Chapter 4 - The Fury of the PackTime seemed to fracture into slow motion.
As the mercenary's finger began to squeeze the trigger, Bruno didn't hesitate. He didn't cower. With a sudden, explosive burst of athletic power born of pure instinct, the dog launched himself straight off the mattress—not away from the gun, but directly into the gunman's chest.
Bang!
The silenced shot went wide, shattering the IV pole into a shower of plastic and metal. The mercenary staggered backward, overwhelmed by seventy pounds of muscle, fury, and razor-sharp claws slamming into his windpipe.
"Get him off me! Get this animal off me!" the man screamed, flailing wildly as Bruno clamped his jaws onto the tactical vest, tearing through heavy Kevlar like wet paper.
The second fake agent raised his weapon to fire at the dog, but Miller—recovering from the shock—unloaded his service weapon in a rapid two-shot sequence. The agent dropped instantly, collapsing against the doorway.
Vance cursed, pulling his own pistol from his shoulder holster and aiming it directly at Tony’s chest on the bed. "Game over, old man."
"You forgot one thing, Agent," Tony said calmly, his hand sliding beneath the hospital blanket.
Vance froze as the heavy click of a concealed Colt .45 echoed in the small room. Tony had smuggled his personal backup piece into the hospital under the mattress lining—a final insurance policy in a world where nobody could be trusted.
Thud.
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Tony didn't aim for the chest. He pulled the trigger, blowing out Vance’s kneecap.
Vance shrieked, dropping to the linoleum floor in a heap of agony, clutching his shattered leg as blood pooled rapidly around his designer shoes.
