Chapter 4 - Into the Red Zone
With explosive, terrifying force, the massive dog lunged forward. The thick leather leash wrapped securely around the leg of the heavy mahogany table snapped taut with a sharp crack. The table groaned, tilted dangerously, and then flipped completely over, spilling expensive scotch, water pitchers, and heavy plates across the floor.
The three men in the loud suits shouted in alarm and instantly reached inside their suit jackets for hidden firearms. Gallagher's enforcers drew their weapons in a fluid, practiced blur, steel flashing under the warm chandeliers.
But Brutus was not lunging for the rival crew.
Completely confused, disoriented, and overstimulated by the deafening crash right beside his ear, the dog targeted the direct source of the terrifying noise. Toby was on his hands and knees amid the wreckage of plates, staring in absolute, frozen horror as the massive pit bull closed the distance in a fraction of a second.
Brutus's powerful jaws clamped viciously onto the thick canvas fabric of Toby's uniform jacket right at the shoulder.
Toby let out a high, reedy scream of pure, unadulterated terror that pierced the restaurant.
"Brutus! No!" Gallagher's roar shook the hanging wine glasses overhead. He lunged bodily over the overturned table, grabbed the dog's thick leather collar, and hauled backward with all his tremendous strength, the thick veins in his neck bulging against his skin.
The dog did not register his master's command. One hundred and twenty pounds of pure muscle, completely blinded by panic, adrenaline, and defensive instinct, thrashed violently with its jaws locked deep into the fabric, dragging the screaming teenager across the splintered floorboards.
Absolute chaos erupted in the Copper Anchor.
Patrons screamed at the top of their lungs and dove headfirst beneath heavy dining tables. The rival men backed rapidly away toward the exit with their guns drawn, completely unsure of whether to shoot the dog, Gallagher, or each other. Gallagher's men stood frozen in tactical hesitation—their weapons were drawn, but pointed rigidly at the floor. You simply did not shoot the boss's prized dog under any circumstances whatsoever. You just didn't do it.
Even if it was actively mauling a terrified kid to pieces.
"Get him off!" Arthur shrieked hysterically from behind the wooden bar, hiding completely beneath the beer taps. "Somebody shoot the damn thing!"
Gallagher threw a powerful punch straight into Brutus's ribs. The impact produced a heavy, sickening thud that echoed in the room. "Drop it, Brutus! Drop!"
Nothing happened. The dog was completely unreachable in its frenzied state. Its eyes had rolled back until there was almost nothing visible except the whites and manic, glowing yellow. It was seconds away from tearing Toby's arm entirely out of its socket, and once it tasted warm blood, it would inevitably go straight for the kid's throat.
Mave stood frozen for a split second at the POS station. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs like a trapped bird trying to break free. The cynical, survivalist voice screaming inside her head told her to turn around, run frantically through the kitchen back door, go home, and let violent, dangerous men solve their own bloody problems.
Then she looked down at Toby. He was nineteen. Just last week, he had nervously shown her pictures of his little sister's science fair on his cracked phone screen. Right now, his face was stark white, completely paralyzed by oncoming death.
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Mave looked over at Gallagher's armed enforcers. Trained killers, ruthless street soldiers—yet all of them stood there utterly useless in the face of raw, uncalculated nature.
Mave did not think twice. If she had stopped to actually think about what she was doing, she would have turned and run. Instead, she unclipped her heavy black service tray from her waist belt. She grabbed a thick, wet, oversized linen bar towel from the counter, took a deep breath, and walked directly into the center of the raging madness.
