Then she stepped through the door, and it clicked shut behind her.
Brick turned back to the impossible situation before him. Twelve of the most highly trained military working dogs in the entire Special Operations Command had formed an impenetrable barrier around their fallen handler’s remains. Every approach had failed. Every command had been ignored. Even the specialized whistle patterns that were supposed to override all other training had produced nothing but blank stares.
“This is getting out of hand,” Cyrus muttered, pulling out his phone. “I’m calling command. We need specialists from Pendleton.”
“Pendleton?” Fletcher scoffed, still nursing his pride along with the bite mark on his reinforced glove. “With all due respect, sir, if I can’t get through to them, what makes you think anyone from Pendleton can?”
Brick shot him a look that could freeze fire.
“Because clearly, Petty Officer, your methods aren’t working. Unless you have a better idea.”
Fletcher’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Outside the building, Amber moved through the shadows with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural for someone in her position. Her footsteps made no sound on the concrete. Her body stayed low, hugging the walls, moving from cover to cover as if by instinct rather than conscious thought.
She stopped at the corner of the kennel building, pressing her back against the cold metal siding. From here, she could see through the window, could watch as Brick and his team argued about what to do next.
Her hand trembled slightly as she gripped the mop handle.
