Growlithes in the Real World: Part II

"Striker!! Fire attack! Under the door! Under the door!!"

The Growlithe stood steadfastly in front of the door as the Columbian assassins pounded on it mercilessly with their fists. Striker took a deep breath and exhaled a wide stream of fire under the door. Numerous curses and yells were heard beyond it as the flames licked at their feet. Harrison had already opened the glass doors to the balcony and stepped out onto the terrace. Looking down showed a twenty-foot drop to relative safety, provided he didn't snap something in his ankle or leg. Stuffing his sidearm into his pants, he stepped up to the gated railing, calling back to his partner.

"Striker! Let's go! C'mon, move it!!"

With that, the officer leapt. He glanced back to see his partner turn and dart for the balcony. The Growlithe ran for his life as the door to his apartment turned to Swiss cheese at the hands of a shotgun. Harrison lost sight of his partner as he hit the ground. He managed to land on his feet, but the pain made him feel three inches shorter. He looked up and saw his airborne partner. Without even thinking about it, he darted under him and caught the big puppy. Of course, he got slammed into the ground for his efforts. They quickly shook off the impact, stood up and ran like bats out of hell. The assassins had already reached the balcony and were firing indiscriminately, but the gods were with the good guys and they evaded the hailstorm of bullets.

They kept running until they reached a forested area and ducked among the trees. Harrison looked behind him and saw a dark SUV with bright headlights screech to a stop at the edge of the forest. He could hear the assassins jumping out of the vehicle and yell in Spanish at each other. A translation wasn't necessary as he hissed at Striker to scatter in the other direction. Harrison dashed to the right and hid behind a wide tree as Striker took off to the left. He pulled out his gun from his pants and dropped the clip. Seven bullets. He kicked himself for not making sure the clip was full when he got home. With all the other assassinations that had happened, he obviously hadn't been thinking. Now it could cost him his life.

He crouched and popped the clip back into the gun and was ready for action. He peeked around the tree and saw three of them, about twenty yards away; their shadows long and far ahead of them from the lights of the truck, armed with machine guns and pistols. Something tickled the back of his mind that didn't seem right about them, but he couldn't worry about that now. His eyes narrowed as he drew a bead on one of them and squeezed the trigger. His aim was true and his target caught the bullet with his torso, which caused him to land flat on his back and expire. The other two turned and blindly fired in Harrison's direction. He darted back behind the tree. Bullets coated the tree he was behind and many others whistled past, hitting other trees. He knew his partner was pretty smart and they had trained for this sort of situation. The training now paid off as he heard a loud bark and a scream of terror. The shooting stopped and he took that moment of quiet to silence the other gunman. Two shots rang out and the third guy dropped. The one that Striker took down seemed to have fainted, but he was still growling fiercely at him. Apparently, he didn't like his partner being shot at. The Growlithe paused and sniffed the air. Harrison was about to stand when the hairs on the back of his head bristled hard. His eyes widened as he whirled around quickly, only to find a gun barrel pointed at his cheek. Harrison could only cuss to himself as only his eyes could turn to look at the wiry Columbian, vaguely recognizing him from some mug shots he reviewed last week. He wished desperately that he had listened to that tickling feeling he had earlier.

"Gusto de verte, cabrón. Don Vicente estará muy contento con mígo después de que tire un velazo en tu cabeza."
<"Nice to see you, jerkoff. Don Vicente will be pleased with me after I put a bullet into your head.">

Harrison heard his heart thumping in his ears and began to sweat profusely. He needed way out, think, think! Dear God! He just cocked the trigger! Help, someone, anyone, I don't want to die! Please some-

Suddenly there was a loud bark and Striker pummeled the gunman. The man pulled the trigger and hit the tree instead, missing the back of his head by mere inches. Harrison drew a sharp breath and pointed his 9mm at the man on the ground. The gunman had somehow managed to force the pokémon off him and was sitting up. Harrison squeezed the trigger and emptied the clip into him. He barely saw parts of his face being ripped away as he died screaming. Harrison slumped against the protective tree and worked to get control of his mind. Having "near-kill" experiences were never fun for him. He could feel the anxiety of having almost lost his life bearing down on his soul as Striker walked over to him and whimpered a bit. Harrison hugged him strongly and thanked his partner profusely, who barked in return. After a few minutes of bonding, Harrison stood up and took the assassins' SUV into town. His apartment wasn't safe anymore.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Los Angeles Police Department. How may I help you?" a woman spoke.

