Bonnie Martin
Of the three of us, only Logan was unaffected by the rugged, mountainous terrain. Ramos and I were being pushed to our limits. But then, Logan had four legs and unlimited German shepherd energy.
Local and federal officers were cooperating to capture two escaped convicts. After an hour of chasing them, we got close but fell back when they fired on us. We returned fire. From the blood trail, at least one of them was wounded.
Injured, our quarry was desperate and dangerous. We knew they were heading to a hunting cabin about a mile away belonging to one of the suspects’ families. When the suspects got there, they would have food, medical supplies, and ammunition.
Dense fog prevented air support. There were other search teams nearby, but we were the only team paired with a K9 officer.
I’d known Officer Sergio Ramos for a year. We’d engaged in some low-key, off-duty flirtation. He’d asked me to lunch a few times. If others were joining us, I’d say yes, but just the two of us? No. That would feel like a date.
Good-looking, intelligent, and a good cop. If I were to go out with anyone, it would be him. But I intentionally kept myself too busy for romance. One broken heart per lifetime was my limit.
We stopped to catch our breath. Logan wanted to keep going. I told him to lie down with a command in German. “Platz.”
My canine partner was unconcerned around Ramos. That was a good sign. I trusted Logan’s intuition. My life depended on it.
“Hey, Cooper, want to go to the chief’s charity gala with me?” Ramos grinned with his arms opened wide. “I’m a great dancer.”
We were both winded. My adrenaline was spiking, and he was asking about going to a dance?
Nope, not interested. I still got queasy remembering the humiliation of square-dancing lessons at summer camp when I was fourteen.
Not wanting to expend the energy required to give him a verbal response, I sent him the look that always gave my little brother pause about whatever mischief he was about to get into.
Ramos chuckled.
I’d catch some unpleasantness for not attending the gala. Everyone not on duty was expected to be there. It was my day off. I didn’t want to spend it with people. I would pass the evening in my favorite chair with a good book and a large cup of Earl Grey with Logan at my side.
Ramos held out a granola bar.
“Thanks.”
We started again. Logan led us to a clearing on the mountain ridge. There was a cabin with smoke from the chimney scenting the air. There was also a woodshed and an outhouse. The fog had lifted. Sun glinted off droplets of moisture clinging to pine needles.
I called in our coordinates. While waiting for backup, we circled the clearing, staying in the woods. The north side of the cabin, the side with the chimney, didn’t have windows.
We staked our position as the others arrived and we discussed the situation.
Logan whined. He wanted to get the bad guys. So did I.
When everyone was in position, with a double tree trunk shielding us, I commanded Logan to bark. “Gib laut!” He obeyed enthusiastically.
A window opened, a shotgun aimed in our direction. The other officers approached the cabin from the north. An officer edged toward the door.
The gunman fired at us. His aim was off. Were injuries affecting his focus?
An officer banged on the door, announcing who he was. The suspect turned from the window.
“God, please protect my dog.” I unhooked his lead. “Faas!”
He took off at my command.
A gunshot ran out. My heart stopped.
Logan.
But he kept going. With a long leap, he sailed through the window.
“Where’d the shot come from?” I asked.
“The outhouse!” Ramos shouted.
I tried to turn. I couldn’t.
Ramos fired at the gunman.
Then, my brain registered the searing pain in my leg.
I’ve been shot.
“I’ve got you.” Ramos wrapped his arms around me, easing me to the ground.
Officers stormed into the cabin. I could hear the suspect shriek. Having a hundred-and-twenty-pound dog with over two hundred pounds per square inch of jaw strength biting him would do that.
Good boy, Logan.
Ramos called into his radio, “Officer down!”
I hate those words. My heart seized every time I heard them.
Now, it was me. I was the officer down.
Ramos pulled the first-aid kit from his backpack, put on gloves, cut my pant leg, and pressed a large gauze pad to my wound. He worked fast.
“So Cooper, the chief’s gala?
“You’re asking me this now?”
“Keeping you engaged. You never answered me.”
No, I didn’t.
My eyelids felt heavy. My stomach and the trees were spinning.
“Hey!” He jiggled my shoulder. “Stay awake. Look at me!”
Where’s my dog?
“Logan! Hier!”
Logan came and lay beside me with a concerned whimper. He nudged me with his nose. Stroking his soft ears grounded me.
The pain was bad.
Rapid-fire chatter crackled on the radio.
“They’re sending a Medi-vac chopper,” Ramos reported.
“Logan—”
“Her K9 is with her,” Ramos said into the radio. “. . . Roger that.”
“They’ll have K9 ear protection on board. I’ll go with you and watch Logan while they fix you.” He peeked under the gauze. “The chief’s gala?”
I winced against the pain. “I’m bleeding out, and—”
“Bleeding out?” He smiled, applying more pressure to my leg. “It’s a minor flesh wound. You’ll be released from the hospital by tonight. Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“You’re going into surgery. Can’t give you anything . . . So, the gala? Go with me? Yes, or no?”
Logan licked my face.
Ramos chuckled. “See, Logan wants you to go.”
I could’ve died. Logan could’ve been killed. I’d been alone for too long.
“Yeah, I’ll go.”At least no one would expect me to dance.
Fulfilling a lifelong desire to become bilingual, she is currently studying to earn a certificate in American Sign Language. Officer Down is her fourth story with Spark Flash Fiction.
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