Chapter One
The first warm breeze of the month rolled in from the south. Tag Redmond strolled along the sidewalk in downtown Butte, Montana, pausing at the next intersection. From the corner of his left eye, he watched without letting on until both Beagles sat at the end of the yoked leash. He waited two seconds then leaned down and scratched under their chins. “Good job, girls.”
Today’s therapy dog lesson emphasized walking with a loose leash among crowds. The population of Eagle Rock, his adopted hometown, was too small to provide a sufficient number of pedestrians. When the traffic light changed to green, Tag crooked his fingers, palm up. “Taffy, Pixie, heel.” He caught a couple amused glances on the faces of people walking toward him. The sight of a six-foot-two-inch cowboy, complete with straw Stetson, tethered to a pair of dogs only a foot high at the shoulders must be comical. He chuckled.
Memories rolled through his mind of places he’d visited less than a year earlier. Working with his K-9 buddy, Dex, in the Afghanistan desert provided immediate rewards. Their job has been to conduct explosives scent training, as well as instructing the locals on security methods. His Belgian Malinois was the smartest dog he’d been assigned in his eight-year career. He missed those sessions when Dex walked in the space between his knees, maintaining the exact pace, as Tag, with his rifle held at shoulder height, demonstrated the method for the human-canine team to clear an area. An ache stabbed the inside of his left thigh where he’d lost a fist-sized chunk of muscle from a firefight—almost as if the memory conjured the pain. Last year’s injury resulted in a medical discharge from his Army Ranger unit. Thankfully, he’d recovered enough that he walked with a normal gait.
A screech of tires brought him back to the present. Stiffening, he stopped, his boots scraping on the concrete. His heart rate rocketed, senses alert for encroaching danger. No whine of an incoming mortar or the sharp ratchet of a weapon being cocked sounded. After a moment filled with everyday noises and movements, he focused on his surroundings—city block, street signs, solid buildings, ambling pedestrians. Seeing no evident threat allowed him to draw in an even breath.
Taffy kept moving forward, pulling along a stiff-legged Pixie.
“Heel.” Tag walked the pair to the right, took two steps, circled, and then stopped again. This time, they complied. He praised them both, tossing them a bit of freeze-dried chicken. Adjusting to life after serving in the Army proved challenging. Thankfully, his strong back and honed muscles were always appreciated on the family’s cattle ranch in Wyoming. He needed those three months of riding the range, herding steers, and doing ranch chores to set a new routine and work through the worst of his lingering nightmares.
Working with a couple of his mom’s friends to help break their pets of bad habits seemed a natural extension of his expertise. One day, his mom handed him a book about therapy dogs and the good they did for hospital patients and people in assisted-living situations. A light went off over his head—he could use his acquired dog handler skills and teach the ones appropriate to civilian life. Even if that meant working with animals a fifth the size of what he was used to.
In a catching-up phone call with a Ranger buddy, Rhys Morgan, Tag learned about the Brotherhood Protectors, a private security firm operated by ex-SEAL Hank Patterson. Within the week, he left the family ranch, drove north to Montana, and rented a five-acre place that abutted the Lewis and Clark National Forest. Working security would be an opportunity to use his skills and offer protection to those who needed it. An attitude ingrained into his psyche during his years of military service.
Before the next corner, he stopped shy of the entrance to First Pioneer Bank, pulled cloth tabs from his left back pocket, and crouched. “All right, ladies. Here’s a chance to work on your indoor manners.” Seeing their bright eyes focused on his face and their flop ears pointed forward, listening to his words, brought a smile. Both dogs wore a red vest imprinted with “therapy dog in training.” Unfortunately, that label didn’t always stop people from reaching out to touch them. Now, he attached tabs stating “do not pet” before going into businesses. He tugged the leash loop over his wrist.