"Hi. Officer John Harrison. ID#453957. I need to speak with Captain Mark Patakas please."

"John Harri--? Wait...your apartment got shot up, right?"

"Yeah, it did," sounding a little puzzled. "How'd you know that?"

"The 911 dispatchers let us know. The fire department had to put out some blaze that was started there. Are you okay? The other cops are getting scared.... I am too."

"Yeah, yeah...Striker and I are fine. And don't be scared, sweetheart. We're gonna nail the bastards. Cop killers are never appreciated by anyone, especially us."

His voice was filled with determination and confidence. Putting on a façade wasn't that hard to do. She sounded a little relieved to hear that and then she transferred him to the captain. While he waited, he held out his hand to see it visibly shaking. He knew it was the adrenaline wearing off, but he wondered briefly if the fear of losing his life was mixed into it.

"John! Jesus, are you and Striker okay?"

"Yeah, we're okay Cap. We're surviving. Anything new from Villalobos?"

"No, nothing. He seems to just want to kill us off one by one."

"Dammit," he hissed. "Two weeks ago this started and he's nailed three of us. I almost became number four tonight!"

"I know, I know, John. Just relax and hang in there. Are you able to come to the station?"

"I've got their truck, so I could get there in about twenty minutes. I'm definitely feeling a little naked out here with an empty gun."

"Good. Get here as quick as you can, John. Don't screw around. Got it?"

"Yessir," he replied then hung up the payphone, sighing with relief. He looked down at his partner who was sitting on his haunches, stiff as a sentry and just as vigilant.

"C'mon Striker. I'm starved."

He barked loudly in response and followed him into a McDonald's a couple storefronts from the payphone. Harrison hid the gun inside his shirt, so he wouldn't cause a scene. Thankfully, he saw no one in line as he entered, so he and Striker went right up to the counter to order.

"Uh, hi. I'd like a Big Mac combo and four plain cheeseburgers with cheese and lettuce only to go."

"Uh, okay," the kid replied. "But I can't serve you because you have your dog inside and you're not blind or disabled."

Harrison stared at him for a long moment, then reached into his back pocket and showed him his badge.

"Official police business. Now gimme my goddamn food. I'm not in the mood to screw around."

"Sir," he started nervously, "I can't do it. It's a health risk."

At that moment, Striker stood up on his hind legs, placing his forepaws on the counter. He stood just a few inches shorter than Harrison. The Growlithe stared at Ronald McDonald's Chosen One and suddenly, his nostrils flared and two tiny jets of fire ejected from his nose. The kid jumped then quickly worked to get their order together. Striker then went back to the floor and waited. Harrison could only smirk as he put the money on the counter, when suddenly, Striker growled. He looked down at his partner, then whirled around to face a casually dressed man who approached him. Again, the hair on the back of his neck bristled as a very stocky looking Hispanic stood before him and smiled. He had a rather toothy grin, just the sort of smile that makes you want to deck him. His English was clear as he spoke.

"Officer John Harrison?"

"Yes," he answered tentatively, but tensed for action.

"Good."

