Chapter 7 - The Jaw of the Hound
Cyrus didn't bark. He didn't growl.
He launched himself from the shadows like a cannonball, his massive jaws snapping shut around Eli’s right forearm with a sickening CRUNCH of breaking bone and tearing tactical fabric.
Eli let out a horrific, high-pitched scream as the momentum of the Shepherd’s strike slammed his six-foot-two frame onto the hard marble floor. The silenced pistol flew from Eli’s hand, skidding across the polished floor toward Maisie’s boots.
“GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME!” Eli shrieked, thrashing wildly as Cyrus dragged him across the foyer, his teeth locked into the enforcer’s arm with crushing force.
The second intruder raised his rifle, aiming directly at Cyrus’s ribs. “I’m taking the shot!”
“NO!” Maisie screamed, hurling her small body forward into the second intruder’s knees.
It was like a bird flying into a stone wall, but the sudden weight against his leg made the intruder check his balance for a fraction of a second—and that fraction was all Julian Hart needed.
STAT-STAT.
Two red blooms opened on the second intruder’s chest as Julian dropped from the secondary balcony above, landing lightly on the marble floor like a panther. He swept his weapon toward the third man who was retreating toward the front doors, firing twice through the dark. The man collapsed onto the entryway rug, motionless.
The main foyer went suddenly, violently quiet, save for the torrential rain outside and Eli’s agonizing, ragged groans from the floor.
Cyrus was standing over Eli, his front paws planted on the man’s chest, his muzzle covered in crimson, his wild eyes fixed on Julian, waiting for a reason to tear the man’s throat out.
“Cyrus,” Maisie’s small voice broke through the air.
She was sitting on the cold marble where she had fallen, her knees scraped, her hands covered in dust.
The dog instantly let go of Eli’s arm. He turned around, trotting over to Maisie, and began frantically licking her face and neck, whining softly as he checked her for injuries.
Julian walked over slowly, his gun lowered to his side, his expensive shirt ruined with gunpowder residue and rain. He dropped to one knee beside the little girl, ignoring the bleeding enforcer groaning five feet away.
He reached out his hand—his leather glove removed—and gently touched Maisie’s shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” Julian asked. His voice was different now. The cold, sarcastic edge was gone, replaced by a deep, low gravel that vibrated with something he couldn't control.
Maisie reached up, her small, dust-stained fingers finding his jawline, tracing the thin white scar down to his chin.
“You’re bleeding,” she whispered softly.
“It’s not my blood,” Julian said.
He looked up as Roman and two surviving guards came sprinting down the stairs, bringing Leo with them.
“Maisie!” Leo cried out, breaking away from Roman and dropping to his knees, pulling his sister into a desperate, crushing hug. “Oh God, Maisie! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
Julian stood up slowly, his gray eyes locking onto Eli, who was clutching his mangled arm on the floor, weeping in terror.
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Julian stepped over, his boot coming down hard on Eli’s neck, pinning the enforcer’s head against the stained marble.
“Tell Vincent Marcone,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made even Roman shudder, “that he has twenty-four hours to leave this state. If he is still in California by midnight tomorrow, I will personally feed him to this dog piece by piece.”
