Team Second Star

By Amber Woods

Pan pulled at his leash, and it took everything in Peter to hold him back. The burly black-and-tan German shepherd was having none of it.

“Come on, boy. We’ve got to stay focused. If we fail, we’re kicked out for good.” Muscles straining, Peter tightened his grip and heaved in the opposite direction. His auburn hair flew into his face, and his bright blue uniform was already damp from sweat.

Ears erect and nose pointing, Pan strained toward the woods. He whimpered slightly.

“Stay focused, buddy. Now, sniff!” Peter commanded.

Pan reacted properly this time and turned back toward the sidewalk, still glancing at the forest.

A sigh escaped Peter. Maybe they could pass after all.

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable, Peter,” Rodriguez said from his radio earpiece. “That wasn’t a great start. If he’s going after a squirrel or something, it’s game over.”

Peter’s brow creased. “He’s doing all right now. Don’t be so quick to give up on him.”

Pan walked methodically along, sniffing intently. Then he lunged again, and the frayed leash broke with a snap.

“No!” Peter cried as Pan disappeared. “Wait!”

“I think you just failed,” the snide voice commented in his ear.

“Thanks,” Peter muttered as he pushed bushes and twigs aside to chase after the sleek shepherd.

Then he heard a bark. The alert bark. Naturally, he’d find drugs now.

Peter’s single soft whistle called the dog. Pan dashed back to him, jumped, putting his front paws on Peter’s chest, and then turned back into the woods. Peter loosened his holster, ready for a surprise.

Now to see if we can still pass.

With Pan leading, the well-groomed park paths soon lay far behind them. Underbrush obstructed any possible routes through the thicket, and shadows ran rampant under the canopy. Peter slipped his gun out and the safety off, even though the bullets were blanks. Pan crept along beside him.

“Come,” Peter said, and Pan followed close.

They edged through the undergrowth, hidden behind bushes and trees. Pan crept soundlessly behind him, his coat blending perfectly with the forest. Test or no, adrenaline rushed through Peter’s veins. Primal instinct took over, whispering, One noise, and you’re dead.

Heart pounding, Peter pushed branches out of his way until the thicket ended and only old trees dotted the landscape between him and a concrete bunker. Dead leaves and a few struggling weeds coated the man-made clearing.

“You guys outdid yourselves,” Peter murmured. “I thought there would be a few people in dog bite suits with a bag.”

Only static answered him through the earpiece. Maybe radio silence was part of the test.

Rising from a crouch, Peter ran from oak to maple for cover. He stopped behind the last tree, roughly ten yards away from the pale structure. While he was considering a way to get in, the door opened. A flash of light and a popping noise erupted from the building, and instinct yanked Peter behind the trunk. His reaction was stupid really, the bullets were… The bullets were…

Peter stared at the trunk off to his left; several chunks of wood were missing.

The bullets are real.

His adrenaline and blood pressure soared, and he whistled, then whisper-shouted, “Pan!”

Except Pan was gone.

Peter’s eyes widened as he searched for the dog, desperately trying not to panic. Another burst ricocheted across the clearing. Peter took a deep breath and, during the lull, fired three solid shots of his own toward the dark shape in the door.

Nothing happened. Of course. His gun was shooting blanks.

His heart thundered as he pulled back behind a thick oak and let out an exasperated breath. Naturally, the one time he trained in the real world, the real thing found him. What was next?

Thud.

A piece of wood flew off his tree.

These guys are getting better. The thought had just crossed his mind when he heard a bark. Pan!

Whoever was in the house didn’t like the noise and shouted gibberish. Someone answered, and a louder gun joined the first. Peter spied Pan off to the far left, slinking toward the bunker. One of the men was halfway out of the door, looking around.

He’s going to find Pan. Another bullet nearly gave him a haircut, but he made it. Shaking, he fell against the thick maple. With the dealer’s attention successfully diverted, Pan crept closer to the bunker, out of sight.

Peter took inventory: a couple of pairs of cuffs, one fake bullet, a utility knife, and a can of pepper spray. That was all he had. Time to MacGyver it.

He took out the pepper spray. Making sure the top was secure, he threw the can at the bunker. It fell a few feet away from the hideout. Startled, the stockier man shot it.

Big mistake.

Gas sprayed from the hole, dousing both of them. They stumbled around, coughing. Peter couldn’t hold back the smirk. Pan rushed the younger one and jumped on his chest. The man—kid, really—screamed and dropped his gun. Peter charged, shoved the older one to the ground, and cuffed him before calling off Pan and cuffing the kid, too. At least the handcuffs were real. After a quick search of the bunker which revealed some tech and several bags of white powder, Peter hauled the soon-to-be-inmates and their stash out to the park, where his trainers were waiting.

“Rodriguez is furious…” a friend and fellow trainee began, but he trailed off when he saw the men. “We haven’t heard from you in over an hour.”

Pan by his side, Peter rolled his eyes and dragged the handcuffed men toward the scowling instructor.

“I see you’ve been busy, Team Second Star,” Rodriguez growled, crossing his arms. “But you’d better have a good reason for not responding.”

Peter held up a signal jammer from the bunker. “Everything went to voicemail. Thought I’d use this to bargain for a pass.” He patted Pan’s head.

Rodriguez almost cracked a smile.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amber Woods lives in a forest where she talks to the voices in her head.

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