He simply held the man down, his massive paws pressed against Victor’s chest, his teeth locked onto the wrist of his gun hand.

A low, vibrating rumble continued in Bishop’s throat, a warning that any struggle would mean death.

“Call him off!” Victor gasped, his face turning pale under the grime.

“Please, Mara. He’ll break my arm.”

I did not answer him right away.

I bent down and picked up the silver pistol.

It was heavy and cold, smelling faintly of gun oil and rain.

I slipped it into the deep pocket of my apron.

Then I walked over to the crate and picked up my phone.

The blue screen was still flashing with Alina’s name.

I slid my thumb across the screen and held the phone to my ear.

“I’m here, Alina,” I said.

“Mara, thank god,” Alina’s voice came through, fast and breathless.

“I found the secondary directory in the restaurant’s old server hub.”

“Victor didn’t delete the files from five years ago.”

“He couldn’t.”

“The system was hardwired to copy everything to an off-site drive in the dry storage room.”