THE HIDDEN PARK SNARE

I had done exactly what the enemy needed. Keeping those gloves off the books had buried the one clue that might expose the person inside the department trying to murder my partner. Rodriguez had likely tucked the tracker beneath my SUV while acting like he was locking down the park. He had known I would never question him.

“Damn it,” I muttered, rubbing both hands over my face.

I turned toward Marcus. My retired K9 mentor stood beside the kitchen counter, jaw set, watching me absorb the betrayal.

“It was Rodriguez,” I said. Rage made every word vibrate. “The crime scene tech has been passing Vance our movements. He set up the park trap to eliminate Titan. When that went wrong, he dispatched these men to this house.”

Marcus folded his arms. “Then what happens now, Danny? The precinct is out. If Rodriguez is dirty, he may not be working alone. Half the building could belong to Vance. You bring Titan through those doors, and neither one of you may leave.”

I forced my thoughts into order. “I’m not taking this through JPD. The suppression hearing starts at nine in the county courthouse. The FBI field office occupies the fourth floor of that same building. Once I get Titan through the courthouse entrance, I can get federal eyes on this.”

“I testify, Titan completes the scent-verification test in front of the judge, and then I hand the FBI the whole operation,” I continued. “Rodriguez, Vance, the attempts on Titan—everything.”

Marcus gave a careful nod. “That is a dangerous route. If Vance has watchers posted on the roads, your patrol SUV might as well wear a target.”

“The Explorer stays behind,” I said. “It’s compromised. They planted a listening device on it, and I’m not driving us into another ambush. We can use their truck.”

“Not happening,” Marcus answered at once. “Their truck is sunk on the access trail, and I put rounds through its tires before I came looking for you. But I have another way out.”

He pointed toward the rear of the house. “There’s an old airboat concealed in the mangroves. It can carry us through the swamp and put us near the coastal highway. Once we reach pavement, we find state police and get help.”

I checked my watch. The display read just before four in the morning. Five hours remained before the hearing, and each one suddenly felt much too short.

“Get it moving,” I said. “We leave as soon as it’s ready.”

“Keys and my go-bag are in the shed,” Marcus said, stepping away from the counter. He crossed to the thick front door and worked the bolts free. “Keep our visitor covered. I’ll be back inside five.”

“He won’t be a problem,” I told him, bringing my weapon up again anyway.

Marcus disappeared into the blackness beyond the doorway. The door shut behind him with a dull, final weight.

Quiet swallowed the living room. The captive mercenary breathed hard through his pain while the old refrigerator gave off a steady mechanical buzz from the kitchen.

The crash after the shooting started catching me. Mud and swamp water clung to my uniform. My fingers had begun to tremble, not from fear, I told myself, but from exhaustion.

The mercenary sat bound where we had left him, eyes lowered, making small miserable sounds in the back of his throat.

His tactical vest lay on Marcus’s wooden desk against the wall. I moved to it with one thought driving me: a burner phone could give me proof that Rodriguez ordered the attack before the sun came up.

I dug through the stiff canvas pouches. First came an extra magazine. Then a combat knife. At the bottom, my hand closed around a thin black smartphone.

I caught the prisoner by the hair, pulled his face upward, and held the phone in front of him. The screen recognized him and opened.

I released him and returned to the desk, already tapping into the messages.

Only one conversation appeared. The number had been saved under a single name: Client.

I went straight to the newest text. It had arrived twenty minutes earlier: Target in rear cabin. Set it on fire. Make sure there is nothing for an autopsy.

Ice traced its way down my back. An autopsy. Why would Vance’s people care about one? Killing Titan would damage the warrant, but that message sounded like they needed more than a dead dog.

I opened the contact information and copied down the phone number attached to Client.

My department cell was powered off. I switched it on, waited through the slow startup, then searched my contacts using the number from the burner.

Nothing came back. The phone was not registered to Rodriguez.

I stared at the screen, then went back through the exchange. An earlier message carried three attached images. I opened the first.

My black Ford Explorer filled the display, parked beside the pavilion at Riverside Park.

The next photograph showed the puddle by the electrical box, taken before Emily had been drawn toward the grass.

I opened the final image, and my lungs stopped working for a second.

It was a broad view of the park. A man stood near the tall grass with one arm extended as if directing someone. Grey zip-up jacket. Heavy shoulders. The same man who had raised that tree branch and yelled for me to put Titan down.

Below the photo, the sender had written: The Doctor is in place. Trap is active.

I looked from the words to the grey-jacketed man’s face and felt another danger taking shape. Why did the attackers call the park operative The Doctor?