Page 21

Rusty

Rusty Callahan leaned against the flaky weatherboards of the rundown house, and as his fingers tightened on his K9’s harness, the stench of rot and something so very wrong seeped through the cracked windows. Soda, his black-and-tan Alsatian, stood rigid at his heel, her ears pricked forward and muscles taut, awaiting his command. Despite her youth, Soda was a seasoned veteran, the best K9 Rusty had ever trained—and that was saying something. He’d been training dogs since a Doberman nearly crushed his skull when he was nine years old.

At the door, his father, Police Chief Dave Callahan, gave a sharp nod at the tactical team, and Officer Perkins swung the battering ram. The door exploded inward, splintering off its hinges, and six tactical officers flooded the decrepit house.

“Police! Show me your hands!” Their shouts carved through the morning calm like a machete.

“Get on the ground!” The chief’s voice bounced off the walls inside. In his fifteen years as Police Chief for Hawaii’s Big Island, Rusty’s father had personally led every major raid. The criminals might hide in plain sight, but sooner or later, they all learned – the hard way – that nothing stayed buried on his island for long.

Rusty clenched his jaw, biting back the urge to deny his father’s orders to stay back until his turn to enter with Soda. He should be in there with them. He damn well would be if his military career wasn’t yanked out from under him by an absolute asshole. Nearly every day was a brutal reminder that he wasn’t in Delta Force anymore.

“Don’t move!” another cop barked.

Soda whined, and Rusty brushed her nose. “Steady, girl.”

Waiting for the all-clear was fucking excruciating, like watching lasagna bake when he hadn’t eaten all day.

Over his shoulder, dawn painted the Mauna Loa slopes in shades of gold. Perfect day for surfing. Not that he took advantage of days like this too often. Keep moving . That was his mantra. When he didn’t, the past flooded into his mind like a tsunami, drowning him in sixteen years of what-ifs.

“Clear!” the chief’s voice boomed from inside.

Rusty gripped Soda’s lead, and they crossed the shattered threshold together. Soda’s nose worked the air for narcotics and weapons. Rusty kept her at his heel, away from the four perps face-down and handcuffed on the stained carpet. She might be a detector dog, but she was also a weapon. If one of these bastards tried to run, they would meet eighty pounds of precisely trained fury before they reached the door. Rusty had been on the receiving end of those takedowns many times in training, and even though he had been in full protective gear, Soda’s speed and commitment had been terrifying.

The small house reeked of stale cigarettes and bad body odor. The living room had the usual setup: massive TV, gaming console, and a couple of ratty couches stained with sweat from assholes that had nothing better to do than sit on their asses all day. But Rusty also believed the layout was their half-assed attempt to make the visible parts of the house appear normal.

Soda’s nose twitched and she veered left, leading him through the house like she was following an invisible thread.

The kitchen was cluttered with dishes crusted with whatever the hell these lowlifes called food. Used takeout containers played Tetris on the counter, and empty beer cans filled every other space.

Rusty kept Soda moving. The first bedroom had a grubby mattress on the floor and clothes scattered everywhere like it was a dumpsite. The second bedroom looked like a teenager’s wet dream with top-of-the-range gaming equipment, including a chair with speakers, blackout curtains, and enough empty energy drinks to have catered the Warrior football team for the whole season.

The largest bedroom at the back of the house had a double bed, a rickety wooden chair overloaded with clothes, and a dresser with a mirror topped with white powder residue. The drug was enough to catch Soda’s attention, but other than that, there was nothing to explain the tip-off the chief had received about a major drug operation going on in this dump.

No stash of drugs, no weapons cache, no bags of money.

Rusty headed back toward the living room, and his dad marched toward him, hitching up his pants and wearing a scowl. “You get anything?”

Rusty shook his head.

“I don’t believe this bullshit.” His dad clenched his jaw. “The intel was credible.”

Soda yanked Rusty forward. Her nose twitched as she veered past the cluster of cops standing around the cuffed suspects on the floor and toward a hallway closet. Fresh scuff marks marred the worn floorboards in front of the doors. He pulled them open and Soda’s head snapped up and her nostrils flared with quick, sharp breaths. Her entire body went rigid, and her tail locked straight out behind her like a rudder. She pressed her nose against the back panel, then whipped her head toward Rusty with an intensity that meant she’d hit paydirt.

