A5.The air in the underground complex was thick enough to taste—a mixture of stale oil, unwashed wool, and the bitter copper stench of blood that never quite scrubbed out of the dirt floor.

In the library on the second floor, Maisie sat on the windowsill, listening to the rain beat against the glass.

Cyrus was lying beside her, his ears twitching occasionally at the distant thunder.

Suddenly, the dog's entire body went rigid.

His ears shot up straight. A low, vibrating frequency started deep inside his chest—not the crazy, panicked growl of his pit days, but a focused, murderous hum. He stood up in a single fluid motion, his dark mane rising along his spine.

"Leo," Maisie whispered, her face turning toward the floorboards.

She felt it through the soles of her shoes—the distinct, sharp vibration of iron hitting concrete in the garage two floors down. And right behind it, the quiet, muffled footfalls of three men moving through the kitchen hallway.

"They're inside," Maisie said quietly.

She didn't panic. She didn't scream for Julian.

She stood up, walked to the heavy oak door of the library, and turned the brass handle. "Go get Leo, Cyrus. The bad men are in the house."

Cyrus didn't bark. He slipped through the cracked door like a eighty-pound ghost made of black fur and muscle.

In the dimly lit main hallway, Kovak and his two hitmen were advancing toward Julian's private bedroom wing, their silenced weapons raised, their night-vision goggles strapped over their faces.

"Second door on the right," Kovak whispered. "Shoot anything that moves."

From the shadows at the end of the long corridor, a sound emerged.

It wasn't a growl. It was the sound of ninety pounds of apex predator accelerating across a polished hardwood floor.

Kovak turned his night-vision goggles toward the sound.

All he saw was two glowing yellow eyes cutting through the darkness at thirty miles an hour.

"What the—" Kovak gasped.

Cyrus launched himself from ten feet away. His massive front paws hit the second hitman full in the chest, the sheer momentum snapping the man's sternum like dry firewood as they crashed onto the floor. Before the man could scream, Cyrus’s jaws clamped onto his shoulder, tearing through leather jacket, flesh, and bone with horrific, mechanical efficiency.

"Shoot it! Shoot it!" Kovak screamed, panicked, raising his pistol.

The third hitman fired twice—the muffled PFT-PFT of the suppressor echoing softly—but in the dark corridor, one bullet missed entirely, and the second merely grazed Cyrus’s heavy flank.

The injury only infuriated the beast further. Cyrus released the first man and whipped his head around, his jaws locking onto the second hitman's forearm, crushing the radio and wrist bone in a single bite.

Kovak backed away in absolute terror, dropping his weapon as he stumbled backward down the grand staircase, his night-vision goggles flying off his face as he hit the marble floor below.

Standing at the top of the stairs, bathed in the dim red emergency light, was Julian Hart. He held a high-caliber revolver in his right hand, his face cold as stone.

Beside him stood Vic, holding a submachine gun.

"You picked the wrong house, Kovak," Julian said softly.

Kovak scrambled backward on his hands and knees toward the front entrance, only to find the massive front doors blocked by Vic’s men, who had rushed in from the courtyard.

Behind him, coming down the stairs step by step with dark blood dripping from his jowls, was Cyrus. And walking right behind the giant dog, her small hand resting lightly on his bloody flank, was Maisie.

"He's the one who smelled like cold ash," Maisie said to Julian, pointing her finger down at Kovak. "He's the chief bad man."