Free Lethal Rage by Brent Pilkey

deck, perplexed. “Now where’d that little bugger get to? Bear?” He cocked his head and aimed a shout at the yard. “Bear! C’mere, Bear!”
    There were shuffling and clicking noises at the back of the deck and a grey-haired and arthritic little dog hobbled into view, then shuffled over to Phil, his nails clicking on the wood of the deck. His legs may have been well past their prime, but his stubby tail beat enthusiastically as Phil reached down to scratch him tenderly behind the ears.
    â€œThis here’s Bear, my best friend. He’s been with me nigh on fourteen years.” A tear glistened in Phil’s eye as he introduced his cherished companion.
    â€œNice to meet you, Bear.” Sy reached out, but the dog shied away.
    â€œHe’s a little timid ’round new folks,” Phil explained.
    â€œMe, too,” Sy said. “Let’s finish up this statement.”
    While Sy wrote, Jack squatted and softly coaxed Bear out from under Phil’s chair. The little guy — he had to be no more than fifteen pounds — hesitantly approached Jack’s hand and gave it a tentative sniff, then nuzzled Jack’s hand, asking for an ear scratch. Jack obliged gently.
    Phil looked shocked. “You must be special. Bear don’t normally take t’people like that.”
    â€œI’ve always had a way with dogs,” Jack answered, smiling down at Bear. “Why is he trembling, though? Is there something wrong with him?”
    â€œOh, no. That little shitter took a kick at him. That’s why he’s shakin’ like that.”
    Sy’s pen and Jack’s fingers stopped simultaneously.
    Jack slowly looked at Phil and very carefully, very clearly, asked, “Kicked
at
him or
kicked
him?”
    â€œKicked him,” Phil clarified. “When that shitter hit me, Bear went for his leg, but his teeth ain’t what they used t’be. That’s when that shitter kicked him.”
    Without looking at each other, Jack and Sy stood up. Sy tucked away his memo book and Jack pulled on his leather gloves, then flexed his fingers eagerly against the Kevlar lining. They headed for the hall. Over his shoulder, Sy said, “Wait here, Phil. We’ll be back in a minute.”
    They flanked Carlsberg’s door and Jack put his ear close to the wood. Faint sounds came through the door, footsteps and muffled words, but Jack heard only a single voice. He held up one finger and Sy nodded, then gestured for Jack to check the doorknob. It was locked.
    Jack unholstered his collapsed baton and slammed the butt against the wood several times in rapid succession. “Police! Open the door!” There was sudden silence from the apartment and Jack raised his stick to knock again.
    â€œWhat do you want?” a voice asked from the other side of the door.
    Sneaky little bastard.
“Police. Open the door. Now.”
    â€œOpen the door, Carlsberg, or we’ll fucking kick it in.” Sy looked pissed enough to chew through the door.
    Locks clacked and the door cracked open, stopped by a security chain. Through the hand-width gap, a suspicious face peered out at them. “What do you want?”
    â€œYou,” Jack snarled and slammed his shoulder into the door. It flew open, striking Carlsberg in the face, and Jack kept going into the apartment with Sy right behind him. Carlsberg backpedalled, his hands clasped to his face. Sy and Jack each grabbed a wrist and wrenched Carlsberg’s arms down, then flung him to the floor.
    â€œWhat did I do? What did I do?” Carlsberg bleated as Jack snapped on the handcuffs.
    â€œPunched the old man and kicked his dog. Now shut the fuck up.” Jack hauled Carlsberg roughly to his feet and, while Sy held him, searched him quickly. He was a beefy enough guy to be intimidating, but there wasn’t much more than flab under his dirty T-shirt and jeans.
    â€œThat dog attacked me! It’s vicious!”