The Gerber 06 Auto is no gentleman’s folder but a massive hunk of machined metal: an aluminum and steel bar containing a razor-sharp switchblade for use in combat. It weighs 7.1 ounces. The drop point blade, serrated at the hilt, is forged from S30V steel alloy and measures 3.6 inches from tip to finger guards. My friend Billy Cronk carried this knife on his tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan and survived while thousands of his fellow warriors perished. Although Billy never said so, I believe the blade may have taken lives. He gave it to me as a gift on my thirtieth birthday. His nickname for it was “The Beast.”

When I push the oversized button on the handle, the blade swings open. It doesn’t spring from the tip like a switchblade from a 1950s movie. The serrations are sharper than wolf’s teeth; I saw easily through the nylon straps.

But now the untethered box lurches. One hundred and forty pounds of drowning canine causes it to move. And at first I can’t get past. Then the crate bucks again, creating an opening, and I seize my chance to swim through.

I reach down for my sidearm to blow out the back window. My fingers slap my side expecting to close around the grip of my SIG. But I find—nothing. Straining to squeeze between the seats, I have dislodged the paddle holster. It was designed to slide in and out of my waistband without my having to remove my belt.

The light inside the Jeep is all but gone. The last pocket of air is closing. I need to break the glass.

Then it hits me: I’ve been holding the tool I need the whole time. Opposite the blade of the tactical knife, at the end of the pommel, is a strike point, which is a fancy name for a window smasher.

Now I am completely underwater, and my lungs are burning like I’ve inhaled chlorine. I drive the strike point into the window. The glass explodes into shimmering bits that catch light as they drift past in the coffee-dark current.

As soon as I undo the latch, the wolf bursts through the door of the kennel. Swimming, a foot catches my hand, and I feel a searing pain as his curved claws rake my skin.

I let out a gasp and the last of my precious air bubbles away.

For an instant, I am paralyzed again, unable to think or act. The lack of oxygen is popping my eyeballs from my skull. I don’t recognize the black ribbons before my eyes as the blood from my hand.

I manage a few lame kicks, and I am sucked through the broken window as if by the current, although it’s just the weight of the Jeep descending to the rock-tumbled bottom.