The dog sat rigidly.
Protect.
That was the message in every line of his body.
The woman noticed.
"Your dog is very alert."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Does he always behave like that?"
Garrett looked at Sarge.
"No."
The woman's eyes met his.
For the first time, something changed in her expression.
Fear.
Not ordinary fear.
Recognition.
She looked at the dog again.
Then she whispered something Garrett almost didn't hear.
"Then he knows."
Garrett lowered his coffee.
"Knows what?"
The woman didn't answer.
Instead, she looked toward the entrance.
And this time, Garrett followed her gaze.
A black SUV had just pulled into the parking lot.
The woman went pale.
Sarge stood.
The Name She Wouldn't Give
The SUV stopped directly outside the diner's front windows.
It didn't park immediately.
It idled.
Garrett watched the driver.
Male.
Late forties, maybe fifty.
Dark baseball cap.
Sunglasses.
The man remained behind the wheel for several seconds.
Then the SUV moved to a parking space on the far side of the lot.
The woman across from Garrett had stopped breathing normally.
Garrett noticed.
He'd spent enough years around frightened soldiers to recognize what fear did to the body.
Shallow breathing.
Tight shoulders.
Hands searching for something that wasn't there.
The woman's right hand disappeared beneath her cardigan.
Sarge growled.
It was quiet.
Barely audible.
But Garrett heard it.
So did the woman.
"Your dog doesn't like him."
Garrett looked at the SUV.
"I don't think he likes what you're feeling."
She swallowed.
"What's your name?"
"Garrett."
"Garrett what?"
"Holloway."
She hesitated.
"Margaret."
Garrett waited.
She didn't give a last name.
He didn't press.
The diner door opened.
The man from the SUV stepped inside.
Sarge's entire body stiffened.
Garrett lifted one hand.
"Stay."
Sarge obeyed.
The man looked around.
His eyes found Margaret.
Then Garrett.
Then Sarge.
He smiled.
It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Margaret."
She didn't answer.
The man walked closer.
"I've been looking for you."
Garrett leaned back.
"She's having breakfast."
The man's eyes shifted toward him.
"This doesn't concern you."
Garrett's voice stayed calm.
"Then you won't mind leaving her alone."
The man smiled again.
"Old man, you don't know what you're getting involved in."
Garrett felt something cold settle behind his ribs.
He had heard that tone before.
Not in Arizona.
Not in diners.
In places where men believed intimidation was enough.
The man reached into his jacket.
Sarge stood.
Garrett's hand dropped toward the dog's collar.
"Easy."
The man's hand emerged holding a phone.
He placed it on the table.
"Your daughter called me."
Margaret froze.
Garrett looked at her.
She closed her eyes.
"She's not my daughter."
The man's smile disappeared.
"You're making this harder than it needs to be."
He picked up the phone.
"Mr. Holloway, I suggest you finish your coffee."
Then he walked out.
The door closed.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Dorothy stood behind the counter pretending not to listen.
Margaret stared at the table.
Garrett looked at her.
"Who was that?"
"No one."
"Ma'am."
"Please."
Garrett stopped.
There was something in her voice.
Not anger.
Desperation.
She looked at Sarge.
"He saw your dog."
Garrett frowned.
"Yes."
"He'll remember him."
"Why?"
Margaret's fingers tightened around the armrests.
"Because he remembers everything."
Garrett leaned back.
"What exactly are you running from?"
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she said something Garrett would remember for the rest of his life.
"I stole something from men who kill people for money."
The diner suddenly felt very quiet.
Garrett looked at Sarge.
The dog was staring at the door.
Margaret continued.
"I didn't steal money."
"Then what?"
"Evidence."
She reached beneath her cardigan.
Garrett saw a small envelope.
She placed it on the table.
"I need to get this to someone."
"Who?"
"Someone I don't trust."
Garrett almost laughed.
"You need to get evidence to someone you don't trust?"
Margaret looked directly into his eyes.
"I don't have anyone left."
That sentence hit harder than it should have.
Garrett knew what it meant to have people disappear.
He knew what it meant to have an empty house.
He knew what it meant to sit across from a chair that would never again be occupied.
He looked at Sarge.
The dog was still watching Margaret.
Then Garrett looked back at the woman.
"What happened?"
Margaret's eyes filled with tears.
But she didn't let them fall.
"Three months ago, my husband died."
Garrett said nothing.
"He was a financial investigator."
Margaret placed both hands on the envelope.
"His death was called an accident."
Garrett's expression hardened.
"But you don't believe that."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because two days before he died, he told me that if anything happened to him, I should trust the dog."
Garrett stared at her.
"What dog?"
Margaret shook her head.
"I don't know."
Sarge suddenly turned his head toward the window.
His ears rose.
Outside, the black SUV was gone.
But another vehicle had stopped across the street.
A silver sedan.
Garrett watched it for five seconds.
Then ten.
Margaret whispered:
"They found me."
Garrett stood.
"Then we're leaving."
She looked at him.
"Why?"
Garrett put his helmet on the table.
"Because I don't like people hunting old women before breakfast."
Garrett Holloway
Twenty-three years earlier, Garrett Holloway had learned that fear had a smell.
It smelled like wet earth.
Diesel.
Burned fabric.
Blood.
And sometimes, strangely enough, coffee.
He had been forty-four then.
A military working-dog handler.
Sarge did not exist yet.
Another German Shepherd had.
His name was Boone.
Boone had been the best dog Garrett had ever known.
Fast.
Disciplined.
Fearless.
He had saved Garrett's life twice.
The second time, Boone had not come home.
Garrett had never forgiven himself.
When he finally left the military, he promised himself he would never work with another dog.
Then, years later, Sarge arrived.
Eight weeks old.
Too large paws.
Too much energy.
And an irritating habit of staring directly into Garrett's eyes whenever Garrett tried to ignore him.
The trainer told him, "This one is different."