Standing, he spotted a blonde approaching from about ten feet away. Wavy hair flowed behind her shoulders with each step. His pulse kicked up. He slid down his aviator an inch for a better look. Confidence exuded from her easy gait. Her lemon-yellow top clung to her curves in all the right places. A floral skirt swished around toned calves. Lace-trimmed socks peeked from the top of ankle boots. At least the woman wore heels of a sensible height, no more than two inches tall. So much smarter than the five-inch spikes he’d seen some women teetering on. They’d never get anywhere fast in an emergency. He stepped to the bank door, held it open with the tip of his boot, and tapped a finger to the brim of his hat. “After you, ma’am.”
Her eyes rounded, and she dipped her chin. After a quick glance at the dogs watching with big brown eyes, she smiled. “Thank you.”
The scent of citrus followed her. Tag grabbed the handle, ready to walk through and maybe find a reason to speak to this beauty again. Movement reflected in the bank’s left-side glass door caught his attention.
A black, king-cab truck rolled unhurried in the lane—much slower than the posted speed limit.
Something about the crawling movement, and the intensity of the passenger staring through the opened window at the bank entrance, lifted the hairs on the back of Tag’s neck. His whole body tightened. Blood pounded in his ears, and he narrowed his eyes, looking for the glint of sunlight off metal. He flashed back to times in the sandbox when a slow-moving vehicle meant danger…or death.
Footsteps approached. “You going in or out?”
Tag shook off the tension and forced a smile for the short lady with a head full of silver-white curls. “Sorry, caught me daydreaming. Please, go ahead.” He watched the truck inch around the corner before he stepped over the threshold. Redmond, get a grip. You’re in the good ol’ USA, not Afghanistan. Once inside, he pulled off his sunglasses and took a deep breath to calm his pulse.
A quick survey of the room provided the layout. A row of teller windows to the left, two private offices to his right, and several desks in an open area. At the far end stood a grouping of chairs with a low table and a clipboard. Must be a sign-in sheet. At the opposite end was an exit that must lead to an alley or a parking lot. He took a second look to locate the woman with the honey-blonde hair. Third in line for the tellers. Probably, he and the pretty lady would share nothing more than those few seconds at the entrance.
He set off toward the group of chairs, checking to make sure the dogs remained at his side. For the past couple of months, he’d been covering the costs of his dog-training business from his savings. But he wanted to get the kennel runs constructed faster than one each month. He sat next to the table and waited for Taffy and Pixie to lie at his feet. Then he signed his name on the log and wrote “personal loan.” He pulled off his hat and set it on an adjacent chair, nodding when he met the gaze of a seated woman holding a toddler.
“That man has dogs.”
“Yes, Tommy, they’re dogs that help people.”
“I wanna puppy, Mama.”
The woman brushed the boy’s dark hair of his forehead. “I know you do.”
The bank received his continued surveillance—a situational awareness habit he hadn’t yet broken. As he watched the blonde study her phone, he wondered if he could list Brotherhood Protectors as an employer. Sure, he’d had an interview with Hank and laid out his qualifications. But, technically, he hadn’t yet received his first assignment. Hank expressed enthusiasm about Tag’s dog handler skills. He even mentioned expanding his security services to include trained dogs. In his heart, Tag wondered if he could work on another canine team. So much trust was involved between the working pair. His heart had just about been ripped from his chest when his injury caused Dex to be reassigned. Until the kennel was built, he couldn’t house big dogs. So, he hadn’t made that decision yet.
The back door banged against the wall with a crash.
“This here’s a robbery. Everybody, stay where you are.” Three men dressed all in black with balaclavas covering their faces ran to the middle of the room, waving shotguns. “Tellers, hands up. Do not hit the panic buttons if you want to live.”
Shit. Straightening, Tag grabbed the chair arms. His instincts about that truck and its occupants were right.
A woman screamed. Someone cursed.
Both dogs jumped to their feet, bodies stiff. Pixie whimpered.
Tag stilled, his senses firing on high. As he watched the men, he leaned forward to signal for the dogs to lie down. The last thing he needed was for them to draw attention or be viewed as threats.
One man ran to the front door and shoved a crow bar through the door handles. With his weapon leveled waist high, a second one stalked the security guard and disarmed him. Then he pulled a can of spray paint from the back of his waistband and sprayed the lenses of the security cameras.
