Page 2 of Daddy’s Pursuit (The Daddy Guard #1)

Chapter Two

Adrenaline surged through Detective Jack Kimble.

The house was an old, rotting bungalow that smelled of urine and dog shit.

Which made sense, because the owners had left behind a damn pitbull to guard the place.

The problem was, it seemed as if anyone rarely stopped by to let the poor animal out.

He was cooped up inside for what Jack guessed was days at a time, with just a bucket of water and multiple bowls of food.

That made Jack Kimble dislike the thugs he was pursuing even more.

You want to be a son of a bitch? Fine. But don’t drag a dog into it.

Assholes.

He couldn’t focus on that right now, though. The unit had to finish “slicing the pie”.

Clearing a house was dangerous. With potential death lurking around every corner and in all the closets, cops “sliced it” into small chunks, each team focusing on one area at a time, so the task wasn’t quite as dangerous and overwhelming.

Keeping the barrel of his shotgun angled slightly downward at a “low ready” position, Jack finished his sweep of the room and yelled, “Clear!”

The same cry resounded from others, indicating the house was secured.

Yet something still didn’t feel right, Jack noted. But he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

Sure, they were trying to close in on a major gun-smuggling operation. And yes, there were crates in the garage and other parts of the house containing lethal weapons. It was also true that this was all connected to an arms-dealing cartel.

So, there were plenty of reasons for Jack to feel uneasy.

But this was something more. Something floating just beyond his grasp. He’d done the job long enough to know when things weren’t right.

And things definitely weren’t right here.

What was going on?

He walked past other members of his team, down the narrow hallway, and into the kitchen. Staring out the window above the sink, he pointed to an old shed that rested across the yard, against the chain-link fence.

“Anyone check that?”

A young, uniformed officer shook his head. “No, sir.”

Looking at him and the two others close by, Jack jerked his head toward the backyard. “Come with me.”

The four exited the kitchen, stepped down into a small utility room, and continued through a back door that Jack had to pull on hard to tear free from its warped frame.

Jack motioned for the officers to fan out before proceeding. His shoes flattened the overgrown grass in the path he walked toward the shed. He approached the door at an angle, just in case it burst open and someone took shots at the approaching cops.

The main house wasn’t in good shape aesthetically, but the doors had been reinforced and secured, along with bars bolted over the windows, to make it a more appropriate place to store high-dollar, black-market weapons. SWAT had had a hell of a time breaching it.

The shed Jack was approaching, though, was in far worse shape. The dull white paint was chipped and falling off in many places, exposing rotting gray wood. And it didn’t seem to have those extra security measures. One look at it told Jack that he should be able to easily get inside.

At least, it appeared that way.

The first rule he’d learned as a detective: never assume.

Assuming could get you killed fast.

He would die one day, but it sure wouldn’t be right then, in that overgrown, ratty-ass backyard.

So, he kept his gun at the ready just in case.

It was a good thing he did, too. Just as he’d feared, the shed’s door flew open. Orange flame bloomed from the end of a silver handgun, and Jack dove to the side while yelling, “Down!” just as a bullet thudded into the grass where he’d been only a second earlier.

The gunfire was still echoing as the shooter bolted from the shed and ran around it, most likely heading for the back fence.

Jack effortlessly rose to his feet and gave chase but stopped shy of running around the building’s corner. Just charging recklessly ahead was a good way to get killed. He didn’t think the perp was trying to ambush him, but again—never assume.

He gave a quick glance over his shoulder to the officers behind him. “Anyone hit?”

“We’re all good, Detective.”

He nodded.

Glancing back even further, he saw where he’d dropped his shotgun when he’d dove away from the bullet. The weapon was just barely visible in the tall grass.

He decided against retrieving it now. The big thing would just slow him down. His handgun would work better in a foot pursuit.

Cautiously, he inched around the building’s corner.

Just as he’d suspected, the shooter wasn’t lying in wait, ready to pick him off. He’d already scaled the waist-high fence and was cutting through the other backyard that lay beyond it.

“We’ve got a runner!” Jack called out while sprinting after him.

At forty-two, Jack wasn’t old.

He wasn’t young, either. His aching knees throbbed every night to remind him of that.

Still, he stayed in good shape and the short fence wasn’t too much of an obstacle.

It didn’t slow him very much. But his quarry had a head start and was skinny, with far less muscle than Jack’s broad frame possessed.

The guy’s lanky legs carried him swiftly across the yard.

Instead of going for the gate, he veered right, toward the fence that separated it from the next property.

Damn it, Jack thought. This guy is going to keep hopping fences to slow me down rather than just going to the street.

For a moment, it looked as if the man’s luck changed, though. Losing his balance, he fell to the ground, and his silver handgun tumbled beyond his grasp. Rather than spending the precious few seconds to collect it, he hurried to his feet and kept going.

He was bounding the other fence when Jack stopped to retrieve the firearm. It couldn’t just be left behind. What if kids lived in that house and they came out to play in the backyard? Keeping everyone safe took precedent, always.

