SLAM.
Barnaby stood over the kickboxing champion, his dark, scarred muzzle inches from Blake’s jugular, his amber eyes burning with predatory discipline, letting out a low, guttural, subterranean rumble that vibrated straight through Blake’s ribcage:
GRRRRRRR.
Blake let out an ear-splitting, strangulated shriek, his hands clawing feebly at the vinyl, his eyes rolling back in sheer, un-calibrated terror:
“GET IT OFF ME! PLEASE! I YIELD! I YIELD! DON'T LET IT BITE ME!”
TACK.
TACK.
TACK.
The sound of hand-welted naval leather bridge boots stepping through the pulverized splinters of the front entrance was slow, unhurried, rhythmic, and concussive.
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Every single step fell with the mechanical, heavy cadence of a naval battery firing across an enclosed harbor.
Walking onto the mat behind the tactical stack…
Wearing his full Service Dress Blue uniform of heavy midnight-blue wool despite the indoor warmth, four solid-silver cast stars blazing on his shoulder boards, ten dense rows of combat decorations covering his broad chest including the Navy Cross with gold star, the Silver Star with two oak leaf clusters, and the Distinguished Service Medal…
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