The Dog Squad

open the door, then swerve inside fast (leaving the door open just a crack).
There’s someone there.
It’s Cat.
She’s so close I can feel her warmth. Her head is only about five inches from mine. There’s just a crack of light shining on it.
“Hello!” she mouths.
“Hello!” I mouth back. “Is Wilkins there?”
“Rory,” she whispers. “We have solved the case! They’re all down there! It’s sound-proofed to hide the noise. But I’ve heard the people talking through this door. They’re definitely selling the dogs to make money.”
Just then I hear a low, dangerous growl..
Cat actually smiles. (She’s like this! The bigger the danger, the more she smiles!)
“We have a small problem,” she says. “What do you say we do now?”
“I think I might be OK,” I say. “I just gave that dog cookies, but you and the other dogs need to avoid him.”
“But how will we do that?” she says.
Cat is looking up at me with hope, as if I’m Napoleon about to make a plan. But the trouble is: I have no plan.
I think: I should make one. And I do.
“Get the dogs ready,” I tell her. “Then wait here, holding the door, till you hear a big bang. Then count to twenty, and RUN.”
Cat smiles. “How will I know how quickly to count?” she asks.
“You count ‘one unicorn,’” I say. “Then ‘two unicorns, three unicorns’ . . .”
She smiles. “Thank you for coming for me!” she says.
“Oh,” I tell her, “you are my Accomplice. If you are caught, I will come for you!”
“Deadly Branagan,” she says, “you’re the best.” She squeezes my hand.
So now I am just wanting to stay in this passageway forever and ever with her, but behind me Bizmo growls again.
He is now sounding even BIGGER and more vicious.
I count one unicorn, two unicorns, three unicorns . . .
Then I push open the door.
In the hallway Bizmo sniffs me. You can tell he thinks it’s odd I’m coming from the cellar. But he also remembers I gave him cookies. He doesn’t bite.
I look around. No one is watching. Thank God.
Hobbling down the hallway I look toward the kitchen door, and it’s now that I see something very surprising.
It’s a photo of Dale with someone I recognize—a cool, good-looking man in a leather jacket. I know exactly who THAT is . . .
Dad.
Dale sees me staring.
“How do you know my dad?” I ask him.
He looks at me, amazed.
“Your dad,” he says, “is Padder Branagan?”
“Yeah, but how do you know him?” I ask again.
“Everyone knows your dad,” says Dale. “He was a two-time World Rally champion.”
“Was he?!!” I say.
“Yes!” says Dale. “But I knew him because he drove for Daredevil Motors, where I worked.”
As I look at Dale I am thinking: I actually LIKE this guy. I want to keep talking to him forever.
But then Shaza appears.
“What took you so long in that bathroom?” she says, giving me an evil look.
“I was just washing my hands,” I tell her. “And flossing my teeth.”
I shouldn’t have added that.
“What?” she says.
“It’s when you put string between your teeth,” I say. “To remove bacteria.”
“I KNOW WHAT FLOSSING IS!” screams Shaza. “Get out my house or I’ll knock your teeth RIGHT OUT!”
As I look up at her I’m seeing I’ve got this crime completely wrong. Dale is not the leader of the criminals. Shaza is. She’s got Cat, and a whole load of dogs, in her cellar. And if I don’t watch out, I’ll end up down there too.
I hurry home.

CHAPTER ELEVEN Reinforcements
And less than two minutes later I am back in my own kitchen with Mrs. Welkin. I tell her all about Dale and Shaza and what we’ve found. I tell her my plan to get Cat out.
But before we carry it out I need to give her the bad news.
“Mrs. Welkin,” I tell her, “they’ve got Wilkins.”
I can see her going through all the emotions I did. First she goes still, then she goes faint, then she gets the RAGE.
“Those dirty . . . THIEVES!” she growls. “That’s the trouble with the world today! It’s full of hooligans and thieves! Hooligans and thieves!”
“Right,” says Mrs. Welkin, already stepping out into the garden. “I will go over there. They will give that dog back.”
“But they have that huge rottweiler,” I tell her. “I’m scared he might fight Wilkins!”
“Oh,” says Mrs. Welkin, “he WILL fight Wilkins! I know bad dogs like that! (The trouble is Wilkins fights them!) Wilkins thinks he’s bigger than he is!”
“But maybe Wilkins will run off?” I suggest.
“But Wilkins is not fast!” says Mrs. Welkin. “He thinks he is, but he’s not!”
“What will we do?”
“We need to LURE that rottweiler out of the way!” says Mrs. Welkin.
“But how will we do that?” I ask.
Mrs. Welkin thinks a moment. Then her eyes light up. She has an idea!
“Cats!” she says. “We’ll make him chase cats!”
“But how,” I ask, “will we make him chase cats?”
“Tuna fish sandwiches!” she declares.
“Do we have tuna fish sandwiches?” I ask.
“Oh,” says Mrs. Welkin. “We have EIGHT of them!”
“With PICCALILLI!” she roars (as if the piccalilli was the key to the whole thing).
“I shall give you the piccalilli,” she says. She hands it over, as if she’s handing me a mighty sword.
“And I will need a weapon of my own,” says Mrs. Welkin. She goes back into the kitchen.
What weapon is she getting? I’m trying to guess. I definitely don’t guess right.
Mrs. Welkin comes out of the kitchen. Mrs. Welkin holds up to the sky . . . a slipper.
“Mrs. Welkin,” I say, “are you sure you want to go over there with that?”
“Oh,” says Mrs. Welkin. “I may be an old girl now, but if those thieves come near me, they will FIND OUT what I can