his leg.

  Not on one of the multitude of trees they’d passed in the last hour. But onto her brave little yellow and blue pansies.

  His head cocked sideways. One cool amber eye skewered her. It felt like a sucker punch.

  Then he returned to the path and headed for the door.

  They hadn’t made any progress at all.

  ****

  The fire snapped in the layered granite hearth, filling the open-plan cabin with enticing wood smoke. On the dining table, the portable radar antenna waited where she’d left it, back panel pushed aside, retaining screws in a canning lid for safety, and Ethernet interface card beside the now-cool soldering iron. She’d changed out the chip for something her homemade AlpineL system could order about. Instead of hauling around the manufacturer’s dedicated laptop along with all her other gear during training, she could now carry just her netbook and lighten her backpack a bit. At least something went right today.

  Pojo shoved his muzzle through her sheer draperies and peered out the front window, overlooking the lawn and her brutalized flowerbed. Then he stalked past the gun case and bookcases to the front door. Toenails clicked a steady rhythm on the granite-tiled floor. After snuffling at the tight weatherstripping, he prowled through the kitchen, across to the loft ladder and rough-hewn support beams. Paused at her wooden-frame bed. His back arched.

  “Don’t you even think it.”

  That one amber eye peered back at her, with the cool tilt of his head she was coming to resent. Pojo flopped down on the sheepskin rug in front of the bed with a huff.

  She reassembled the radar, tested it with her netbook, then hauled both up the ladder to the loft and stored them with the rest of her electronics gear. The concentrated attention helped her relax, and finally Bonnie laughed at herself. Honestly, the poor dog was probably picking up on her nervousness—she liked dogs but had never owned one before—so it was no wonder he didn’t care for her. Well, that was something she could work on.

  The yellow sticky note atop the two thick file folders on her countertop claimed the beast ate more than the human population of Culberson County combined, every night. She scooped out his dinner and set it beside the water bowl, at the end of the kitchen counter. While Pojo scarfed it down, chasing the b
owl across the floor with grim determination, she finished off the lasagna leftovers and cleaned up. When he settled again on the sheepskin, she joined him, crossing her legs on the cold floor and ignoring her butt’s cringing discomfort.

  “See, I’m not so bad, am I? I gave you food.”

  Again the sideways glance, flickering and cool. If it hadn’t been anthropomorphizing him, she’d say contemptuous. The overhead full-spectrum bulbs and the firelight flashed off the amber eye, highlighted his big grey nose, made each cream-and-tan hair in his ruff stand out individually. His coat looked so soft, so inviting. She brushed her fingers through his ruff and stroked his broad forehead. But he didn’t look at her again. His ears didn’t fold back, and he didn’t respond.

  “You know what, kid? This could get old real fast.”

  That monstrous tongue flicked out over his nose and around his chops, and vanished with a smack. His gaze remained fixed.

  On the door.

  “Is it that time? You wanna do some business before bed?” After all, he’d just eaten. And that from a dog this size sure wasn’t anything she wanted inside the house. Especially not just before bed.

  She scrambled up. When she was halfway to the front door, toenails on granite clicked in a quick trot behind her. Eager panting.

  Did she need the leash? Nah, it insulted this independent, intelligent dog. They needed to establish trust between them. And he was so well trained, according to the records she’d glanced through, he’d answer when she called.

  Bonnie started to open the door. Pojo slipped out, shoving it aside, and bolted across the lawn.

  “Pojo! Come, you miscreant!”

  Pounding footsteps across the hard earth, scrabbling paws on the gravel road. Bottlebrush tail held high, flashing in the last morsel of dusk, then vanishing down the mountain’s slope.

  And her brand-new rescue dog was gone.

  ****

  “Well, that was quick.” Fragging, frogging mutt.

  Okay, so she should have grabbed the leash. Too late for hindsight. Like him or not, she needed to find the dog. There was a cougar out there twice his size, a coyote pack, javelinas with serious attitude, and if he made it that far, scorpions and rattlesnakes on the Chihuahua Desert floor. Pojo could likely deal with Afghanistan, he’d worked there, but West Texas was a whole ’nother country.