The doors of the pickup flew open and three men emerged—Christopher Vogel, Lewis Blakemore, and a third who appeared to be in his early twenties. I’d been right about Vogel’s and Blakemore’s identities. Woo-hoo! All three looked frantically around, noted the two male officers charging them from the south, and turned to head my way.

Uh-oh.

Brigit and I could handle one or two of them, but all three? This would be a challenge.

With Brigit prancing excitedly by my side, I brandished my baton. “Stop!” I hollered.

They didn’t stop, though. Not that I really expected them to. Bad guys aren’t the best listeners.

As I prepared for the onslaught, I realized Brigit and I didn’t actually have to stop all three of them. All we had to do was slow them down enough so that the other cops could help catch them.

Vogel reached me first. A solid whack on his left shin with my baton and the guy screamed in agony, grabbed his lower leg, and hopped on one foot three times before falling sideways onto the asphalt.

One down. Two to go.

Blakemore attempted to circle around me and Brigit, but I stretched out my arm, delivered a solid whomp to his loins, and his evasive maneuvers were for naught. Down he went, clutching his groin and groaning.

Two down. One to go.

The third, as-yet-unidentified guy spotted his cohorts writhing on the road, raised his hands in the air, and clomp-clomp-clomped to a stop a few feet away. “Don’t hit me!” he cried. “I give up!”

Smart choice.

Using my left hand, I whipped my cuffs from my belt and approached him. “Keep your hands in the air and turn around!”

He did as told, turning to face the bridge railing. He stood still for a moment, but just as I was on him he bolted toward the railing.

“Are you crazy?” I shrieked at his back.

The guy grabbed the railing and, before I knew what was happening, flung himself over it.

Holy crap!

I reached the rail to see him falling and flailing, leaving a cloud of green bills fluttering in the air behind him, before performing the world’s most-perfect, most-painful belly flop into the Trinity River dozens of feet below.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Making a Splash of Himself

Brigit

Brigit watched as the young man hurled himself over the railing and disappeared from sight. What a squirrel brain. Thankfully her partner hadn’t given her the signal to pursue the suspect. No way would Brigit jump off a bridge.

Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of the man hitting the surface of the river.

SMACK! Splashhh!

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Assorted Nuts

The Conductor

Ooooh. That’s gotta hurt.

His balls certainly hurt, but the pain told him he was alive. That was more than he could say for his dim-witted partner in crime. The sound of Smokestack belly-flopping into the Trinity River was so loud it could probably be heard as far away as Oklahoma, maybe even Kansas. If Smokestack had somehow survived the leap from the bridge, he’d likely suffered some major internal injuries, maybe a ruptured spleen. It would serve the guy right. He really was too dumb to live.

How the hell had he and Chris let the moron cajole them into this stupid crime spree? Lewis knew how. Smokestack had caught them both in a moment of weakness, when their egos were as bruised as his balls were now and both were in need of redemption.

Oh, Lord, what will my wife say when she finds out what I’ve done? What will we tell the children and grandchildren?

That I lost my marbles, that’s what. It’s the truth, after all.

Lewis only hoped he could pull off a temporarily insanity defense, maybe cop a plea that would get him out of prison before the next family reunion five years from now.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

What a Splash-hole

Megan

The guy disappeared into the greenish-brown water and, for several seconds, I wondered if the impact had killed him or shattered his ribs. Brigit padded up next to me, stuck her head through the bridge beams, and looked down as if she, too, were wondering what had become of bank robber number three. Hundred-dollar bills, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, and ones floated down, landing on the surface of the water like valuable chum. A small turtle sunning on a log dropped into the water, swam over, and nibbled on a single.

A moment later bubbles boiled on the surface of the river and the guy bobbed up, emitting a cry of pain that echoed off the concrete bridge. “AAAAAHHH!”

AAAHH!

Aah!

Ah!

He turned onto his back and looked up, his eyes meeting mine.

“Swim to shore!” I hollered down to him.

“Fuck you!” he hollered back, grimacing with the effort.

Now that’s just rude.

Signaling Brigit to follow me, I raced across the bridge, turned, and headed down the brushy embankment to the river’s edge. Next to me, Brigit danced a doggy jig, ready for action.

“Go get ’im, girl.” I ordered her to round up the suspect.

She hurled herself into the water. Splash!

Bank robber number three issued another expletive as he noted Brigit furiously dog-paddling toward him, leaving a wake in the murky water.

I pulled my gun now and aimed it at the guy. “If you hurt my dog,” I hollered at the young man, “you die!”

I meant it, too. Brigit and I had gone through a series of ups and downs, and she could be a stubborn and demanding partner. But through it all, we’d had each other’s backs. We’d grown close and—dammit!—I loved that dog.

Number three frantically swam downriver, doing his best to outswim Brigit. Not gonna happen. My partner gained on him, was nearly to him now.

Evidently figuring out his only chance of besting my K-9 was an evasive maneuver, the guy took a deep breath and dove down, his black Converse fluttering on the surface before he disappeared under the water. Brigit turned her head, looking about and swimming in a circle, trying to figure out where he’d gone.

A few seconds later, a fresh round of bubbles broke the surface fifteen feet downriver and his head popped up again, his mouth gaping as he gasped for air.

“There he is!” I shouted, pointing.

Brigit must have heard his sputtering, because she turned his way and pursued him again.

He tried a second time to confuse her, this time swimming under her and popping to the surface behind her. Again she locked on, turning and paddling toward him. Again he dove beneath the surface.

Twenty seconds later, his head popped up near one of the bridge supports as he attempted to swim upstream now.

As Brigit approached, he dove one last time. This time she seemed to clue in, following the path of bubbles. When his head popped to the surface, she was ready. She opened her mouth, grabbed the back of his collar in her teeth, and began dragging him to shore.

“Let go of me!” He flailed his arms, sending up a splash, but with Brigit positioned behind him he couldn’t land a hit. Lucky for him. If he’d hit my dog, I would’ve returned the favor blow-for-blow with my baton once she’d dragged his sorry ass ashore.

A minute later they were in shallow water near the bank. Still struggling, the guy turned facedown and tried to get to his feet in the boggy muck. I was tempted to use my Taser at this point, but I wasn’t sure whether the water would conduct the current and electrocute my partner and whatever fish might be nearby. No sense taking a chance.

Holding both my gun and baton at the ready, I ordered Brigit to release him and return to my side. “Hands up!” I yelled.