It came from thirty yards behind Vincent, shattering the quiet of the graveyard and spraying bark chips from the trunk of an oak tree inches from Vincent's right ear. Vincent shrieked, dropping his weapon as he spun around, his eyes wide with blind panic.

The fourth floor, reserved for special protective custody cases, was supposed to be a fortress. Two armed city police officers sat outside Room 408, drinking lukewarm coffee and scrolling through their phones, completely unaware of the shadow detaching itself from the elevator alcove.

Leo Buckland walked with absolute silence, his leather-soled shoes making no sound on the polished linoleum.

Behind him walked Rocco. The German Shepherd moved like a ghost, his head low, eyes tracking every shadow, every security camera, every potential threat.

When the two guards looked up, startled by the sudden presence of the city’s most feared criminal walking down a restricted corridor, they didn't even have time to reach for their holstered weapons.

Rocco didn't bark. He didn't charge. He simply stepped forward, planted his massive front paws against the chest of the left guard, and let out a single, earth-shaking rumble from deep within his chest. The guard’s eyes rolled back in sheer terror, and he slumped backward against the wall, unconscious from pure adrenaline shock.

The second guard froze, his hands hovering over his gun belt.

Leo stopped two feet away. He looked at the trembling officer with cold, dead eyes.

"You can draw your weapon," Leo whispered, his voice like grinding stones. "Or you can take a thirty-minute smoke break behind the parking garage. Which one do you think your pension will survive?"

The guard swallowed hard, looked at the terrifying 100-pound German Shepherd staring holes through his chest, and slowly backed away down the hall without saying a word.

Leo pushed open the door to Room 408.

The room was bathed in the pale green glow of heart monitors and intravenous pumps. In the center of the bed lay Jonathan Carr. His face was a map of purple bruises, his nose wrapped in gauze, an oxygen tube taped neatly beneath his nostrils. He looked small, fragile, stripped of the tough-guy facade he had worn for half a year.

Leo walked to the bedside and pulled up a chair. Rocco sat down right beside the bed, gently resting his massive chin on the edge of the white cotton sheets, his tail giving a tiny, tentative thump against the linoleum floor.

Carr’s eyelids fluttered open. He blinked against the dim light, coughing weakly.

"Leo?" he rasped, his voice sounding like sandpaper. "Am I... am I still in hell?"

"No, Johnny," Leo said softly, resting a heavy, calloused hand on the edge of the mattress. "You're out. But you're in a lot worse trouble than you think."

Carr managed a weak, bitter smile, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. "The feds... they know I called off the raid. They're going to court-martial me. They’ll throw me in a federal penitentiary for aiding a criminal organization."

"They won't get the chance," Leo said, his voice hardening into steel. "Because as far as the FBI knows, Officer Jonathan Carr died at 7:13 AM in St. Agnes Cemetery. They buried an empty box, and they pulled a dead man out of the dirt."

Carr stared at him, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

Leo pulled a manila folder from under his coat and tossed it onto the hospital tray. Inside were pristine, authentic travel documents, passports, bank routing numbers to offshore accounts in Zurich, and a plane ticket leaving for South America in four hours.

"Your badge is burned, Johnny. Your life in the police department is over," Leo said, standing up and buttoning his coat. "You saved my life more times than I can count, even when you were wearing a wire. And my dog trusts you. That’s currency you can't buy in this city."

Carr looked from the passports up to Leo's unyielding eyes. "And you, Leo? What about you? The feds are coming for your entire empire."