his weapon.
“Don’t! You’ll blow your foot off!”
“Fuck!” Garcia wiggled his foot out of the boot.
Bernadette threw herself across Garcia’s lap, grabbed the door handle, and slammed the door against the animal’s head. The pit bull fell away from the truck, the boot still clamped between its teeth. As Garcia and Bernadette both wrestled the door closed, two other dogs hurled themselves against the driver’s side of the Nissan.
Panting, Bernadette collapsed against her seat. “Are you okay? Did he bite you?”
“I’m fine.”
Glancing through the window, she saw that the dog with the boot was shaking its head furiously. “I don’t think your boot is going to make it.”
“Funny,” said Garcia, looking through Bernadette’s window.
Bernadette ran a hand through her damp hair. She had worked up a sweat. “Let’s get out of here and come back with animal control.”
Garcia adjusted his grip on the gun and put his left hand on the controls for the driver’s window. “Fuck animal control!”
Bernadette watched as Garcia rolled his window down an inch. “What are you going to do?”
Garcia poked the muzzle of his Glock through the gap. “Empty my gun!”
As if they knew Garcia’s intent, a trio of barking dogs attacked the driver’s window, their paws clawing at the glass and nearly reaching the gap.
“Tony you can’t!”
“Watch me.” Garcia angled the barrel down toward the pack of pit bulls. “Eat this, assholes!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
T ony, wait. Someone is coming,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the barn.
A slender woman wearing tinted John Lennon eyeglasses and Bo Derek braids marched toward the truck. She was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a down vest. Her jeans were tucked into lace-up black leather boots that reached her knees. She was wiping her hands on a work apron that was tied around her waist.
With a grumble, Garcia pulled his gun out of the window and rolled it back up. “Lucky dogs.”
Instead of calling off the pit bulls, the woman stood behind them peering into the trucks cab. “Who are you?” she yelled to Bernadette’s side.
Bernadette slapped her identification wallet against the window. “FBI!”
The woman grabbed one of the dogs by the collar, pulled him off Bernadette’s door, and stepped closer to get a better look at the ID. As she studied the badge, she took off her glasses.
Through the window, Bernadette could see that the woman had multiple piercings: A nostril. Both eyebrows. Her chin just below her bottom lip. All the way up her ears. A tattoo snaked across her throat. It was a serpent swallowing its own head, the symbol of infinity or cyclicality. “Are you Jordan Ashe?” Bernadette yelled above the barking.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk to you!” Bernadette hollered. “Put the dogs away!”
The woman didn’t budge.
Garcia leaned across Bernadette’s lap and shouted through the glass. “Lock up your animals!”
Her eyes darted from Garcia’s angry face to the gun in his hand. She grabbed two of the dogs by the collar and started dragging them toward the barn. The others followed, tails wagging as if this were all part of a game. The woman wasn’t big, but she was strong enough to handle the pit bulls with authority. When one of the dogs tried to bolt, she grabbed it by the collar and whipped it into the barn.
“I’ll bet she’s split her share of logs,” said Bernadette.
Garcia watched as the woman slid the barn door closed. “I don’t like this one damn bit.”
They both scanned the yard to make sure there were no more loose dogs around, and then popped open their doors. When Bernadette hopped out of the truck, she landed on Garcia’s mangled boot. Riddled with teeth marks and covered in drool, it resembled a hunk of chewed-up beef gristle. She picked it up with two fingers and took it over to him. “Can you identify the
“Don’t! You’ll blow your foot off!”
“Fuck!” Garcia wiggled his foot out of the boot.
Bernadette threw herself across Garcia’s lap, grabbed the door handle, and slammed the door against the animal’s head. The pit bull fell away from the truck, the boot still clamped between its teeth. As Garcia and Bernadette both wrestled the door closed, two other dogs hurled themselves against the driver’s side of the Nissan.
Panting, Bernadette collapsed against her seat. “Are you okay? Did he bite you?”
“I’m fine.”
Glancing through the window, she saw that the dog with the boot was shaking its head furiously. “I don’t think your boot is going to make it.”
“Funny,” said Garcia, looking through Bernadette’s window.
Bernadette ran a hand through her damp hair. She had worked up a sweat. “Let’s get out of here and come back with animal control.”
Garcia adjusted his grip on the gun and put his left hand on the controls for the driver’s window. “Fuck animal control!”
Bernadette watched as Garcia rolled his window down an inch. “What are you going to do?”
Garcia poked the muzzle of his Glock through the gap. “Empty my gun!”
As if they knew Garcia’s intent, a trio of barking dogs attacked the driver’s window, their paws clawing at the glass and nearly reaching the gap.
“Tony you can’t!”
“Watch me.” Garcia angled the barrel down toward the pack of pit bulls. “Eat this, assholes!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
T ony, wait. Someone is coming,” said Bernadette, nodding toward the barn.
A slender woman wearing tinted John Lennon eyeglasses and Bo Derek braids marched toward the truck. She was dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a down vest. Her jeans were tucked into lace-up black leather boots that reached her knees. She was wiping her hands on a work apron that was tied around her waist.
With a grumble, Garcia pulled his gun out of the window and rolled it back up. “Lucky dogs.”
Instead of calling off the pit bulls, the woman stood behind them peering into the trucks cab. “Who are you?” she yelled to Bernadette’s side.
Bernadette slapped her identification wallet against the window. “FBI!”
The woman grabbed one of the dogs by the collar, pulled him off Bernadette’s door, and stepped closer to get a better look at the ID. As she studied the badge, she took off her glasses.
Through the window, Bernadette could see that the woman had multiple piercings: A nostril. Both eyebrows. Her chin just below her bottom lip. All the way up her ears. A tattoo snaked across her throat. It was a serpent swallowing its own head, the symbol of infinity or cyclicality. “Are you Jordan Ashe?” Bernadette yelled above the barking.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”
“We need to talk to you!” Bernadette hollered. “Put the dogs away!”
The woman didn’t budge.
Garcia leaned across Bernadette’s lap and shouted through the glass. “Lock up your animals!”
Her eyes darted from Garcia’s angry face to the gun in his hand. She grabbed two of the dogs by the collar and started dragging them toward the barn. The others followed, tails wagging as if this were all part of a game. The woman wasn’t big, but she was strong enough to handle the pit bulls with authority. When one of the dogs tried to bolt, she grabbed it by the collar and whipped it into the barn.
“I’ll bet she’s split her share of logs,” said Bernadette.
Garcia watched as the woman slid the barn door closed. “I don’t like this one damn bit.”
They both scanned the yard to make sure there were no more loose dogs around, and then popped open their doors. When Bernadette hopped out of the truck, she landed on Garcia’s mangled boot. Riddled with teeth marks and covered in drool, it resembled a hunk of chewed-up beef gristle. She picked it up with two fingers and took it over to him. “Can you identify the
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