“KANE! CHARGE TARGET! FAST DODGE!”
The loud command strikes Kane in the heart. Up until then, he has heard the blasts, knows his partner is in danger. He has strained against the last order; it still blazes behind his eyes: HOLD. Another’s hand has even grasped the edge of his vest, reeking of fear, sensing his desire.
But the shout finally comes. He leaps the short obstruction, ripping out of those fingers. Wind, icy and full of salt, strikes his body hard. He ducks his head against it, pushing low, getting under the wind. He sprints, finding traction with his rear pads to propel him forward.
He obeys the order, the last words.
. . . FAST DODGE.
As he flies across the deck, he jinks and jukes. He makes sudden shifts, feinting one way and going another. But he never slows.
He races toward where his ears had picked out the blasts.
Nothing will stop him.
Tucker heard Kane pounding across the deck. His heart strained toward his friend, now a living decoy, sent out by his own command to draw deadly fire. He regretted the order as soon as it left his lips—but he didn’t recall it.
It was too late now. Kane was already in the line of fire. The shepherd knew his target, knew he needed to evade, but would it be enough? Were Kane’s reflexes faster than Felice’s?
Miss . . . miss . . . dear God, miss . . .
From the starboard bridge wing, a single shot rang out. Kane had drawn her fire, her attention . . .
Good boy.
Tucker popped up, took aim on the starboard wing, and started running that way. Felice crouched up there, rifle up to her shoulder.
He shouted to Kane. “TAKE COVER!”
Kane instantly reacts to the new order and pivots off his left front paw. He slides on the wet, icy deck, up on his nails, spinning slightly to slam into the next raised metal square.
He stays low.
He ignores the searing pain.
But the blaze of it grows.
Felice had heard Tucker’s shouted order. She pivoted toward him, bringing her rifle barrel to bear, her scope’s lens glinting for a flash through the storm.
Tucker fired, three quick shots in that direction with no real hope of hitting her. The rounds pounded into the steps and railing around Felice. Not flinching, she pressed her eye to the scope.
“CHARGE TARGET!” he screamed.
Kane pushes the pain deep into his bones and lunges back out of hiding. He runs straight, gaining speed with each thrust of his back legs, with each pound of his front.
He stays low against the sleet and snow, his entire focus on the steel perforated steps leading up. His target lurks above, in hiding, and dangerous.
Still he runs forward.
Then a new order is shouted, but he does not know this word. It flows through him and away, leaving no trace.
As meaningless as the wind.
So he keeps running.
“KILL!” Tucker hollered, using all his breath.
To his right, Kane passed his position and raced toward the starboard stairs, taking no evasive action as ordered. The shepherd sprinted along the deck, his head down, his focus fixed on the objective. He was pure muscle in motion, an instinctive hunter, nature’s savagery given form.
“KILL!” Tucker shouted again.
It was a hollow, toothless order—the word had never been taught to Kane—but the command was not meant for the shepherd, but for Felice. It was intended to strike a chord of terror in Felice, igniting that primal fear in all of us, harkening to a time when men cowered around fires in the night, listening to the howling of wolves.
Tucker continued his sprint across the cargo hatch, firing controlled bursts in her direction. Felice shifted back, lifted her face from the stock, and glanced to her left, toward Kane.
The shepherd had closed to within twenty feet of the steps and was still picking up speed.
Felice swung her rifle around and began tracking the shepherd.
Firing upward, Tucker covered the last few feet of the cargo hatch, leaped off, and headed for the shelter of the wheelhouse bulkhead.
“KANE! BREAK TO COVER!”
Crack! Felice shot as Tucker’s body crashed into the bulkhead. He bounced off it and stumbled along its length until he was in the shadows beneath the starboard bridge wing. He pointed his gun up, searching through the ventilated steel, looking for movement above.
Nothing.
He peeked behind him.
No sign of Kane.
Had his last order come in time?
No matter the dog’s fate, Kane had done as asked, allowing Tucker to close the gap and get inside Felice’s bubble. Her primary advantage as a sniper was gone. Now she was just another soldier with a rifle.
Which was still a dangerous proposition.
She was up there, and he was down here—and she knew it. All she had to do was wait for Tucker to come to her.
With his gun still trained on the wing above him, Tucker slid over to a neighboring hatch, one that led into the main bridge’s tower. He tried the handle: locked. He slid farther around the bulkhead, searching for another.
As he stepped cautiously around an obstruction, leading with his Browning, a dark shape lunged toward him. He fell back a step, until he recognized his partner.
Kane ran over to Tucker, panting, heaving.
Relief poured through him—until he saw the bloody paw print in the snow blown up against the bulkhead.
Buddy . . .
He knelt down and checked Kane. He discovered the bullet graze along his shoulder. It bled thickly, matting the fur, dribbling down his leg. He would live, but he would need medical attention soon.
A growl thundered out of Kane.
Not of pain—but of warning.
Behind Tucker, the hatch handle squeaked, and the door banged open against the bulkhead. He spun, bringing the Browning up, but Kane was already on the move, leaping past Tucker and onto the man in three bounds. The shepherd clamped on to the hand holding the gun and shook, taking the assailant down with a loud crack of the guy’s forearm.
The pistol—a Russian Makarov—clattered to the deck.
Tucker stepped to the fallen man and slammed the butt of his Browning into his temple. He went limp—only then did Kane release his arm.
“Good boy,” he whispered. “Now HOLD.”
Tucker moved to the hatchway and peeked past the threshold. Inside was a corridor leading deeper into the bridge’s superstructure, but to his immediate right, a bolted ladder climbed up toward the wheelhouse above.
Then came a clanking sound.
A grenade bounced down the ladder, banked off the wall, and landed a foot from the hatch.
Crap . . .
He backpedaled and stumbled over the splayed arm of the downed assailant. As he hit the deck hard, he rolled to the right, to the far side of the hatch.