Pit Bulls vs Aliens Read Online Free

eyes and a seriously upset expression. He was physically intimidating even without the expression, a tall, lean, African American police officer with twenty-three years on the force. He sported three gunshot scars: two from the military and one from the line of duty. “Well, well,” he said mockingly. “If it ain’t Sherlock Holmes. No, wait—James Bond. What in the hell were you thinking?”
    Glenda could only shrug her shoulders.
    “You’re lucky we don’t throw you under the jail.” It wasn’t an original line, but effective. He looked at the sergeant. “Should we throw the book at her, Sarge?”
    “Yes, sir. I think we should. But she’d probably just throw it back.”
    The chief didn’t even crack a smile, just continued to stare at her.
    “Can I say something?” Glenda asked.
    “No!” they both shouted.
    The chief finally got up and walked to the door. As he opened it, he turned to leave a few parting words. “If I ever read an e-mail like that from you again, I’ll . . . I’ll . . . Well, I better not ever receive an e-mail like that from you again. Am I clear?”
    Glenda nodded. “Yes, sir.”
    One last glance up at the sergeant and the chief walked out.
    Sergeant Olazaba shook his head and sat in the chair across from her, the same chair the chief had just vacated. “Look, I know you love these dogs. So do I. I admire all the good you do for them up at your rescue. I just don’t want to see anything happen to you. What would all your dogs do without you?”
    Glenda hadn’t even looked at it from that point of view. Her shelter, the Pit Stop, stayed maxed out at almost one thousand pit bulls. She knew each one personally and loved each one uniquely. “You’re right,” she said. “It was foolish. Next time I’ll give you the information.”
    The sergeant looked at her with disbelief, then laughed. “We better leave it on that note. I don’t think you’ve ever agreed with me before. Now go on, get the heck out of here and go home.”

Chapter Three
    “Shark!”
    Erique Sarpong and his fourteen-year-old son, Emmanuel, stared across the small wooden table for a full second before dropping their playing cards and running to the back of the boat, both of their folding chairs tumbling to the deck. This was the general direction of the scream, but no one was visible, so they weren’t sure who had called out.
    Five years ago, when the tourist industry began to boom in North Africa, Erique had converted his fishing operation along the crowded beaches of Nouakchott, the capital of Mauritania, into a charter business, taking rich foreign tourists out scuba diving. He cleaned up his old twenty-five-foot boat, added a fresh coat of paint, refinished the decking, and gave her a name: The Blue Horizon . It proved to be a smart move, as the money he made doing this far outweighed what he squeezed out of the local fish market. It was much easier work, and he could actually take days off to enjoy time with his family. But in all those years, this was the first time he had ever heard this word.
    “Where are they, Papa?”
    Erique scanned the surface of the water, the small swells rocking the boat gently. He stepped over the transom and onto the diving platform that he had built and added to his boat. Bracing himself with one hand on the large outboard motor, he squatted down as if trying to peer into the sea, his strong, thin frame flexing the muscles beneath his dark skin, which reflected in the bright sunshine. Beads of sweats began falling from his shaved head. “I don’t know. Keep your eyes open.”
    A hand breached the surface twenty feet behind the boat. Without thinking, Erique dove in and began to swim toward the diver. As he neared the person, he could taste the blood in the water. He grabbed on to the diver’s hands and pulled them to him. The diver panicked and tried to use Erique, who was not wearing a life jacket, as a flotation device. Luckily Erique was a strong swimmer and