Four years of working together had taught him every nuance of her alerts. This was her full-body alert, meaning there weren’t just drugs beyond that wall, there were weapons, too.

Rusty pulled aside hanging clothes and plastic storage bags, and his breath hitched when Soda nudged forward with a growl.

“Easy, girl.” A hairline seam barely revealed a hidden door in the back wall. “Hey, Chief, get over here.”

His father appeared at his shoulder, and his expression hardened. Rusty ran his fingers along the edge of the panel until he found the catch. The false wall silently swung inward, revealing narrow stairs disappearing into the darkness.

His father drew his weapon.

Rusty raised his hand. “We’ll handle this.” He unclipped Soda’s lead. “Soda, seek.”

Soda shot down the stairs like a liquid shadow, and Rusty chased after her with his Glock and flashlight ready. The sharp sting of chemicals burned his nostrils, but underneath that tang was something else. Something truly rotten.

His tactical light swept across steel drums and elaborate lab equipment. Plastic-wrapped cubes were stacked hip-high along the back wall. “Hey Chief, you need to get down here.”

His dad and two more officer’s flooded into the room.

A flash of movement darted between a row of drums.

“Police K9!” Rusty yelled across the room. “Stop, or I’ll set the dog onto you.”

The dumb bastard bolted for a set of rickety stairs at the back of the area, taking them two at a time.

“Soda! Get him!”

Soda launched up the stairs like a guided missile.

The suspect fumbled the door handle with panic blazing in his wild eyes. Before he could escape, Soda struck. Her jaws locked on his right arm, and the impact slammed him against the door. He howled as she drove him down to the metal grating with brute pressure that eliminated any possibility of resistance.

“Police! Don’t move!” Rusty’s father thundered up the steps, trading his weapon for handcuffs as Soda pinned the suspect to the landing.

The suspect remained frozen in Soda’s grip. It was a smart move on his part. She would rip his arm off if he fought against her.

“I’ve got him,” Dad called.

“Soda. Release.”

Soda’s jaws unclamped, but she stayed coiled and focused. A low growl rumbled in her throat, and as she bared her teeth, Dad secured the suspect’s arms behind his back, reading Miranda rights that echoed off the concrete walls, along with the man’s whimpers.

Rusty swept his flashlight across the drug lab and the beam cut through the dim haze. The tip-off had been solid—this was a major operation. His dad would be equal parts furious that such a sprawling drug den had grown right under their noses, and relieved that the bust was clean, netting both product and perps.

Ever since the Yakuza had sunk their claws into Hawaii, taking down one branch of the so-called “Dragon of the Pacific” only led to another sprouting in its place. Like cutting weeds—the roots ran too deep. Within weeks, new players would sprout up to fill the void. Especially now that Viktor Wang had clawed his way to the top. The third-generation Japanese-Chinese head of the Yakuza operated under a twisted code of honor, one that made him both predictable and infuriatingly untouchable. So far.

Rusty’s dad had raged for months about Wang and how the bastard had poisoned their hometown. Yet, even with the rot Wang left in his wake, the cops were always a step short of the evidence needed to take him down.

Maybe this haul of drugs would finally be the break they needed.

Rusty doubted it. Wang was too good at erasing his footprints.

He shook his head, casting another glance at the colossal stash. The sheer size of the operation was staggering, a reminder of just how deep the rot went. As he moved toward the far corner of the room, something shifted on the ground.

Rusty froze, his pulse spiking. He drew his weapon and edged forward, flashlight steady on the source of the movement. “Oh, Jesus.” Holstering his gun, he sprinted to a woman crumpled on the concrete floor like she’d been tossed aside.

She lay face-up, barely breathing, with dried vomit crusting her chin and neck. Some fancy-ass bathrobe spread beneath her like broken wings, and she wore nothing but underpants. As he rolled her into the recovery position, a gold cross with tiny red rubies glinted at her throat.

