Mars Sorros pointed a gun at Axel, who held both Caspian and Zoey in his grip.
He’d clearly been expecting Keely, because his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “You.”
“Me.” Dawson pointed his gun at Sorros. “Put down the gun.”
“No.” And then Mars grabbed Zoey, yanked her away from Axel, and shoved the gun against her head.
It happened so fast, Dawson didn’t have time to react. Caspian lunged toward the man, his teeth on his arm, ripping his grip away from the little girl.
Zoey screamed, and Axel grabbed her back, caught her, and rolled away from the man.
Dawson pulled the trigger, but Mars struggled with Caspian, shouting, and the shot only scuffed him.
Caspian was a bulldog, tearing at Mars’s arm, and Dawson couldn’t get another shot. The man fell back against the wall and punched Caspian. The dog yelped and must have loosened his hold, because Mars hit him again.
The dog cried, and the sound of it set Dawson on fire. He leaped at Mars, grabbing him around the waist as the man threw Caspian away. His arm bled, and Dawson slammed him against the wall.
“Don’t move!”
Mars elbowed him in the ribs, but he ignored it, grabbed his wrist, fighting for a submission hold.
Behind him, Caspian was crying.
Mars turned, slammed his fist into Dawson’s chest, and Dawson stumbled back.
Then Mars pointed his gun at Dawson, and—
Caspian lunged at him, maybe to again grab his arm—
The shot exploded through the room, and Caspian dropped.
Zoey screamed.
Dawson staggered to the dog. Caspian lay on the ground, blood spattering his fur, pooling on the ground, crying.
Mars pushed past him, heading for the door.
No—no—
Dawson whirled around, tried to get up, but his knee wouldn’t work.
Caspian’s cries shredded the air.
Mars jerked open the door—
Dawson turned back to Caspian, the animal writhing. He might not be a four-year-old girl, but his dog trusted him.
And darkness didn’t win today.
Mars disappeared out the exit—hello, where was security? But Dawson focused on his dog, pressing his hand on Caspian’swound, just above his right leg, in his chest. “I know, buddy, I know—” He glanced at Axel, still holding Zoey, his hands over her ears, her back to the trauma.
“I need a cloth.”
Axel tossed him a nearby T-shirt, and Dawson shoved it against the wound. “We need to get him to a vet.” He scooped up the dog but struggled to stand.
Axel let Zoey go and appeared right there, a towel in his arms. “I got him.”
Dawson relinquished the dog, then glanced at Zoey. She hugged her panda, her eyes wide, her lower lip caught in her teeth.
