He moved on, checking behind the wrecks and piles of crap, edging toward Ramón’s van, circling back to the stripped-out Eldorado. Kitty was in the same place. Luke looked at her with a questioning expression but she shook her head again, then started to move in his direction. She took two steps, then stopped cold. Luke saw the alarm in her face, her gaze fixed on something over his shoulder.

He whipped around, but too late. Ramón stood in front of the dog cages. He had a grin on his face and one door open.

“Shit,” Luke gasped, scuffling backward, lifting the gun.

The shepherd came at a bloodthirsty sprint. All teeth and one-eared fury.

Luke shot the dog but it kept coming.

He’d bought the gun—the “Chief’s Special,” the salesclerk had called it—when he first moved to L.A. Luke liked its classic look and compact size, but had questioned its stopping power. “Well, it isn’t a .357,” the salesclerk replied, “but it’s a solid self-defense option. As for its effectiveness . . . Jack Ruby used a .38 Special to drop Lee Harvey Oswald. Granted, he was point-blank, but one shot was all it took to send that little Commie bastard straight to red hell.”

“I see,” Luke said, spinning the empty cylinder. “So I’d have to be up close and personal to do any real damage?”

“Depends on the type of ammo you use, and the accuracy of your shot. But yeah, with this caliber, closer is always better.”

This conversation flashed through Luke’s mind as the dog continued toward him. The bullet he’d put into its shoulder had slowed it, but not by much. It was a primal, single-minded force, packed with strength and a vicious, drumming energy. It leapt at Luke from twelve feet away and knocked him to the ground. The revolver spilled from his hand, but this was of little concern compared to the shepherd’s jaws, snapping and clashing inches from his face.

Luke kept it at bay, but only just. He had his left forearm braced against the animal’s throat, and his right hand directly beneath, grasping the thick fur on its chest. Saliva whipped and flew. Blood, too, from the gristly gash where its left ear used to be, and from the bullet hole in its shoulder. Luke—his survival instinct fully dialed—recognized what might be his only opportunity. He pushed up with his left forearm, creating just enough clearance to shift his right hand to the shepherd’s shoulder, then plunged his thumb into the ragged little hole he’d made with his .38.