C. Box - Endangered

In the background, he could hear one of the deputies on his radio calling for additional personnel. He hoped that Chief Williamson wasn’t monitoring the channel.

Joe caught a glimpse of Cudmore as he lumbered past the dining room window. He was a huge man, blocky and solid. He had a massive Neanderthal brow and deep-set eyes. His unshaven face sparkled with silver whiskers. He wore a kind of slouch hat and there was a spray of wild thin hair that flowed from beneath the sweatband to his shoulders. The wispy hair glowed in the beams of flashlights and spotlights, and then he was gone.

A few seconds later, his face appeared in the bottom corner of the window. Cudmore squinted into the light, his mouth curled with anger. “How many of you jackbooted thugs are out there, anyway?”

“Quit saying we’re jackbooted thugs, Tilden,” Reed said with annoyance. “It’s my sheriff’s department. I don’t even know what a jackboot is.”

“How many?”

“Half my department, Tilden,” Reed said.

“Well, shit, it’ll take more than that if you want to arrest me.”

“Lower your weapon and come out,” Reed said. Not so reasonable-sounding this time.

“Ain’t you heard?” Cudmore said. “There’s this thing called the Second Amendment. I got a right to keep and bear arms.”

“Of course you do,” Reed responded. “But we’ve got a situation here and I’m getting impatient. We’ll give you your weapons back after we ask you a few questions at my office. If there’s been a mistake, you’ll be back here within an hour or so.”

“To hell with that. I know how your so-called justice system works. Get your men off my place. All of ’em. I’ll talk to you, but only to you.”

“That’s not going to happen, Tilden,” Reed said.

Joe didn’t know all the reasoning or philosophy behind it, but he’d heard that some survivalists made it part of their governing philosophy to recognize the local sheriff as the only authority in the country because, for whatever reason, the rest of the government—especially the federal government—was considered illegitimate. At the moment, Joe couldn’t care less about Cudmore’s reasons. He wanted him in a cage—or worse.

“You’re not arresting anyone,” Cudmore boomed. “This is my private property and you have no business being on it.”

“Back to that,” Reed said.

“Yes, goddamnit, back to that,” Cudmore said. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“We need to ask you some questions about a girl you might have picked up on the highway yesterday. We found her, Tilden.”

There was a long pause. Then Cudmore said, “What girl?”

It was an unconvincing reply, Joe thought. There was a hint of panic in it.

“If I come out, you promise you won’t shoot me?” Cudmore asked.

“I promise. My guys are professionals, and they won’t shoot, either, as long as you don’t make any threatening moves. So come out slow and relaxed, Tilden. We’ll go to my office and we can talk this out.”

Cudmore’s face disappeared from the window.

Joe looked at the front door: it wasn’t opening. He wondered if Cudmore would be dumb enough to try to escape through the back, where two deputies were waiting. Judging by his performance thus far, Joe thought, Cudmore was dumb enough to do just about anything.

For the first time, Joe heard something beneath the sound of the Humvee’s engine: the snarling of dogs. He changed his angle and could see the tops of black shapes inside the trailer: blocky heads, and glimpses of eyes and white teeth. The insides of the windows were smeared with spittle.

“Mike,” Joe said, “he’s got his dogs in there with him.”

Cudmore’s face reappeared and he looked toward where he’d heard Joe’s voice. He seemed to be thinking, trying to decide what he was going to do next.

“I’ve got my dogs in here,” Cudmore said. “I suppose you’re going to arrest me for that, too?”

“Of course not,” Reed said. “Just keep them inside when you come out. We don’t want to hurt your animals, either.”

After another long pause, Cudmore said, “Okay, I’m coming out.” He sounded resigned.

Joe tensed for what might happen next.

The front door opened slightly and Cudmore squeezed out. The dogs tried to exit as well, but he blocked them with his body until he could close the door behind him. A flashlight beam raked Cudmore over, pausing at his empty holster.

“Deputy Boner,” Reed said, “please approach Mr. Cudmore and place him under arrest.”

“Yes, sir,” Boner said, rising from behind his vehicle. His weapon was out and extended in front of him.

“I thought we was just going to talk,” Cudmore said. “Did you lie to me?”

“No. We are going to talk.”

Just then, Joe heard a heavy rumbling sound from behind him. It was actually causing the ground to tremble.

“Oh no,” Reed said.

The Saddlestring Police Department’s MRAP turned in off the highway and flattened the wrought iron archway. Plumes of dust billowed out from its undercarriage and dual sets of back tires.

“You fuckin’ lied to me!” Cudmore cried.

Then he leaned over and opened his front door and stepped aside.

“Get ’em, boys!” Cudmore commanded.

Four massive pit bulls boiled out: teeth flashing in the ambient light, ropes of saliva flapping in the air. Two of them were on Boner before he got a chance to retreat or fire.

Boner went down, the dogs on top of him. It was a savage attack.

Cudmore pumped his fist with joy.

Joe pushed himself to his feet. The third dog was streaking across the yard toward Reed, who was in the process of raising his weapon. Reed fired, but missed.

Joe raised his shotgun and fired instinctively, an orange gout of flame exploding from the muzzle. He hit the pit bull behind its front shoulder with a full load that rolled it across the grass less than a foot from Reed’s feet in the chair. The concussion was loud, but Joe barely heard it over the roaring in his ears. He hated killing a dog.

The fourth dog retreated from the others and took refuge behind Cudmore’s legs. Cudmore cursed and kicked it hard in the ribs, but instead of attacking like the others, the dog hunkered down in the mud.

The other deputies had surrounded the two snarling dogs on top of Boner. One of them yelled to be careful not to hit Boner, who writhed on the ground in a tornado of solid muscle and red-stained teeth.

Cudmore rocked back on his heels with his hands on his hips and hooted. Then he bent toward the whimpering dog and yelled, “Go help your brothers, you coward.”

There were several flashes and thumps and loud yelps as rounds hit the two dogs on top of Boner, then the whimper of a dying creature who’d been thrown to the side by the impact of the bullets. Boner thrashed, rolling, grasping at his face and throat. Blood, bits of flesh, and fur were everywhere.

A harsh spotlight from the top of the MRAP illuminated it all.

Joe was a beat too late when Cudmore drew a weapon he’d had tucked in his waistband under his jacket. The man did it tentatively, as if he were having second thoughts even as the semiauto cleared.

A volley of shots from the deputies cut him down and he fell straight back like a felled tree. A deafening burst from the .50-caliber machine gun on the MRAP ripped through the night and tore a twisted chunk of aluminum off the roof of the trailer. The fourth dog managed to scramble out of the way of Cudmore’s crashing body.

Joe ran to where Tilden Cudmore lay, and he kicked the .357 from the man’s hand. Cudmore grunted from the blow—he was still alive—and Joe wheeled and pressed his shotgun barrel into the man’s doughy cheek.