Sheepdogs: Keeping the Wolves at Bay, Gordon Carroll [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

thing, men who had to be able to kill in a heartbeat, and could stand the reality of collateral damage without self-destructing.

So, yeah, I thought of Lisa, sad and crying at the death of her son, but at the same time I thought how much worse it would be for her to lose her husband and baby girl too.

My Smith and Wesson stayed in its holster.

“You have five days,” he said.

“What is it?”

“It’s a new kind of flash drive called a thumb dot.”

“A thumb dot,” I echoed dumbly.

“Named for its size and shape.” He held up a circular disc inside a clear plastic case about the size of a pinky-nail.

“What’s so special about it?”

He just looked at me with that irritating emotionless look.

“Ok, so what’s on this drive?”

For a second I thought he wasn’t going to answer, just keep staring with those flat eyes. But then he did, in a way.

“It’s better, for you, if you don’t know. That way, when this is all over, you get to live.”

“Five days isn’t long to find something when I don’t even know it’s purpose.”

“I’m willing to take this gamble on you because you’ve been checked out, Mr. Mason. You’re good at what you do. So do it. Be the hero and save the man and his daughter.”

“You’re not the real boss here,” I said. “Who’re you working for? What’s this all about?”

“As I said before, it’s better for you not to know. All you do need to know is that the people I work for are very dangerous and resourceful and that their power stretches far enough to reach you wherever you might try to hide should you fail. Understand?”

“You know,” I said, still facing that cold, emotionless face, “I only just met you and already I’ve had to stop myself from killing you twice.” He didn’t even blink, just stared right into me. “I won’t deny myself the pleasure a third time.”

“Five days,” was all he said.

I held up a hand like I was back in school. “Does today count as one of the five? Because it’s getting pretty late?”

Mr. Spock didn’t smile. He put his sunglasses back on. “Starting tomorrow.”

He turned and all of them walked to the limo and drove away. I had no idea who these guys were or who they were working for, but I had a license plate number and a good vehicle description. Besides, this was Colorado not Hollywood, so how many black limos could there be?

The two girls, standing outside the store, were still on their phones. There had been a fight, guns drawn, threats made; discussion of a double kidnapping, ransom and murder, all within twenty yards of them and they hadn’t noticed a thing.

Kids.

16

Max

Two days later Max developed pneumonia, the aspirated vomit having infected his lungs. His temperature raged at a hundred and seven and his breathing came in short, quick pants that robbed him of energy and did little to oxygenate his cells.

He had fought and killed two dogs this morning. His captors had taken him to an old, broken down barn where humans set him in a ring facing another dog. It was live or die and Max was not ready to die.

He rested now, while the wind howled and beat at the bars of his cage. Another storm threatened to move in, but that did nothing to stop the humans from driving up to the barn with their dogs and their money.

The swollen eye had gone down enough for Max to see, but he had several new wounds to make up for it. The last dog had been tough. A thick bodied Rottweiler with a mangy coat and knotted muscles rippling along its shoulders and haunches. Scores of white scars spoke of years of battles fought, and the chilling look of its flat, black eyes attested to the animal’s absolute confidence and determination.

The beast came in low and fast, butting Max in the chest with its blunt, club-like head and flipping him onto his back before he could dodge. The rotty tore a flap along Max’s side as he scrambled to his feet. Max slashed back so fast that his bottom left canine caught the dog at the corner of its right eye and cut a four inch gash up its skull.

They both circled warily, looking for an opening. Gone was the crowd, the yelling, the people cheering and passing money back and forth. All that mattered was the animal in front of him. It was kill or be killed and Max refused to lie down, even though his eyes burned in their sockets and his head felt dull and dizzy, his lungs on fire.

The black dog feinted high and went low again, but this time Max was ready for the trick and clamped down on the back of the rotty's neck. The Rottweiler dove ahead, snapping at the soft, inner thigh of Max’s back leg. Max launched forward, feeling flesh tear and blood run as the move ripped his leg from the dog’s jaws and vaulted Max into a somersault, the kinetic energy flipping the bigger dog with him. Max never released his grip, having learned this maneuver during his encounter with the bear. Instead he crushed down and allowed the twisting flip to do what he himself no longer had the energy to accomplish. There was an audible snap that could be heard even above the crowd, and the big, black dog went limp beneath him.

That had been hours ago, before the storm started to blow. The big man Max bit on the bicep threw him a few hunks of raw meat that still sat in the corner of his cage. Max was too sick to eat. He tried to lap up a little of the water in the dented and rusted metal bowl that sat on the far side of the cage. But it smelled putrid and Max threw up what little he had been able to take in. He dropped to his stomach then