ONE

      Ignoring the tilt and rumble of the HH-60G Pave Hawk helicopter about to hoist her down below and the dark thunderstorm approaching from the west, Senior Airman Ava Esposito adjusted the sturdy harness sleeves around the black nylon sling holding the sixty-five-pound yellow Lab that was about to rappel with her. Roscoe’s trusting eyes followed her while he hovered close to her chest, always eager to work.

      “That’s right. It’s showtime. We’ve got to find that little boy.”

      Roscoe wouldn’t understand, but they were armed and ready for anything or anyone they might confront in the dense woods that belonged to Canyon Air Force Base in the Hill Country of Texas. This reserve, mostly used for training, covered hundreds of acres and could hide a person for weeks if not months. Right now, she had to find a lost little boy and watch her back for a serial killer who’d escaped from prison in the spring and was reported to be back in these woods. Boyd Sullivan, known as the Red Rose Killer because he always left one red rose to warn his victims and one after he’d killed them, was a dangerous, deranged man. He’d killed five people over two years ago in his hometown of Dill, Texas. He’d been put in prison for those killings, but he’d escaped and made his way to Canyon Air Force Base to kill again. Two of those he’d murdered had been friends and coworkers of Ava’s. But he hadn’t left it at that. He’d also let out two hundred or so dogs from the Military Working Dog K-9 kennels located on the base. Let them out to run wild. Some that had suffered PTSD were still roaming around these woods. Now seven-year-old Turner Johnson, the son of Colonel Gregory and Mrs. Marilyn Johnson, had gone missing from his backyard this morning. The boy was up against wild animals, dogs with PTSD and a serial killer who wouldn’t think twice about nabbing the kid for leverage.

      Her focus humming on high alert, Ava checked her weapons and equipment one more time. Then she patted the alert K-9 on his furry head. “Ready?”

      Roscoe woofed his reply.

      Nodding, she scooted to the open side of the chopper and let her booted feet dangle out, Roscoe’s warm breath hitting the inch or so of skin she had showing outside of her heavy camo uniform, protective combat vest, knapsack and M16 rifle.

      Above her, a crew member adjusted the carabiner holding the pulleys that would hoist both Ava and Roscoe so they could rappel down, each with their own pulley to hold them securely together.

      Halfway down, she listened to the chopper’s crew reporting back and forth while she hovered and checked below. Nothing but heavy woods, scattered rocks and hills, and a hint of clay here and there. But somewhere out there was a lost, scared little seven-year-old boy.

      “Hold on, Roscoe.”

      Something whizzed past her like a