He pressed two fingers to her neck and felt a faint pulse. Relief mingled with urgency as he tugged the robe closed over her chest, his gaze catching the embroidered name on the pocket: Pearl. “Dad! We need medical down here ASAP.”

The words caught in Rusty’s throat as memories ripped through sixteen years: blue lips, dried vomit, his desperate screams for help . . .

His father’s presence at his shoulder yanked him back to the present.

Movement exploded from the shadows. Rusty’s world narrowed to a pinpoint of fury as the same helpless rage that had haunted him for sixteen years erupted. He launched after the runner, each pounding step carrying the weight of his failure.

He caught the bastard in six strides, driving him into the concrete wall with all the force of his past demons. The asshole fought back, fists flying and coming at Rusty like a maniac. Rusty’s punch connected with devastating precision on the asshole’s nose and the crunch of cartilage flooded him with savage satisfaction. Blood sprayed from the man’s nose. His second punch snapped the man’s head sideways and his skull met concrete with a sound that echoed through the dungeon.

The roar in his head drowned out everything – his father’s shouts, the perp’s gurgling breaths, his own ragged panting. He drew his fist back again and again, each blow fueled by sixteen years of guilt and grief. He wasn’t in a dingy basement anymore, he was kneeling beside his fiancée’s cold body, wishing he could undo so much.

“Stand down!” His father’s voice barely penetrated the chaos in his mind as strong hands yanked his arm back. “God damn it, Russell! That’s enough!”

The perp slumped to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. “You’ll regret that asshole.” He spat toward Rusty, and the bloody globule splattered two feet from his boot. “I didn’t do nothin’. I was just looking after her, that’s all.”

Those words ignited fresh fury. Looking after her? Bullshit! Rusty drew his boot back to kick the fucker’s ribs.

His dad thrust his face into Rusty’s field of vision, and that hardened glare cut through his fury. “Back off!”

Rusty retreated, his hands trembling with unused adrenaline and old ghosts. Soda pressed against his leg, sliding her nose beneath his palm like she sensed the old wounds ripping open. Her solid warmth dragged him back to the present, saving him from the nightmare he’d fought fucking hard to forget.

“Get EMTs down here,” his father barked into his radio.

“I’m gonna sue your ass.” The bastard on the floor grinned, showing blood-covered teeth.

Rusty inched forward.

“Rusty!” His dad raised his finger. “Don’t!”

Rusty raised his hands in surrender and as he backed away, he studied the woman lying on the ground. Her chest rose with a shallow breath, and relief took the edge off his anger. He’d reached her in time. If only he’d acted sooner that night all those years ago. If only he’d answered her calls. If only he’d replied to at least one of her texts.

If. Fucking. Only.

Shaking that bullshit free, he clipped Soda onto her lead, and they returned upstairs.

It seemed like every cop on the Big Island had converged on the tiny house in the suburbs. They probably had. These uniformed men and women were Dad’s crew. He treated every single one of them like they were his own flesh and blood.

Pity my own mother didn’t share the same maternal instincts.

Flashing blue lights and wailing sirens added to the chaos as officers in full hazmat gear converged on the crime scene.

As Officer Molloy marched the perp past in restraints, he turned to Rusty. “See you in court.”

Molloy backhanded him. “Shut up, dipshit.”

“Hey! Police brutality! You all saw?—”

Molloy cracked him again. “Nobody’s listening to you.”

“That’s right, you fuckers all stick?—”

The chief stepped in close and as he whispered something in the perp’s ear, the cockiness drained right out of him. Molloy guided the perp to the open door of the nearest cruiser.

His father’s gaze found Rusty in the crowd and he shook his head at him with that gut-twisting look of disappointment that hurt Rusty deeper than any reprimand.

Rusty stood with his back against the wall and Soda at his heel, waiting for the EMTs to bring the woman up from the basement.

She’s going to live. That’s all that matters.

Finally, paramedics pushed her out of the house on a trolley, and as they loaded her into the ambulance, the chief cornered Rusty by the patrol cars.

“What the hell was that down there?” His dad’s voice dropped low. “You better not have fucked up our chance to nail this prick.”

“What was I supposed to do? That woman was half dead because?—”

“You think I don’t know what that was about? You saw her and lost your head. Just like—” His father cut himself off, but Rusty heard the unspoken name.

