Chapter 5 - Teeth and Steel
The lead operative didn't wait for a second warning.
His finger twitched on the trigger of his FN SCAR. A suppressed supersonic round cracked through the air, chewing a jagged crater into the stone pillar three inches from my ear, showering my cheek with stinging granite dust.
I shoved Marcus violently into the path of a second incoming shot, using my traitorous head of security as a meat shield to dive behind the heavy stone water trough.
Clang!
A round sparked off the iron rim of the trough, singing with a high-pitched whine that set my teeth on edge.
“Return fire!” I roared into my tactical radio clipped to my collar. “East wall and balcony—light them up!”
From the upper story of the mansion, synchronized rifle fire erupted. My loyal guards—men who had bled with me through every street war in Illinois—unleashed hell down upon the courtyard. Tracers zipped through the morning fog like fiery ribbons, chewing into the pavement around the Marauder transport and forcing the gray-clad operatives to scatter behind the stone planters and vehicles.
Dust, smoke, and cordite filled the air, turning the historic courtyard into a miniature Verdun.
Amidst the deafening roar of automatic gunfire, something impossible happened.
Bruno rose.
The massive Cane Corso didn't flinch at the concussive blasts of the rifles. His left hind leg shook violently for a fraction of a second, but then the pain seemed to vanish beneath an overwhelming surge of primal, protective fury.
He didn't run toward the gunmen shooting at us.
He ran toward Emma.
Before the child could even blink, Bruno scooped her up by the fabric of her red wool dress with surprising gentleness, tossing her light frame onto his massive back just like a mother wolf moving a cub from a burning den.
“Bruno! Stay!” I shouted, raising my pistol to cover them.
The dog ignored me completely. With a low, terrifying roar that sounded more like a cathedral bell than an animal, Bruno vaulted over the stone water trough with Emma safely secured on his back, charging straight toward the open carriage house door across the courtyard.
“Shoot the dog!” the lead operative with the eye patch screamed, swinging his rifle muzzle toward the fleeing animal.
“You touch that dog, and I’ll skin you alive!” I bellowed, stepping out from behind cover and emptying my magazine into the operative’s chest rig, driving him backward into the side of the tactical van.
Two other operatives pivoted, tracking Bruno as he crossed the open cobblestones.
They never got the chance to pull their triggers.
From the shadows of the carriage house porch, a heavy iron snow shovel came flying through the air with lethal velocity, catching the first operative square in the throat and dropping him like a stone.
The second operative spun around, only to find Sophia standing in the doorway—her face no longer pale with terror, but twisted into the cold, merciless fury of a mother defending her cub. She held a heavy 12-gauge Remington shotgun, her hands rock-steady.
BOOM.
The buckshot tore through the operative’s ballistic vest, sending him crashing into the mud.
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Within seconds, Bruno had ducked inside the heavy oak doors of the carriage house, dropping Emma safely behind a stack of hardwood crates before turning around to block the threshold with his massive, snarling frame.
The courtyard fell into a sudden, eerie silence, broken only by the crackle of burning rubber from the punctured tires of the Marauder van and the groans of wounded mercenaries bleeding out on the frost.
