The mud tasted like blood and fear.
I spit it out, scrambling through the darkness. Behind me, boots pounded the wet earth.
“He can’t be far!” Vince’s voice cut through the rain. “Find that kid or we all go to prison!”
I was ten years old. Three days ago, I was waiting for my dad outside school. Now I was running for my life through the Cascade wilderness.
My ankle screamed as I dove into a hollow beneath an oak tree. I pressed myself into the darkness, shaking.
Flashlight beams swept overhead.
“Where’d he go?” Mack’s voice was close. Too close.
“Rain washed the tracks. Kid probably fell in the ravine.”
“Check it anyway!”
The boots moved away. I exhaled.
Then I heard it. A low growl behind me in the darkness.
I turned slowly. Two yellow eyes stared back.
My heart stopped. I’d escaped killers only to crawl into a predator’s den.
Hot breath hit my face. Then a wet nose pushed against my hand.
Not a wolf. A German Shepherd. Massive, wearing a tactical vest that read: SHERIFF K9 – BAXTER.
The dog whined softly and positioned himself between me and the opening. He wasn’t trapping me.
He was guarding me.
I buried my face in his wet fur and finally let myself cry.
“We have to move,” I whispered an hour later.
Baxter stood, limping. His vest was torn, blood matting his fur. Where was his handler?
I grabbed his vest handle. Together we climbed toward the ridge, me dragging my twisted ankle, him matching my pace.
“Stop!” Baxter froze, hackles raised.
Voices drifted through the trees.
“The kid’s soft. Rich boy from the suburbs. He’s crying somewhere close.”
“When I find him, I’m making sure he stops crying.” The click of a gun.
Skeet. The crazy one.
I held my breath as their flashlights swept past our hiding spot.
When they moved on, I pulled out the phone I’d stolen during my escape. Skeet’s phone.
12% battery. No signal.
“The ridge,” I told Baxter. “We need higher ground.”
We climbed. Every step was agony. Halfway up, I saw it—an old fire lookout tower silhouetted against the moon.
“There! If we get up there—”
An engine roared behind us. Headlights cut through the darkness.
“They have ATVs!” I screamed. “Run!”
BANG! A gunshot exploded bark near my head.
“Go!” I pushed Baxter away. “Leave me!”
Instead, he turned and charged.
The dog launched himself at the oncoming ATV, slamming into Skeet’s chest. The machine flipped, crashing down the embankment.
“You killed my bike!” Skeet shrieked from the mud. “Shoot that dog!”
“Baxter, come!” I yelled.
We bolted up the remaining slope. The tower stairs were rotting, but we had no choice.
At the top, I checked the phone.
One bar.
I dialed 911.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Leo Sterling! I’m at the old fire tower! They have guns!”
“Leo, we have an Amber Alert for you. Stay on the line. Deputies are coming.”
Below, boots thundered on the stairs.
“End of the line, kid!” Vince shouted. “Come down or we burn you out!”
“Don’t listen!” the operator said. “What’s happening?”
“They have gasoline!”
I smelled it before I saw it. Mack was splashing fuel on the stairs.
“No! You’ll kill us all!”
“Last chance, Leo!” Vince yelled.
Then Skeet lit a match.
WHOOSH!
Flames erupted, racing up the gas-soaked wood. Heat slammed into us.
“The fire!” I screamed into the phone. “They set the stairs on fire!”
“Get low! Cover your mouth! Do NOT jump!”
Smoke rolled over us, black and choking. Baxter pushed me into the corner where wind blew it away.
Even burning, he shielded me.
Sirens wailed in the valley below. Red and blue lights painted the trees.
“They’re here!” I yelled.
Then a helicopter spotlight blinded us.
“THIS IS KING COUNTY SHERIFF! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”
But Vince wasn’t done. He climbed the outside of the tower, pulling himself onto our platform. His eyes were wild, a knife in his hand.
“Not leaving empty-handed!”
He lunged.
Baxter hit him like a missile, jaws aimed for his throat.
CRACK!
The burning railing gave way. Vince fell screaming into the void.
But his knife flashed. I heard a wet thud and Baxter’s yelp.
The dog slid over the edge.
“NO!”
I threw myself forward, catching his vest handle. My arm nearly ripped from its socket.
Baxter dangled in space, bleeding from a knife wound, eyes unfocused.
“Climb!” I screamed. “Please!”
He was too heavy. My fingers slipped.
“Help!” I cried at the helicopter above.
The tower groaned, listing sideways. The cabin behind us collapsed in flames.
Baxter focused on my face. He dug his claws into the beam and scrambled.
Together we fought. I pulled until tendons popped. He clawed until wood splintered.
Finally, I dragged him over the edge.
A rescuer descended from the chopper.
“The dog first!” I screamed.
“I can only take you!”
“NO! He saved me! He’s a cop! You HAVE to save him!”
The rescuer saw my face. Saw I’d rather burn than leave Baxter behind.
“Crazy kid.” He clipped us both to his harness. “Hold on!”
We lifted off as the tower collapsed in flames.
Two days later, I woke in a hospital bed. Dad asleep in the chair beside me. The news showed Vince dead, the others in custody.
A knock.
Sheriff Reynolds entered, holding his hat.
My stomach dropped. “Where is he?”
If Baxter was dead, the world was broken.
Reynolds smiled. “We have a no-dogs policy in hospitals.”
He opened the door wider. “But we make exceptions for officers.”
A wheelchair rolled in.
Baxter—bandaged, shaved, woozy—barked when he saw me.
“Baxter!”
I wrapped my arms around him, sobbing into his fur.
“He made it through surgery,” Reynolds said. “But he’s medically retired now. Miller didn’t have family. We need to find him a home.”
Dad stood. Put his hand on Baxter’s head.
“Sheriff, who handles adoption papers?”
I squeezed Baxter tighter. He rested his head on my lap, finally safe.
“You hear that, buddy?” I whispered. “You’re not a cop anymore.”
Baxter sighed contentedly.
“You’re my dog.”
