He passed a closet, a bathroom, nearing the vast living room. A boot squeaked in a room across the hall, and he spun through the opposite doorway, flattening himself to the wall just past the jamb. Gear clanked as the men stepped out into the hall. Evan was close enough to hear them breathing. A radio spit staticky Spanish—“¡Ven a recoger los perros!”—and the boots squeaked into action again, soles pounding away to the front of the chalet.

Evan eased out a breath through his teeth, studied the transmitter. He thumbed an offset red button on the side, and the collar released from his neck. He caught it before it could clatter to the floor, then dropped it and the transmitter into the base of a potted fern. Balling up the banded plastic bag that had protected his neck, he flung it into a corner.

Already he could hear the Dobermans’ barks echoing off the hard surfaces of the foyer. Then came the scraping of claws against marble as they hurtled up the corridor.

Evan ran toward the dining room, hip-sliding across the table and banging through the swinging doors to the kitchen. No one was there.

His gaze swept the room. Knife block next to the wood-fired oven. Pantry door slightly ajar, showing a sliver of black at the seam. Pasta pot filled with water sitting cold on the stovetop of the center island. Hanging pot rack. The nearest counter held all order of serving supplies—cupcake liners, black cloth napkins, toothpicks, wads of cheesecloth, towers of fluted ramekins.

Rear swinging doors led to the ballroom, but the dogs would be up his back before he’d be able to get through. From the sound of it, they’d reached the living room already. Neither set of swinging doors featured locks; it would be impossible to barricade them against the dogs and do anything else.

Pounding paws tapped the parquet floor of the dining room. A crashing of chairs knocked aside.

There was no more time.

Evan shoved the pasta pot off the stove. It clanged loudly, water spilling out, slicking the tile floor. He leapt across the puddle and yanked open the pantry door, holding it before him, an angled shield.

The dogs exploded through the swinging doors, hitting the tile floor at a full gallop. Their paws scrabbled for purchase on the wet floor, their legs splaying, like fawns trying to gain footing on ice.

Their snarls dwindled to whines as they rotated into quarter turns, sliding across the wet tile, banging off the angled door, and ricocheting neatly into the pantry.

Evan slammed the door, trapping them inside.

Snatching a jar from the nearby counter, he flicked up a toothpick, wedged it into the keyhole in the pantry doorknob, and snapped off a splinter of wood, jamming the lock.