Luke’s wrists were tightly bound, but he managed to remove the thick ring from his right hand, three small slits in its face hiding miniature blades on hinges. It was likely to be overlooked when a tango disarmed him, as it had been today, the tiny tools offering him options when there weren’t any left.

But his hands weren’t facing each other, and revealing the blades was far harder than it should have been. He flipped one blade out. A distant scream reached his ears and he turned abruptly toward it, the ring falling to the rug with a muffled thud.

Fuck.

That was Summer. He had to hurry. He dropped to his knees. Where the hell did it go? He let himself fall sideways. There, several inches beneath the desk, was the tool that would let him escape his bindings. He twisted his body into position, groping blindly for the ring, straining to hear Summer’s cries.

C’mon, baby. Please.

His fingers closed around the ring, the sharp little knife cutting his skin like broken glass. But he had it, and he twisted again, this time using the blade to wrestle through the plastic and tape. It took some doing, but he got himself free.

Walsh had left Luke’s weapons, and he quickly armed himself, gun at the ready, before going in search of Summer. He had to find her before she was hurt. It was his job to protect her and she’d been taken right in front of his eyes.

Another scream had him changing direction. She sounded far away, the long corridor with tens of closed doors transporting her screams over an unknown distance.

Where the hell is your sister, Buckeye?

He wasn’t expecting an answer and he didn’t get one, and he imagined his old friend looking down in frustration, unable to intervene. Edward was gone. Finding Summer was Luke’s responsibility and his alone, no matter how much he wished for divine intervention.

The gallop of an animal bounding toward him made Luke spin around, confusion changing to relief. It was Zeke, minus his collar and wearing his bulletproof vest. Mac and the guys must have sent the dog to find him, removing the collar to cut down on the sound of his approach.

“Summer. We have to find Summer.” He pinched his shirt and held it out for the dog to sniff. “Where is she, boy? Scent!”

Zeke had failed scent training. It just wasn’t his thing. But Luke had faith in the dog when his nose hit the ground and he took off running, faith he sincerely hoped wasn’t misplaced. There was a connection between Summer and the dog that defied explanation, and it wouldn’t surprise Luke one damn bit if that animal was able to find her.

He followed the dog past an intersection of hallways, Zeke going ten feet down one hall before stopping and looping back to sniff out a different path, again changing to a run. Luke could only follow through two more intersections like that one, acutely aware of every door they passed unchecked and the lack of recent sounds from Summer.

She has to be okay.

I need her.

He didn’t have time to examine the emotion that was coursing through his bloodstream unnamed. The dog stopped suddenly, again circling back, this time sitting beside a door and tapping his paw on the ground twice.

His signal.

Luke could have kissed him.

The dog who’d failed scent training was telling him Summer was inside. Luke lifted his gun, taking a deep breath and slowly turning the doorknob. It was locked. He backed up, raising his knee and kicking the door open with a single adrenaline-fueled motion.

Summer was on the floor with Walsh half on top of her, the hem of her shirt in his hands and several inches of her abdomen exposed. Fury flared inside Luke like a blaze doused with accelerant. His voice roared with the command that could turn the docile companion at his feet into the finest of military weapons. “Zeke! Catch.”

The dog bared his teeth, growled, and launched himself at Walsh, who screamed and scrambled to his feet. The dog responded just like he should, though he’d gone years without any reinforcement training, locking his jaws onto Walsh’s arm and not letting go.

“Get him off of me!” Walsh cried, flailing like a man on fire.

Luke bent over Summer, pulling her shirt back down to her waist. She had angry-looking bruises and abrasions on her face, and it was clear she’d been punched and hit. A need for violence was building in him, a need to pummel Walsh’s face as Walsh had pummeled hers. He helped her sit up and cut the ties binding her wrists. “Are you okay?”

She was obviously dazed. “I think so.”

He helped her stand and turned back to Walsh. “Heel.” The dog released Walsh and sat down. Luke holstered his weapon and cracked his knuckles. “Now how about you hit me like you hit her.”

Walsh looked from the dog to Luke and back again. He sobbed. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Luke was barely keeping himself in check. He leaned forward, the fingers of his right hand clenching into a fist. “Fucking coward.” He spit on Walsh and took a step back, forcing his shoulders to relax. He wasn’t worth it.

“Who’s the coward now?” asked Walsh.

Luke took one big step toward him and clocked him in the jaw, one single blow that carried the force of his anger. “You shouldn’t hit girls, asshole.” He made the hand signal for attack, the dog once again locking onto Walsh’s arm. “I’d use zip cuffs,” he yelled over Walsh’s hysterics, “but I seem to be fresh out.”

Mac’s deep voice echoed down the hall. “Wiseman? Zeke?”

“Over here,” Luke called.

Mac and Razorback appeared at the door. “Jesus H. Christ, we’ve been looking all over for you. Heel, Zeke.”

The dog kept his jaws clenched.

“Heel, Zeke,” said Luke. The dog released Walsh and sat down, awaiting his next command.

Mac shook his head. “I hate that dog.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t. But still. Freaking beast thinks he’s the boss of me.”

Mac cuffed Walsh while Luke moved back to Summer. “Come on.” He led her from the room and pulled her gently into his arms, guilt filling him up like liquid metal as she wept.