Ramón cackled at Luke’s plight. He lurched closer, kicked a cloud of grit into Luke’s face, then muttered something in Spanish and cackled again. Luke heaved forward, trying to tear his T-shirt from the shepherd’s jaws—and it did tear, but not enough. The shepherd adjusted its grip with a couple of quick snaps, caught hold of fresh material, and kept Luke pinned to the front of the cage.

The dust cleared. Ramón stood over him. He raised his foot and brought it down on Luke’s face and shoulder—two chopping, painful blows that caused the vivid desert light to dim for just a second. Luke slumped. Blood dripped from his busted lower lip, pattering onto his T-shirt in bright red flowers. He watched as Ramón walked to the rottweiler’s cage.

“There are two things my dogs don’t like,” Ramón said, raising his voice to be heard over their snarls and howls. “Intruders, and being hungry. It is good when I can solve both problems at once.”

The rottweiler set its powerful body, growling impatiently as Ramón reached for the bolt.

Kitty attacked in a bright, silent flash. She came from the side, stepping around an old Eldorado, throwing herself at Ramón and tackling him to the ground. They landed in a dusty tangle with Kitty underneath, her right arm looped around Ramón’s throat. He bucked and rolled, reaching backward, trying to claw at her face and hair.

“Luke!” she cried, weaving her head to avoid Ramón’s snatching hand. “Get your ass over here! Luke . . . Luke!”

He gasped, woozy from the knocks he’d taken, and struggled forward. His tee stretched and ripped even more, but the shepherd was not about to relinquish its prize. It dug in, lowering its head, holding Luke in place.

“Luke!”

“Trying,” he groaned, and pulled again, twisting at the waist, getting nowhere. Kitty, meanwhile, had lost her advantage over Ramón; he’d writhed into a position in which he could elbow her in the ribs, which he did—over and over, not hard strikes, but enough to weaken her headlock. He slipped out of her grasp and got to his feet. Kitty followed. They faced one another, poised to strike.

Luke mustered every ounce of his resolve and lunged forward once more. His tee ripped to the collar, giving him sufficient slack to arch away from the cage and reach for the gun with his left hand. The shepherd jerked its neck, snatching and growling, leveraging the ground with all four paws. Luke’s fingertips danced across the grip of his snub-nose. He couldn’t quite get the angle to snatch it cleanly.