This was a held breath. The air tasted like metal.
Twelve of them. A living wall of muscle and teeth around Sergeant Reed’s flag-draped casket.
Shepherds and Malinois, motionless for three days.
They hadn’t taken water. They hadn’t touched food.
They just watched.
“I want them gone,” the General hissed, his voice cutting the air. “The dignitary’s convoy is five minutes out.”
His polished dress shoes clicked on the marble floor. A sound of pure impatience.
A young handler stepped forward, his catch-pole held out like a prayer.
The lead dog, a scarred Malinois we called Ghost, didn’t growl.
He just lifted his lip. A silent, terrifying promise.
The handler froze, his face draining of all color. “They won’t move, sir,” he stammered, backing away. “They’re protecting him.”
“He’s dead,” the General snapped. “Who are they protecting him from?”
That’s when the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel groaned open.
