But Chavez beat her to it, shooting again, hitting Hammes in his center mass. Hammes’s gun clattered to the ground as he doubled over, blood spurting through his hands as they clenched onto his abdomen, and he landed like a sack of sand next to his dog.
She veered her aim and just barely stopped herself from firing.
Chavez took a step forward.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Cease fire!”
Chavez lowered his weapon and let out a primal grunt.
And then there was only the high-pitched ring in her ears and the tangy scent of gunpowder choking her throat.
"Shit,” she said. She gingerly put her hand on Chavez’s shoulder and stepped in front of him. The young deputy promptly vomited onto the road. Rick Hammes writhed on the ground, his eyes glued to his dog. “Dex!”
The dog whimpered, biting at its hind leg where it had been shot.
She went to Hammes’s gun and kicked it to the ditch on the side of the road. Then she pulled her radio and called for an ambulance.
Chapter 17
Wolf climbed out of his SUV far from the flashing lights of the ambulance parked in the center of the road ahead. He walked along the shoulder, Yates and Rachette stepping next to him, all of them silent as they took in the aftermath of the action they had just missed.
Insects buzzed in the pine trees. It was hot, the air still. Ahead, Deputy Nelson knelt down next to a tree at the edge of the woods. As they grew near, Wolf saw Deputy Chavez sitting down against the trunk, both palms pressed against his eyes as he listened to Nelson talking softly, patting him on the shoulder.
Yates went to them while Wolf and Rachette continued on.
Deputy Cain stood near the EMTs crouched over a shirtless, tattooed man strapped to a stretcher. Rick Hammes.
A pickup truck was parked next to the ambulance bearing the logo of a company by the name of DVS, the words Dredge Veterinary Services beneath it. Two men and a woman were huddled up in the truck bed.
“It’s okay, boy,” the woman murmured.
A dog barked, growled, then whined.
“Give him two more CCs. That should do it.” The woman stood and nodded at Wolf.
“You need any help?” he asked, walking up to the edge of the truck bed. The dog was on its side, strapped to a miniature stretcher. Bandages wrapped his hind leg. His eyes were half-open, and his lips sagged open to reveal teeth.
“The bullet grazed him,” the woman said. “I’ve already cleaned the wound, but I have to take him into the office to sew him up. He’ll be fine.” She looked over at the EMTs huddled over Rick Hammes in the middle of the road. “Not sure about him, though.”
Wolf backed away and looked toward Deputy Cain, who stood a few paces from the action, staring down at Rick Hammes.
“A little help here,” one of the EMTs said, turning to Wolf. “He’s heavy, may as well have the extra hands.”
Wolf walked over and grabbed the handles on one side of the spine board. Deputy Cain rushed to the other side, but Rachette was already there. “I got it.”
“One, two, three,” the EMT said, as they lifted up.
“Is he … dead?” Rachette asked, looking down.
Hammes’s eyes were closed, mouth open and streaming drool. With all the ink painting the man’s skin, it was difficult to tell where the tattoos ended and the blood began.
“Not dead, though his vitals are weak,” the EMT said. “Okay, easy now. He’s lost a lot of blood,” the EMT continued as they set him inside the ambulance. “The surgeons will have their work cut out for them.”
Wolf and Rachette turned toward Cain, who had moved to a patch of shade on the side of the road.
“How are you doing?” Rachette asked.
The look she gave Rachette said she had no response for that question.
When Yates came up and joined them, Wolf said, “Why don’t you two head down to the house and begin the search. I’ll be right there.”
Rachette and Yates walked down the road, leaving Wolf with Cain.
“What happened?” he asked.
She told him.
“Where’s his weapon?” Wolf asked.
“I bagged it and gave it to Nelson. It was a Beretta M9, nine-millimeter.”
He nodded. Clearly not the .45 Glock 21 equipped with a silencer his two detectives were down at the house looking for.
“If Chavez hadn’t shot the dog,” she said. “I would have. I was just about to. And he shot Hammes first. I was just about to do that, too. I feel like …” She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“What?”
“I feel like I failed.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess, like I put it all on Chavez. I didn’t react fast enough, and now that rookie has to live with shooting a man and his dog.” She looked toward the young deputy, who was still sitting in the trees. Nelson remained standing watch next to him.
Wolf put a hand on her shoulder, and Cain looked down at her hands. They were covered in blood.
“Can we get something over here to wipe her hands with, please?” Wolf asked a passing EMT.
The man returned with a towel, a water bottle, and a container of antibacterial wipes.
“Thanks.” Wolf took them, and then he took one of her hands, poured some water on it, and gently wiped away the dried blood. It was caked under her nails and into the cracks and crevices of her hands, but he managed to get most of it.
When he couldn’t get any more without scrubbing too hard, and after realizing that she probably could have been doing this herself to far better effect, he looked up and saw that she was staring at him. “There. I’ll, uh, let you finish.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded. “You didn’t fail. And there’s sure as hell no winning in the situation I put you in. I jumped the gun. I should have had you two stay where you were and let us take care
