THE NAME THE K9 NEVER FORGOT

"We need to leave. Now."

Mark didn't wait for the local patrol cars to arrive. He grabbed Maya’s small hand, keeping Rico close on a shortened leash. He tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table to cover his untouched coffee and ushered the girl toward the back exit of the diner.

"Hey! You can't just take her!" the elderly man yelled from the front booth, holding up his phone. "I'm on with 911!"

"I am the police!" Mark barked back, flashing his badge. "The area isn't secure. I'm moving the civilian to a safe location."

He didn't wait for a response. He pushed through the swinging metal doors into the kitchen, past the startled cooks, and out into the dark, rain-swept alleyway behind the diner.

The cold rain instantly soaked through his uniform. His patrol cruiser was parked out front, but taking it was suicide. It had a GPS tracker hardwired into the dashboard. If his precinct was compromised, they would track his every turn.

"Where are we going?" Maya asked, shivering as the cold rain hit her face.

"We're taking a detour," Mark said.

He led them down the alley, away from the flashing neon lights of the diner and into the shadowed residential streets. He kept his hand near his holster, his eyes scanning every parked car, every dark porch. Rico walked point, his nose low to the ground, his ears swiveling like radar dishes. The dog's entire demeanor had shifted. He was no longer a passive observer; he was a bodyguard protecting his VIP.

They walked for six blocks, twisting through narrow alleys until Mark finally stopped behind an old, rusted chain-link fence. Behind it sat a dilapidated detached garage. It belonged to Mark's grandfather, a property that had been abandoned for years.

Mark fumbled with the padlock, his fingers numb from the cold, and shoved the heavy wooden door open. Inside, covered by a dusty tarp, was a 1998 Ford Bronco. No GPS. No computer system. Untraceable.

"Get in," Mark instructed, pulling the tarp off the truck.

He opened the passenger door. Rico jumped in first, immediately taking a defensive position in the backseat. Mark lifted Maya into the front seat and locked the door before running around to the driver's side.

He reached under the floor mat and pulled out a magnetic hide-a-key. The engine sputtered, choked, and then roared to life with a loud, aggressive growl.

"Okay," Mark breathed, turning on the heat and locking the doors. He pulled out his police-issued cell phone, popped the back cover off, and ripped the battery out, throwing both pieces out the window into the mud.

Maya watched him with wide eyes. "Why did you break your phone?"

"Because bad people can use it to find us," Mark explained, shifting the truck into drive. "Maya, I need you to tell me everything you know. What is your dad's name?"

"David," she said softly. "David Vance."

Mark slammed on the brakes. The Bronco jerked to a halt in the middle of the dark alley.

He turned to look at the little girl, his heart hammering against his ribs.

David Vance.

Every cop in the state knew that name. Detective David Vance was supposed to be a dirty cop. The official story was that a year ago, Vance had been caught stealing seized drug money from the evidence room. According to the news, when Internal Affairs moved in to arrest him, Vance went on the run, taking a large sum of cash and his K9 partner with him. He was a fugitive. A disgrace to the badge.

"Your dad is David Vance?" Mark whispered.

Maya nodded, tears welling in her eyes again. "They lied about him. On the TV. My dad was a good person. He found out the police chief was selling the drugs. He told my mom he had proof. The next day... he didn't come home."

Mark leaned back against the headrest, staring out at the rain washing over the windshield.

If Maya was telling the truth, then the Chief of Police was running a massive drug cartel out of the evidence locker. And Vance had found out. They didn't just frame Vance—they disappeared him. And they had seized his dog, wiped its records, and reassigned it to a rookie who wouldn't know any better.

Me. They gave the dog to me.

Mark realized why his captain had been so insistent on him taking "Rex" instead of waiting for a new puppy from the academy. They wanted the dog under their thumb, watched by someone too new to ask questions.

"Maya," Mark said slowly. "You said the bad man outside told you something. He said if you ever found Rico..."

Maya reached into the pocket of her oversized green hoodie. Her tiny hand trembled as she pulled out a crumpled, water-stained piece of paper.

"The bad man came to my school today," Maya whispered. "He told me he had a secret. He said my dad was still alive. He said if I went to the diner tonight, I would find Rico. And if I found Rico... Rico would know where my dad is."

Mark stared at the crumpled paper. He gently took it from her hands and unfolded it.

It wasn't a note. It was a photograph.

It was a picture of Detective David Vance, tied to a chair in a dark, concrete room. He looked beaten and bloody, but he was alive. And behind him, partially visible in the shadows, was a massive steel door with a very specific, painted logo.

It was the logo of the abandoned Blackwood Shipping Yard.

Suddenly, Rico let out a vicious snarl from the backseat.

Mark looked up in the rearview mirror.

Two pairs of headlights had just turned into the alleyway behind them, moving fast. They were completely blacked-out SUVs.

The people who had taken David Vance had found them. And they weren't here to make an arrest.