Operation Power Play Read Online Free PDF Page A

for being in a semirural area without much traffic. The dog stayed on his feet, apparently braced for the stop. The moment the car halted, the racket ceased.
    “What the hell, dog?”
    He turned to look into the backseat. Cutter was still on his feet, staring intently out the side window. The other side, facing the opposite direction. Away from home for the dog.
    It took him a moment to realize what lay in that direction. The Foxworth building.
    “There’s nobody there either,” he said. “Quinn gave everybody the time off while they’re gone.”
    Cutter never moved. Never even looked at him when he spoke. Just stared in that same direction.
    “Okay, okay, I get it. Hang on.”
    He looked around to be sure they were clear and made a right turn instead. Cutter immediately settled down once more, seemingly happy that his temporary custodian—or should that be servant?—had finally understood. Brett’s mouth quirked as he shook his head at himself. At least there was that big clearing behind the building, he thought. He could run Cutter as well there as at home. There seemed to be no shortage of tennis balls in his car these days.
    The dog stayed still until he made the last turn, onto the narrow road toward the secluded Foxworth location. Cutter got up then but remained quiet, eager, but satisfied Brett knew where they were going.
    He was sure if he stopped to think about the fact that he had just skipped lunch, gotten back in his car, driven twelve miles and then changed his destination, all at the direction of a dog, it would seem ridiculous. Trying to explain it to anyone who had never met Cutter would be impossible. He knew trying to explain it to, say, one of his fellow detectives would result in jokes about psychiatric committal.
    Yet here he was, about to turn down the curving gravel drive that led to the green three-story building hidden among tall trees that was Foxworth’s Northwest headquarters. And utterly certain this was what the dog had wanted. That he was doing what a dog wanted was something he was just going to have to come to terms with.
    Then again, doing what the dog wanted this morning had ended up with him on a first-name basis with Sloan Burke.
    There was no sign of anyone around. There was only one car, a slightly battered silver coupe he’d seen here before parked at the far end of the gravel lot. It was still wet from last night’s heavy mist, so it had been here at least overnight.
    He parked in front of the building. Cutter was practically dancing in the backseat, so he opened the door quickly. The dog leaped out and started at a dead run, not toward the main building but toward the warehouse, where the silver car was parked. Halfway there he let out an oddly rhythmic sound, a short yip, a full-on bark, then another yip.
    Seconds later the smaller door on the warehouse opened, and Rafer Crawford looked out. Brett saw him spot the dog, then him. Then he reached back into the warehouse as if he was putting something down. Knowing what he knew of the man, had it been a weapon, he wouldn’t be surprised. He must have heard the car on the gravel long before Cutter’s distinctive greeting.
    Cutter raced toward Rafe, tail up, bounding with obvious joy. Even the taciturn former Marine couldn’t help smiling at the dog’s demeanor. Brett remembered that moment at the wedding when Hayley, more radiant than any bride he’d ever seen, had found the two of them together.
    “You two smiling, and at the same time? My work here is done,” she’d said with undisguised delight.
    “We were just talking about how beautiful you are,” Rafe had said, deflecting her into a blush neatly.
    In fact, they actually had been talking earlier about how wonderful she looked, but at that moment they had been speaking of Foxworth itself. Rafe’s smile had been quiet, proud of what they were doing, while Brett’s had been amazed acknowledgment. Doing what he did, seeing what he saw every day, he sometimes