The dog’s name was Ranger.
He was one of the base’s most reliable military working dogs, trained in detection and tactical support, a dog whose instincts were sharp enough to detect explosives buried beneath concrete and whose obedience had been drilled to near perfection.
But in that moment, Ranger wasn’t looking at his handler.
He was staring across the yard.
At Caleb.
His ears flattened slowly against his skull.
His breathing changed.
Short.
Uneven.
Something about the man at the fence had triggered something deep inside him—something older than commands, older than training.
“Easy,” muttered the handler, Corporal Nate Holloway, noticing the tension in the leash.
But Ranger didn’t move.
Continue on the next page:
