He broke from his handler without a command, crossed the now-empty mess hall, and came straight to me. Not cautiously. Not curiously. With purpose. He sat at my feet, body rigid, eyes still locked on the corridor, as if positioning himself exactly where he needed to be.
The room froze.
Because dogs like Titan don’t make independent decisions lightly. They’re trained to follow commands, to defer to handlers, to operate within a structure that mirrors the chain of command. When one of them overrides that structure, it means something is wrong at a level humans haven’t fully grasped yet.
Carrick noticed it too.
He didn’t comment on it immediately, but I saw the shift in his posture, the recalibration of his assessment.
“What else do you see?” he asked.
That question told me he was ready to listen.
“Building 12,” I said. “Rear access. Unlogged entries. This isn’t the main event. It’s a distraction.”
Before he could respond, the first shot rang out.
Not inside the building. Outside. Sharp, precise, controlled.
