“The boss wants her alive,” the second man said, his eyes scanning my face. “But he didn’t say anything about keeping her pretty.”

I took a slow step back, my heel catching on a thick, wet root.

Bishop didn’t retreat with me.

He stepped forward, his front paws planting firmly in the mud.

His hackles were fully raised, a stiff ridge of gray fur standing straight up along his spine.

“Good boy, Bishop,” I whispered, my breath forming a faint mist in the cold air. “Easy.”

But Bishop wasn’t listening to my commands anymore.

He was looking directly at the first man’s throat.

“Get the dog first,” the second man said, lunging forward with the crowbar raised.

Everything happened in a blur of gray fur and wet leaves.

Bishop launched himself off the ground with explosive force.

He didn’t bark or growl.

He went straight for the first man’s arm.

The gun fired once, the sound exploding through the quiet park like a thunderclap.

The bullet chipped the bark of the oak tree right above my head.

Sharp wood splinters stung my cheek, and the smell of sulfur filled the air.