It only takes one bullet to stop a dog.
The dog was going insane and the guy was fighting him tooth and nail. He cried out in pain and I saw the red stain of blood.
The only way out was past them and I tried to squeeze past the melee of dog and man fighting in the hallway, but a hand wrapped around my ankle and jerked. I fell hard to the floor, my knees and elbows slamming onto the hardwood. The breath rushed out of me in a huff. We hit the wall and something fell, glass splintering into a thousand pieces.
In desperation, I kicked back and must have hit him because I heard a grunt. McClane was still going berserk and I crawled forward on my hands and knees to scramble to my feet.
Rushing to the front door, I yanked it open, grabbing the truck keys from the table. “McClane! Come!” I had no idea if he’d obey me, but sure enough, he did and we bolted outside.
I ran for the truck. McClane needed no command to jump inside, and I followed. Seconds later, the engine roared to life and I slammed it into reverse. Thank God there was no one behind me because I didn’t even look before backing up. I glanced in the rearview mirror as we sped down the street and saw the man standing in the doorway, watching us.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I said aloud. My hands were shaking and I just wanted to pull over and have a nervous breakdown, but I was too scared to stop.
I reached out, needing some kind of reassurance, and buried my fingers in McClane’s fur. He whined a little and I glanced over.
“Oh no!” There was blood on him.
I skidded the truck to a halt on the side of the road and shoved it in park. “McClane, c’mere.” I ran my hands over him and that’s when I saw it. He’d been cut somehow, from the glass maybe, and it was deep, his fur matted with blood. I had to get him to the vet. But where?
Pulling out my phone, I Googled for vets nearby, then shoved the truck back into gear. Following the map on my phone with one hand, I drove to the nearest veterinary clinic. McClane put his head down on the seat.
“It’s okay, McClane,” I said. “You’re going to be okay.” I didn’t know if I was reassuring him or myself, probably more of the latter since he obviously couldn’t understand me.
When we pulled into the clinic, McClane didn’t get off the seat, his dark eyes just staring soulfully at me.
Leaving the door open, I ran inside. “Please help me!”
Two workers came out right away, and between the three of us we got McClane inside. They took him into the back and I stood staring at the swinging doors, feeling like they’d just taken a family member away from me. I started bawling.
A worker put her arm around me. “He’ll be okay,” she said, rubbing my shoulder. “Our doctors are the best.”
“But I don’t even like dogs!” I sobbed. They were slobbery and smelled and McClane jumped on me with his dirty paws … and today he’d saved my life. I cried harder.
She guided me to a chair in the waiting room and I sat down heavily. A moment later, she thrust a box of tissues into my hands.
“I’ll let you know how he is,” she said sympathetically. “As soon as I hear anything.”
I nodded, wiping my face and snotty nose. I’d stopped crying and a hiccup escaped. If something happened to McClane, Ryker would never forgive me, I was sure.
Unable to just sit there, I began to pace. The lady came back with some forms for me to fill out and I jotted my name, address, and all other relevant information. I figured I’d better use my name instead of Ryker’s, not the least of which was because I didn’t know his actual address.
A half hour went by before someone came out to talk to me.
“Is he going to be okay?” I asked.
The doctor smiled reassuringly. “He’s going to be fine. He needed surgery, though, and stitches. We should keep him a day or so for observation.”
Relief flooded me. Thank God. McClane would be okay. I sat down again and the doctor gave me a little pat before disappearing back behind the swinging doors.
I had blood and dog hair on my hands so I searched for the bathroom, washing up and taking a dampened paper towel to my tear-streaked face.
As I was coming back out, I heard someone talking to the lady behind the front desk, and I paused around the corner to listen.
“… had an injured dog,” he was saying. “A German Shepherd. Have you seen her? She’s my sister and she called me, very upset. I came as quickly as I could.”
Me. He had to be talking about me. Except I’d called no one and I didn’t have a brother.
I peeked around the corner and had to stifle a gasp. It was the same guy. He’d cleaned up from his tussle with McClane and looked exactly like what he was purporting to be: a concerned brother come to collect his distraught sister.