Force of Attraction (K-9 Rescue #2)
D. D. Ayres
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Happy to spotlight those who help make this K-9 series work. I couldn’t do it nearly as well without you.
My K-9 law enforcement expert for the entire series, Brad Thompson, a true dog man. He’s a twenty-nine-year veteran police officer, former senior handler and instructor/trainer of the FWPD K9 Unit, now investigator with the Fort Worth Police Department. The things I got right I owe to him. The things I got wrong are all on me, or a bit of literary license. Great instructor. Nice guy.
Let me add, the Dog Agility competition as a backdrop for puppy drug mules is purely my imagination at work. Terrific people and wonderful animals participate.
Scott Silverii, Chief of Police of Thibodaux, LA. A veteran law enforcement officer of twenty-plus years, he spent sixteen years in SOG’s undercover narcotics task force and SWAT. A PhD, Scott wrote A Darker Shade of Blue about SOG culture. Our conversations helped me shape the real-life consequences of a law enforcement agent going undercover, and how and why some never come back. Now he’s writing fiction, too. Best of luck.
Richard and Kimberly Wilson of “Peace Bouviers” who own Marko, the dog my fictional Hugo is fashioned after. Their friends, Lee and Dave Young, Ron and Cora Wilkinson, Erica and C.J. Westmoreland, Ana Rodriquez and family, who invited me to a Bouvier Day in the Park. Erica, your photography rocks.
My editor Rose Hilliard. She sees no obstacles, only opportunities to make it better.
My daughter Theresa, who helps me plot when I’m stuck and reads for me.
My daughter-in-law Kimberly, who designed my website.
As always, my agent Denise Marcil. You’re the best!
PROLOGUE
U.S. HIGHWAY 29, GEORGIA
Scott Lucca fumbled in his pocket, looking for change for the pay phone as the twang of a guitar solo wailed through the hazy bar. He was a little buzzed. When liquor got between his head and his heart, he made stupid decisions. That’s why he didn’t drink to excess anymore. But this was a special occasion. At least he had the presence of mind not to use his cell phone.
He thrust the coins into the pay phone slot and stabbed her number into the keypad.
One ring. Two. Three. It was not quite four A.M., East Coast time. Was she out? Out with someone else? Five.
“Yes?” It was her. One syllable, and he was cradling the phone a little tighter.
A foolish smile tugged his mouth. “Hey. I was just … thinking.” He hadn’t thought past the need to hear her voice.
“Who is this?”
He leaned his head against the wall. Who was he? Good question. “I—sorry. Wrong number.”
“Scott?”
He halted the receiver halfway to its cradle. Two years since they last spoke, and she still remembered the sound of his voice. That had to count for something. But he had nothing else to offer her.
Gritting his teeth, he completed the hang-up.
“Hey there, handsome. You wanna dance with me?”
He turned toward the voice. A young woman in a cowboy hat and not much else stood beside him with a sly smile.
He smiled back but shook his head. “You deserve better than what’s on my mind.”
“Depends on what that is.”
He gave her a slow grin. “My wife.”
Her mouth twisted down. “Your loss.”
“No doubt about it. You have a good evening.”
Scott made his way back to his table without further incident. He was a long way from home, on his way back from drug interdiction training in west Texas. Instead of hightailing it back to D.C., he’d decided to take the scenic route, trading the expediency of interstates for country roads that led through one declining weed-choked Southern town after another. For the most part the drive was boring, and that was the purpose. He needed to think. About his life. Past. Future. Hell, everything!
A thousand miles later, he’d come to no conclusions other than that thinking was overrated.
On the other hand, he still understood physical needs. It was late. He was hungry. That’s when he’d passed this roadside inn with a flashing neon sign, promising beer and music. They probably also sold food.
A quick scan of the customers had revealed they were locals, a few still dressed in their uniforms from the chicken plucking plant he’d passed driving in. The air was pungent, thick with the natural humidity of a Southern July night and the heat of bodies packed close together.
He had meant only to stop for a burger. But halfway through his meal, a man with a guitar had stepped up to the lone mike at one end of the room to offer up his version of Al Greene’s “Love and Happiness.” It was the song they’d chosen for the first dance at their wedding reception.