With that, he threw a fast punch to Harrison's gut, but quickly withdrew it, shaking his hand from having struck the gun under his shirt. Harrison responded by grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back. He quickly moved and slammed the assailant's head into the stainless steel counter. The man then managed to free himself from Harrison's grip, swung around quickly and cracked him in the jaw. Blood spilled through his teeth after taking the blow. The lawman then took the initiative and threw a right hook, only to be blocked. He counterstriked, only to meet with air. The two men continued to exchange blows, taking hits to the face and kicks to the knees. The stocky man threw another punch, but Harrison caught it and twisted it behind his back again, furiously working to subdue him. It almost worked except for the backwards head-butt that broke his nose. Harrison writhed away from him in pain, blood gushing from his nose. The man kidney-punched him and Harrison was knocked to the floor, bleeding even worse and feeling dizzy. Striker managed to get into the melee now and pounced on the crook, taking him down. Harrison watched them struggle, but the hefty man pushed the pokémon off, throwing him over the counter. Striker gave a yelp and landed on the floor, near where the boy was filling out their order. The man laughed and Striker jumped up to the counter. Harrison quickly plugged his ears.

"Striker! Roar attack!!"

Striker drew in a breath and roared loud and strong. The attacker shook visibly and scrambled to get away, but tripped against one of the trash bins and fell unconscious when he hit the floor. The rest of the patrons and employees fled for their lives, leaving the place completely empty. He looked at his partner. The blood covering his lips and chin and the dogged look in his face told mountains about how the man's life was going.

"Have I told you lately that you're my hero?"

Striker barked his approval, then jumped down to lick the blood off his face. Harrison stopped him because it hurt, but he smiled. Glancing at the body on the floor near the trash made him smile a bit more. He scratched his partner's head.

"C'mon. We've got a guest coming to dinner."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A few hours later, Harrison was lying on a bunk bed in one of the holding rooms for runaway kids. It happened to be the same one that Anne Delane had used a few months ago. He had an ice bag on his nose and Striker was resting on the floor. Striker's ears perked up, then his head did, looking to the door. He whimpered quietly a couple times and Harrison bolted up, ready for action. All Patakas saw when he entered was Harrison bonking his head on the upper bank and cussing loudly. He smirked to himself as he closed the door behind him.

"Take it easy, cowboy."

"I forgot where I was," Harrison stated it flatly, despite the sheepish smirk on his face. He was glad the ice bag covered most of his face to hide his embarrassment. Patakas sat down on the cot, scratching Striker's head as he did so.

"And some of us would like to forget, I'm sure. But right now, I'm not here to humor you. We managed to get a little information on the guy broke your nose."

Harrison propped himself up to listen to what his captain had to say. His nose was visibly swollen and as red as a cherry. It would only be a matter of time before the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer jokes would start.

"Mr. Arturo Hildago," started Patakas, "is hired muscle for the Villalobos clan. In fact, he proudly stated that he was working for Vicente directly and was ordered to find you, in the event the other guys failed to kill you."

"Well, they get failing marks for interior design too...bastards." He groaned a bit, then laid back down on the cot, putting the ice bag back on his nose.

"Is Hildago a boxer? He was a strong SOB."

"Yep. He was an ex-prize fighter who was suspended indefinitely from the South American boxing circuit for brutality. It even gets better, John," Patakas continued, "he talked about Vicente himself coming to Los Angeles to oversee how things are going with his operations and his revenge war on us. We've even got an address and date of arrival."

Harrison peeked out from under the ice bag and looked at him. Patakas had been on the force at least twenty years and was recently transferred from the Rampart Division, which was now undergoing some very nasty publicity and Internal Affairs overhaul. He knew from his limited exposure that getting information from organized crime families was next to impossible. Thus, he was sure he didn't want to know how he got that information, despite believing very strongly that his captain was a quality policeman. Then he remembered the obese man forcing himself on the twelve-year-old girl and gritted his teeth. Which was the lesser evil here? The unlawful means of getting the bad guy or the bad guy himself? Perhaps they have become what they dreaded most.

"When's he going to arrive, Cap?"

"Tomorrow evening. The address is in the Elysian Park area, near Dodger Stadium."

"Alright...Striker and I'll be there with bells on."

"Good. And with your nose so bright, you can be the lead reindeer."

The captain stood up at that moment, chuckling to himself as Harrison groaned at the joke. Striker simply wagged his tail as the captain left the room. After a while, they both went to sleep. Tomorrow night was going to a long and tough night. They were going to need all the rest they could get, so that justice might prevail.

TO BE CONTINUED...Part III