At the base of the slope, two dark animals burst through the sagebrush. Two more dogs, both nearly identical in appearance to the chocolate lab.

But very different in demeanor.

These dogs had neither wagging tails nor lolling tongues. They eyed Jon menacingly, lowered their heads, and stalked closer.

Jon aimed his gun and called out in a friendly tone, “Hey, boys, are you missing a friend of yours?”

As soon as he trained the Glock on the animals, they split, one going to his left, the other to his right.

His heart thudding, Jon aimed at the dog on his right. The animal immediately darted behind a boulder.

It was almost as if the animal knew the gun was dangerous.

Hearing the other dog’s nails scraping on the gravel, Jon wheeled around and fired a warning shot.

The animal continued to advance, but it used a jerky zigzag pattern, making it difficult to aim.

A chill raced up Jon’s spine.

His gun arm shaking, Jon focused on the approaching dog. For a split second his mind flashed back to his time as an artilleryman in Afghanistan. Back then, he’d shot at enemies he could barely see. Now, for the first time in his life, he was within spitting distance of his target as he squeezed the trigger.

The animal had just begun to leap when the bullet slammed into its shoulder. It fell to the ground with a whimper.

At almost the same moment, Jon felt over one hundred pounds of canine smash against his back. The second dog knocked him off his feet and clamped its vise-like jaws on the wrist of his shooting hand.

Jon struggled with the growling animal. He started to yell when his voice was suddenly trapped in his throat. The dog he’d shot had clamped down tightly on his throat.

He fell back onto the dirt, his windpipe closing under the crushing force of the animal’s impossibly strong jaws. His vision wavered as he strained for breath.

His heart pounding with terror, he prayed. My God, there’s so much I could have…

The world faded to black.

###

Hans Reinhardt stood at the top of the rocky slope and breathed in the acrid smoke of burning sagebrush. A half dozen men in fatigues spewed hellfire from their flamethrowers, and all across the burning landscape, stones cracked in the fierce heat.

The operation had been going well—until now. Now everything had turned to shit. A complete disaster. Despite the assurances from his bosses in the German Federal Intelligence Service, not to mention the US handlers in Langley, Hans knew it was time to reset. He needed to move the operation to a more remote location. One with less chance of… “incidents.”

The base commander, an Air Force colonel, walked up and stood beside him. “His name was Jonathan LaForce, Marine artilleryman, ten years out of Afghanistan with an honorable discharge.”