He had been a Navy SEAL for seventeen years. He had crawled through mud that smelled like death, had parachuted into darkness so complete it felt like drowning, had looked into the eyes of men who wanted to kill him and seen nothing but the cold calculation of violence. He had never—not once—felt the particular chill that crawled up his spine when twelve military working dogs rose from their positions around the flag-draped casket and turned their eyes on him simultaneously.
Not growling at him. Not threatening him. Just… watching.
Waiting.
“Get them out of there,” Lieutenant Commander Cyrus hissed, his voice cracking with a frustration that bordered on panic. “The memorial starts in two hours. The admiral is flying in personally. We cannot have a pack of—”
He stopped because the lead dog, a jet-black Malinois named Phantom, had turned his massive head and was now staring directly at him with eyes that held something far more unsettling than aggression.
Petty Officer First Class Fletcher, the highest-rated handler on base, stepped forward with the practiced confidence of a man who had spent his entire career learning to command animals that could kill with a single bite. He raised his hand, formed the signal for “stand down,” and spoke the German command that had never failed him.
Phantom bared his fangs.
Fletcher retreated immediately, his face draining of color as he stumbled backward into a metal cabinet. The clatter echoed through the kennel like a gunshot.
