"Drop the leashes," he said. "Step away from the animals."
"I will not be dropping the leashes," Jade replied firmly.
"I'm not asking."
"Neither am I."
Something shifted in his face. The smile disappeared. He took another step forward.
And now the geometry of the situation was fully clear: chain-link fence directly at her back, the front bumper of his cruiser to her left, Harlan in front of her, Kline circling right. Four walls. No exit.
She was 36 years old, and she had been in tighter spots than this. She stayed still and kept her breathing even, and she ran the options the way the Army had taught her: fast, cold, without panic.
"These dogs are a public safety threat," Harlan said. He pulled his radio off his belt. "I'm calling animal control. They're going to come down here and they are going to take these animals. You can either make that easy or you can make that hard. Personally," he shrugged, "I don't care which way you pick."
"Those dogs served this country," Jade said. Her voice had not changed, not one degree. "They have more documented service than you do. You are not taking them."
Harlan's jaw tightened. He brought the radio up. He never keyed it.
The instant his hand moved—the exact instant—Zeus felt it. Not the words; dogs do not need words. They read the air. They read the body. They read the small, invisible electricity of a threat closing in on someone they love. Zeus had spent six years in active combat zones reading exactly that. So had Ares.
They moved as one. Both dogs exploded forward to the full reach of their leashes, hitting the end of the line with a force that snapped Jade's arms taut. They planted themselves directly between her and the two officers, shoulder to shoulder, a wall of fur and muscle and focused, furious energy.
Zeus dropped his head low and let out a sound that was less bark and more warning: deep, chest-level. The kind of sound that bypassed your brain and went straight to the oldest part of you—the part that knew before thought, before reason: Do not move.