As soon as Jack had it tucked into his waistband, he continued the pursuit.

The suspect’s fall hadn’t turned out to be the stroke of good luck Jack was hoping for. On one hand, it had disarmed him. Removing a firearm from a dangerous situation was always a positive. The perp had already shown that he was more than willing to use it.

But it had taken precious time for Jack to secure the weapon, and this was a situation where seconds counted. So, in actuality, that tumble had slowed Jack down more than it had the perp.

Oh well. Jack would just keep pressing on.

He’d eventually catch his man. He always did. First things first: another hurdle to vault.

“Damn. My knees are really going to tell me about this tonight!” he grunted, even though there was no one around to hear.

His black dress slacks tore on the top of the fence, but that was the least of his concerns. Once his feet smashed into the next yard, he pumped his legs hard.

“Police! Stop where you are!” he yelled.

He didn’t expect the command to do much good, so he wasn’t surprised when the guy kept on running.

The chase continued all the way across the backyard, with the suspect once again not veering toward the gate and the front of the house. He wanted to keep hopping fences, it seemed.

That’s exactly what he did. Eventually, Jack knew it would have to stop once they reached the end of the street. But the perp was most likely betting Jack would tire out before then.

They wouldn’t make it that far to see.

The guy vaulted the next fence and zipped past a doghouse that rested on the nearby concrete-slab patio. The pitbull inside didn’t seem to like that very much, because he charged out with a vicious snarl and attacked the invader.

Screams filled the air as the suspect was knocked flat on his back. With the dog on top of him, he thrashed about, trying to twist free of the beast. It was no use. The dog was just too damn strong and not in the mood to show mercy.

Jack couldn’t just sit back and let the man be mauled.

As angry as the dog seemed, he might very well tear the intruder from limb to limb.

So, he grabbed the pepper spray clipped to his hip and jumped the fence.

Yelling and trying to make as much noise as possible, Jack stomped his feet.

He had no desire to actually hurt the animal and would only do that if it was absolutely necessary to save a life.

The snarling pitbull looked up at Jack. A strand of slobber hung from its heavy jowls.

Those small, narrow eyes gave Jack the creeps, though he tried not to show it.

Dogs were smart. He was fully convinced they could sense fear.

This one was clearly there for the purpose of guarding that yard.

And he sure didn’t look like he was going to quit that job anytime soon.

To the left, just off the patio and resting near the tan brick wall of the house, was an old motorboat that was in worse shape than the rest of the property was—and that was saying something.

The boat was on a trailer, but by the looks of it, some time had passed since it had been taken to any body of water. A quick glance at the trailer told Jack it was in the same condition as the boat. But none of that mattered to him. It rested high enough that the dog couldn’t reach it.

“Get up there!” he yelled to the man.

The guy sat up slowly and shifted so that he could look behind him to where Jack was. “Huh?”

“The boat! Get on the damn boat!”

Jack knew what the man was thinking: he could just make a run for it and escape the dog and the cop. But the other side of the yard was too far, and running would most likely trigger the dog’s prey drive. Instinct was instinct.

The fence he’d hopped over, the one that was behind Jack now, wouldn’t work, either, because the path would take him right back by the dog who’d temporarily turned his sights on Jack.

That boat was the safest option.

“Go! I have him distracted,” Jack urged.

Being a cop sure was weird, he mused silently. The duty you swore to uphold meant sometimes you end up protecting the guy who, only moments before, fired a damn hand cannon at you.

The perp was smart enough to take Jack up on the offer.

He clumsily scrambled up the trailer and into the boat. Now Jack had another problem.

There were two threats he had to keep his eyes on.

The perp had dropped one gun. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t another.

And there was still the little matter of the dog that was stepping closer with each passing second. Frothy drool still welled from his curled lips. It almost seemed as if he was foaming at the mouth.

That’s just what I need, Jack thought. Rabies.

He didn’t think the dog was really rabid, though. At least he hoped not. He was probably just enraged.

Very enraged.

He lunged at Jack.

“Whoa there boy. Easy.” He was able to sidestep the animal and avoid fangs sinking into the side of his stomach, but it had been close.

“I’m actually a dog person. I have a golden retriever at home.”

The beastly menace charged again.

“I guess you don’t like retrievers!” Jack said as he jumped back.

He would have to pepper-spray the thing. That was better than shooting it, he reminded himself. But he still hated to do it.

Extending his arm, he brought the can forward. But just before he applied pressure to the trigger, a flood of officers swarmed the scene.

“What took you all so long?” Jack asked.

No one answered, because all eyes were on the dog who still seemed intent on charging.

A few tense seconds ticked off the clock before a look of defeat registered in the canine’s eyes. It lowered its head, turned around, and trotted back into the doghouse.

Jack let out a long sigh, thankful that he didn’t have to spray the animal.

And damn thankful to be alive.