Lucian nodded once, his trust in my connection with the dog absolute.

“Watch my back,” Lucian said.

He spun around the pillar and fired three rapid shots toward the front entrance.

A man cried out, his heavy body crashing into a dining table before hitting the floor.

I crawled toward the pantry door, keeping my body flat against the cold hardwood.

Bishop stayed at my side, his belly scraping the floor, silent as a ghost.

The kitchen door creaked open, swinging on its double hinges.

A shadow fell across the white tiles of the kitchen floor.

I grabbed a heavy cast-iron skillet from the prep station rack.

The shooter stepped into the pantry, his rifle raised, his eyes scanning the darkness.

He did not see me behind the industrial refrigerator.

But he saw Bishop.

He lowered his barrel toward the dog.

“No,” I whispered.

I stepped out and swung the skillet with both hands, catching the side of his helmet.

The metal rang out with a loud clang, and the man stumbled backward into the shelves.

Jars of preserved plums and olives shattered around him, spilling red juice like blood.