It did not come from Lucian.

It came from the pocket of my own apron, which was sitting on a crate near the entrance.

My old cell phone was lighting up in the dark, the screen flashing a bright, brilliant blue.

Victor’s eyes flickered toward the flashing blue light on the crate.

He made a sudden, desperate movement.

His hand darted toward his waistband, his fingers clawing for something hidden beneath his heavy coat.

“Don’t,” I said.

The word was quiet, but Bishop heard it.

The gray dog did not hesitate.

He launched his heavy body forward in a silent, powerful blur.

His jaws clamped onto Victor’s thick leather sleeve just as the metal glinted in the light.

The force of the impact threw Victor backward against the damp brick wall.

The silver pistol he had been drawing flew from his grip, clattering across the wet concrete.

It spun and came to a stop right at my feet.

Victor let out a sharp, choked scream as Bishop pinned him to the floor.

The dog did not tear or shake.