Hannah. The woman who’d crushed his heart, then his sanity.

“Go home, Rusty, and cool off.” The chief scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve got enough paperwork from this bust without adding your excessive force complaints to the list.”

At his truck, Rusty ordered Soda into the passenger seat and with blue and red flashing lights strobing in the rear vision mirror he drove away. But instead of heading home, he steered his RAM toward Ohana’s Bar. Before he even turned into the parking lot, Soda’s tail thumped against the seat. She loved this place as much as Rusty did. The giant copper sea turtle that formed the O in Ohana’s still glinted in the afternoon sun, despite the salty island air turning most of the metal seafoam green.

He opened the passenger door, and Soda leaped out and bounded up the stairs ahead of him. The dog pushed through the swinging doors like she owned the place, tail wagging, already familiar with the routine.

Rusty followed, climbing the steps at a slower pace. As he pushed through the door, a blast of cool air greeted him, carrying the mingled scents of grilled pineapple, teriyaki, and the faint tang of salt from the ocean breeze wafting through the open windows.

The bar droned with the low hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. About a dozen people sat at tables overlooking the view, a mix of locals and tourists nursing drinks and plates of island fare. It was the usual scene for this time of day—quiet, but not dead. By midday, the locals would start spilling in, filling the place with their boisterous energy.

Behind the counter, Waylen looked up from polishing a glass, his face breaking into an easy grin. “Howzit, Rusty! The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.” His stomach growled, reminding him he’d missed breakfast.

Cooper, Ethan, and Bellamy were already settled at their corner table, their K9s sprawled in a furry heap beneath it. The sight of Charlie Team was the slice of normal he needed to push away the chaos of the morning.

Rusty dropped onto the empty chair next to Ethan and opposite Bellamy and Cooper. Soda spun twice then nuzzled the nose of her older sister, Whiskey, before settling at Rusty’s feet.

“Heard about the raid,” Bellamy said, working his way through a massive plate of teriyaki chicken and rice.

Waylen slid a cold beer into Rusty’s hand. “Here, you’ve earned this.” He clapped Rusty on the back.

Rusty huffed a reluctant thanks as Weylan swept a towel off his shoulder and moved to the next table.

“Word is you rearranged someone’s face.” Ethan smirked and mischief glinted in his eye.

Rusty groaned. “Don’t start.”

Soda settled her chin on his boot like she sensed how pissed off he was.

Cooper glanced up from his phone, where he was reviewing tomorrow’s protection detail roster. “That bad?”

“Found a woman half-dead in the basement. Triggered some shit.” Rusty took a long pull from his beer. “The chief is pissed.”

“Your dad is always pissed,” Ethan said around a mouthful of kalua pork.

“Yeah, well, this time I might’ve screwed up the whole operation.” The beer turned bitter on Rusty’s tongue. “Found enough evidence to nail the bastard, but I let my temper get the best of me. Now the chief is talking about excessive force.” He grabbed two of Cooper’s offered fries and stuffed them into his mouth.

“Sometimes that’s what they need,” Bellamy muttered, drowning his rice in hot sauce.

Cooper shot him a warning look. “We’re not in Colombia anymore, Bellamy. Can’t go around throwing punches just ‘cause we want to.”

“Brotherhood Protectors didn’t bring us here to sit on our hands either.” Bellamy forked the last of his chicken into his mouth. “Even if we’re stuck babysitting VIPs this week. I’m telling you, this governor’s visit couldn’t have come at a worse time. We’re short-staffed as it is.”

“Speaking of which.” Rusty checked his watch. “Don’t you three start soon?”

“Right now.” Bellamy shoved his plate away with more force than necessary and stood.

“Wait up. I’ll grab a ride.” Ethan drained his drink. He turned to Rusty. “Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

“Define stupid.”

“Stupid enough to get you pulled from the team.” Bellamy clapped him on the back.

“I need this job too much for that.”

“Good. As Bellamy said, we’re stretched thin enough as it is.” Ethan nodded at Cooper. “You coming?”

