“Ma’am,” the officer said carefully, hand hovering near his radio, “is your dog trained?”
Serena nodded once. “Extensively.”
The soldiers began talking all at once, voices overlapping, accusations tumbling out, claiming provocation, claiming fear, claiming the dog had threatened them, and Serena said nothing, because silence, she knew, was often the most effective way to let the truth surface on its own.
She reached into her jacket and handed the officer a folded ID.
He unfolded it, then unfolded it again, his posture shifting as he read, his expression tightening in recognition, and when he looked back up at her, his voice had changed.
“Ma’am,” he said, lower now, “are you… former Joint Special Operations?”
“Yes,” Serena replied. “Fourteen years.”
The color drained from the soldiers’ faces, bravado collapsing into something closer to fear, and one of them tried to laugh it off, saying, “So what, she’s retired.”
“Yes,” the officer said slowly, “but that dog isn’t just a pet.”
Another cruiser arrived, then another, and when a senior deputy stepped out and took one look at Vex’s posture, he nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of something understood without explanation.