The third grabbed a small, metal trash cash and dumped out the contents. “Put your cell phones in here.”
Tag slid his phone from his right back pocket and slipped it beneath Pixie’s training vest, tucked high toward her shoulders. He prayed the unit would stay in place. Lowering himself to the center of the group of chairs, he positioned his body in front of the dogs. He studied the three men, hoping to spot an identifying gesture or feature. Two looked to be a little under six feet and of average weight.
“Everyone on the ground. Lie down and don’t give us any trouble.” The tallest of the group waved his weapon toward those in line and held out the can with the other hand.
“Ma’am,” Tag whispered to the woman who sat frozen, clutching her little boy to her chest. “Get behind me.” Alternating his gaze between the robbers and her wide-eyed expression, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, hoping she’d snap out of her terror.
Blinking fast, she nodded, dropped to a crouch, and moved outside of the chair circle, clinging to her child with one hand.
The third robber was a bit over six feet and maybe two hundred pounds. Muscles stretched the sleeves of his black pullover shirt. The robber jabbed an elderly man holding a cane
Tag cringed, clamping his jaw tight.
“Move it, Gramps. Get on the floor.” He stalked close to the silver-haired lady.
The blonde had an arm around the elderly lady’s waist and supported the woman’s elbow.
“I said lie down.” The thief waved the gun in their faces.
“No, please don’t.” The older woman put up her hands to cover her face and shuddered.
“Just stop.” The blonde’s head snapped up, and she moved in front of the older woman, blocking her smaller form. “She’s doing her best. The lady has a bad hip.”
“Sassy, huh?” After dropping the can, he stepped close and grabbed the blonde’s arm. “I like a bit of spunk.” He leaned close and sniffed. “You sure smell pretty.”
Blondie held her ground, chin up, and met his stare.
Silently, Tag cheered her spirit but worried she might push the guy too far. Most bank robbers had a specific timetable to get in, grab the loot, and make their escape. He itched to reach the KA-BAR knife strapped to his left calf. But he was too far away for the blade to have an impact.
“In fact, spunky lady, you’re my designated helper.”
“I will not.” She started to turn back to the other woman.
Quick as a flash, he swung his right arm and back-handed her face.
She cried out and stumbled but didn’t go down. Then she tossed her hair over her shoulder and snatched the trash can. After a step to the side, she held it in front of the older woman. “Please do as he says.”
Before he realized his movement, Tag rose like he was in PT and doing pushups then placed his strong leg beneath his body. He reached for his knife.
“Hey, got a hero over here.” One of the men stepped close and rested the muzzle of the shotgun on Taffy’s body. “On your belly, or the dog eats it.”
Taffy cowered and looked over her shoulder.
So angry his muscles quivered, Tag lowered his body to the ground. He held an upright hand, palm outward, toward Taffy and Pixie, giving them the signal to stay.
“Gimme your phone.” The barrel waved in his direction. “You, too, lady. Slide it over.”
She complied, and the robber scooped up the phone.
“Left it in my truck.” Tag held his empty hands over his head. Helpless, he watched as the blonde gathered the cell phones, set down the can, and then returned to the older woman’s side.
By now, the executives were rousted from their offices and directed to lie on the floor like the others.
One of the robbers moved behind the teller’s counter, stuffing money into a black duffle bag. “Number One, I’m not collecting much here. Only small bills. Bring over the president so he can get into the vault.”
“Not the plan, Number Two.” The tall one walked backward to the teller’s access door, his gun sweeping the room.
The third man yanked on the arm of a middle-aged executive in a suit. “Here he is. I vote with Number Two.” He marched the pudgy man the length of the room, where the three robbers argued.
Tag glanced toward the security guard’s position, but the man wasn’t looking around. No help from him. Damn, he cursed the fact he hadn’t yet met the residency requirement to get his concealed carry permit. After eight years of having a weapon close by, he felt almost naked without one. Especially now. He looked over at the blonde and met her stare.
A red welt rose on her right cheek. She patted the older woman’s wrinkled hand.
Her plaintive gaze called to him. From the twenty-five-foot distance, he couldn’t determine the eye color. But the intensity of her gaze created a strong connection. His fingers curled into the synthetic carpet. He wanted to make promises that everything would be all right. But failed or compromised missions had taught him in a hard and gut-busting way to keep his mouth shut in situations he couldn’t control.
A siren sounded in the distance, getting closer.
Stupid LEO. Wasn’t the local enforcement officer trained to make a silent approach? Tag tensed, knowing this situation could go from bad to worse if the robbers panicked.
“Number One, we gotta split.”
Number One ran to the front and glanced outside. “No worries. That’s a fire truck. Just turned the corner and is headed in the opposite direction.” He looked back toward his gang and gestured his gun in a big circle. “Grab it all.”
Number Three shoved the bank president to his knees and moved inside the tellers’ area to help. “Wait here.”
With all three robbers distracted, Tag rolled to his right side, pulled his knife from its sheath, and held it along his thigh. Inching backward, he angled his body to better view the separated positions of the robbers. He glanced toward the thief near the front, his gaze connecting with the blonde’s.
Frowning, she shook her head and mouthed, no.
“Mama, look. That man has—”
The rest of the boy’s words were muffled.
A horn honked three times in rapid succession.
“Shit.” Number One sprinted toward the back of the building. “Number Four’s spotted something. Let’s haul ass.”
Tag slid out his phone from Pixie’s vest, punched in his password, and tapped video. Arm slung over Pixie’s body, he held the phone near her left shoulder and started recording. He hoped to hell the angle was right to catch footage of these men in action.
Two men burst from the tellers’ area, each holding a bag. One of them stooped, grabbed the bank president, and held the surprised man in front of his body. “I’ve got my human shield.” The other robber followed suit.
Before he could blink, Tag saw the blonde hauled to her feet and yanked in front of the tallest robber.
“Let me go.” She struggled against his grip and kicked at his shins.
“Stop it, bitch.” He cinched an arm around her middle, grabbed a breast, and with the other hand, jammed the gun at her head. “Now, quit resisting and walk out that door.”
Turning her head, she cast Tag a wide-eyed look.
Her eyes broadcast a clear plea. At the sight of the guy groping her breast, Tag bit back a protest and clamped his jaw tight. His whole body shook with the effort of not racing to her side. So far, shots hadn’t been fired and Tag needed to think of all the hostages. But someone would pay. He paced his breathing, readying himself to spring into action once the door started swinging shut. As soon as their backs were turned, he rose to a crouch then eased aside a chair for a clear path. He launched himself forward, like bursting from the starting blocks of a hundred yard dash. He ran, wincing at the pull on his wound, and caught the door before it closed.
Not twenty feet from the exit, the two male hostages struggled to push themselves upright from the asphalt. Beyond them, the black truck idled, front door ajar.
“Get inside, bitch.” The robber thrashed the blonde from side to side to dislodge her hold and shove her into the front seat.
“Somebody help me.” She fought his actions with a foot braced on the open door and a hand gripped on the doorframe.
“Stay down.” Tag pointed at the two men then flipped the knife in his grip, grasped the cool blade, drew back his arm, and threw. Like innumerable times before, he watched the weapon roll end over end. The seven-inch blade hit the intended target—lodging in the robber’s upper back.
With an anguished grunt, the robber let go of his captive and stretched a hand behind him, turning in a circle. Not having any luck, he had to grab over his shoulder.
Run, Blondie, run. Tag strode down the shallow incline toward the rear of the parked car to his right.
She lowered her foot to the pavement and angled her body away from the door.
But the driver grabbed a handful of blonde hair and pulled the screaming and flailing woman inside.
With a glare over his shoulder, the masked man pulled out the knife and leaned it and held it against her neck. He slid into the seat next to the subdued hostage and slammed the door as the truck burned rubber out of the parking lot.
Late model, maybe a two-ton pickup. Smeared-on mud covered the vehicle’s identifying logos and the license plate. Tag threw back his head and roared, fists clenched at his sides. Not only had he failed to save her, he’d supplied them with a weapon.