“Yep. Don’t stress it, Rusty.” Cooper’s steady voice was the same one that had gotten them through countless ops. He rested his hand on Rusty’s shoulder, the familiar weight grounding. “Come tomorrow morning, your dad’s gonna be singing your praises. He knows you did what needed doing.”

Rusty huffed as his Brotherhood Protectors teammates left with their K9s, their chatter fading as they stepped outside. He was left alone with his beer and the kind of thoughts that crept in when the noise died down. Dark, restless thoughts. Never a good combination.

What the hell am I going to do now?

He stared blankly at the menu, the words blurring together under the dim glow of the bar lights. The jukebox kicked on, blaring the opening chords of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman.” The twangy vocals hit a nerve, dredging up memories he’d spent years trying to bury. Memories of Hannah dancing around the kitchen, her laughter masking the bullshit she’d hidden from him for way too long. Memories of the day she stopped dancing forever.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the menu. Burger or pasta? It didn’t matter. Nothing sat right in his stomach these days anyway.

The door slammed open, the sound sharp enough to make him flinch, and a woman stormed inside, her face streaked with tears as she frantically swept her gaze around the room. “Please, I need help,” she said, her voice trembling. She clutched her phone like it was the only thing tethering her to reality and marched to the bar. “My daughter’s missing. Has anyone seen her?”

Rusty was on his feet before he knew it, his instincts kicking in, and Soda padded to his side, tail low and ears perked.

“Ma’am,” Rusty said gently, stepping toward her. His voice was calm, but his mind was already racing. Missing persons weren’t rare around here—especially young women. Too often, they turned up too late, or not at all. The Yakuza had turned Hawaii into a hub for human trafficking, and every case felt like a ticking clock.

The woman turned to him, her eyes wide and pleading. “I’m Sarah Williams, and my daughter is missing. Grace. Grace Williams.” Her words tumbled out in a rush as she fumbled with her phone. “The police won’t help—they think she just ran off with her friends. But she didn’t. I know my daughter. Grace wouldn’t do that. She’d tell me where she was going.”

Rusty raised a hand, trying to slow her down. “Okay. Take a breath,” he said, keeping his tone calm. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Yesterday afternoon, after my husband’s sermon?—”

“Sermon?”

“Yes, he’s Howard Whitney Williams, pastor of the Church of New Hope,” she said, swiping tears from her cheeks. “After the sermon, we had so much to do, so Grace went to relax by the pool.” Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. “She’s nineteen, and?—”

“She’s an adult,” Rusty said gently. “Could she be out with friends?”

“No. Never. Not without telling me.” Her voice cracked as fresh tears spilled over her lashes. “We’re flying home to Oregon tomorrow. It’s her friend’s birthday—she’d never miss that party. But her phone just goes straight to voicemail. Something is wrong. I know it.”

Rusty nodded, keeping his face neutral, though a familiar weight pressed against his chest. He’d seen this too many times. Parents clinging to hope, convinced their child wasn’t like the others—the ones who ran off, got in over their heads, or worse. But her desperation struck a chord he couldn’t ignore, not when the missing person’s list on his dad’s desk seemed to grow longer by the day.

“I’ll help you look for her,” he said, pulling out his phone. “Do you have a recent photo?”

She thrust her phone at him, her hands shaking. The screen displayed a picture of a smiling young woman by the pool in a blue bikini with a tropical drink in her hand.

Rusty’s breath hitched. Around her neck glinted a delicate gold cross with three tiny rubies arranged in a triangle. His stomach dropped. He knew that pendant. He’d seen it just hours ago, glinting at the throat of the half-naked woman he’d found unconscious in the basement.

For a moment, the bar around him seemed to fade as his focus narrowed to the image on the screen. His pulse pounded in his ears, the memory of that cold, dark basement flooding back. The woman’s shallow breaths. The crusted vomit. The disheveled luxury bathrobe.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Sarah’s eyes. Her desperation was a knife twisting in his gut. “Come, I’ll take you to the police chief.”

“I’ve already been to the police.”

Rusty hesitated, then nodded. “We’ll find her. I promise.”

But even as he said the words, his mind raced. He had a terrible feeling Grace wasn’t just missing—she was already in someone’s hands. And now, he’d just made a promise he might not be able to keep.