Hey everyone welcome. Bear & Cub has been a great story and it's proven well on AO3 (TuxEdwards). If you do enjoy B&C, please read some of my other works: Counting, Counting Down (the sequel to Counting), Not Capable of Love, Fire (a Counting short story on AO3) and Jaded (on AO3). Please take a few minutes to drop me an email to let me know if Bear & Cub is for you: Foxfire3730@proton.me

 

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"The Universe is Made of Stories, Not of Atoms" -Muriel Rukeyser

 

I Promised...

 

Smith

Five hours ago

"There is no reason you need to talk to him alone! Why don't we all just sit down in the living room and talk it out? He's shy, Smith; he barely opens for me," Clyde semi-shouts at me as he flips pancakes. 

"Hey, calm down, Burns. I'm just thinking that if he and I are alone, he might be a little more open. You know what? You think about it. I need something from upstairs. I'll be right back."

I head up the stairs and think about Burns' resistance to me just talking to Ryder. Damn, I need that number! I walk quickly down the hall after I reach the top floor. Slowly, with a slight creak, I open the boy's bedroom door. We didn't have time to make the bed early this morning, so Burns and I just laid them in their sleeping bags and zipped them up. They lay there snuggled up to each other, like it's just the way things are supposed to be. Ryder snores away with an almost little coo. 

How simple would it be if I entered the room and retrieved the child? However, how could I escape this location with Burns downstairs? Maybe I can scare them both into not saying anything and have Ryder write the number down. I take a step into the room to help bolster my confidence when I hear something that sends chills down my spine. 

A low growl comes from the other side of the bed. The dog, um, Bear, is threatening to jump on me as he slowly comes around the bedpost. Shit, that dog's not messing around. I slowly back out of the room, and Bear lays down and stares me down. 

As soon as I back out and close the door, I hear Gus tell the dog to shut up. Walking into my room, I dig the satellite phone out of my bag and take a small business card from my back pocket. After shutting my bedroom door and locking it, I head out to the balcony and dial the number on the back of the card. 

"Toby, it's Smith."

"I thought you were in the mountains; how are you calling me?"

I sigh at Toby and answer, "I'm on a satellite phone, you idiot. Now listen, things aren't going well up here. Burns won't let me talk to the little shit. I saved their lives! I even offered my cabin to hide in, and he is just so unreasonable."

"How about the number? Just ask for the whole number and leave it there. It'll be hours before he can get back to town, and we'll be done with our business by then."

I think about that, and I might be able to tell him the FBI wants the whole, complete number. "That might work. Is everything ready for the next auction?"

"Yes, I got the boys and the hotel set up. If everything works out, we can have one more Boy Auction and leave town to set up somewhere else." 

"Good, I'll be leaving around noon. I'll call you while I'm on the road," I tell Toby, flipping the card around to see the `Shepherd Security' logo. Hanging up the phone, I take a deep breath to calm down, toss the phone and the card in my bag, and head out of the room. 

Clyde Burns 

Present Day

I had enough time to go to my room and change into something warm. I listen at the boy's door and hear them roughhousing, so I knock on their door, telling them to calm down and dress warm. I head downstairs to make sandwiches for dinner. 

They finally come downstairs in a beastly trample, with red cheeks, and heaving for air. Bear lifts his head as the commotion continues, but he returns to his doggy dreamland next to the fireplace. "Feeling good, guys?" I ask, expecting an answer amongst the giggling. I get exactly that and something that sounded like two boys calling me uncle. 

We giggled and laughed at bad `dad jokes,' funny things that only adolescent boys understand like `farts,' `burps,' and saying the word "balls," and sometimes I have no idea what language they are speaking. It's some kind of `Gen Alpha' slang. I love watching them act their age and enjoy being together. I'd like to think that the good I'm doing here makes up for some of the bad, which I couldn't stop from happening.

The dusk begins to change as the sun sinks below the horizon. I pick up the bourbon bottle and head outside to the deck to light the fire pit. Laying down on the lounger, I fight the voices in my head that warn me that something is still very wrong. After I pour me a full glass, I take my gun and set it on the little stand next to me. 

Unfortunately, I don't get to enjoy the calm, blissful night for too long before the patio door opens, and I get raw, uncontrolled, and explosive excitement. "Uncle! Uncle! Uncle! Cub found fireworks!"

Cub drops a cardboard box at my feet full of a 4th of July show and is talking a mile a minute. "Look, Burns, I found Sky Screamers, Roman Candles, M-80s, Firecrackers, Air Bombs, Sparklers..."

"Whoa, stop, stop," I interrupt him. "These don't belong to us. We can't go lighting them off and making a show. Besides, we're trying not to bring attention to ourselves." 

The boys whined a little, but we put the box over on the picnic table. I can't stand these thoughts anymore. I have to work some of these thoughts out. "Boys, come here; I have to talk to you." The two hot little boys hop up and sit next to me. Both of them are in their tight jeans, which I bought them months ago. Ryder is sporting a 49'ers football hooded sweater, and Cub is wearing a GI Joe army green sweater. Needless to say, they are both very cute in their cold-weather clothes. 

"What's up?" Cub asks, wiggling his little butt anticipating the time when he and Ryder can get back to running around. "Ryder, I want to talk about the number."

"I told you, I don't know what the number means," he says, frustrated with my line of questioning. I have a feeling this won't be over until we can figure this out.

"No, my question wasn't very clear, was it? I want to talk not about the number itself, but if you had to memorize anything else for Lenny."

Ryder, sitting on his knees, picks at his jeans with his fingers, like I suddenly figured out some secret. "Yeah, I had to. They made me remember all the contracts between the family and the businesses that rent our boys." 

This explains why we never find computers or file cabinets at raids or abandoned bases. They treated little six-year-old Ryder as a computer. "Okay, good, good boy. Now think, do you remember any of the numbers on the paper in any of the contracts?"

"No, of course not; the number is too long!"

Ryder is getting angry, and I just have to keep him calm, or I'm never going to figure this out. Cub's face tells me that he realizes this too, and he reaches out, taking Ryder's hand and showing his support.

I take him into my arms and hold him, saying, "Shhh, calm down. There is no need to get upset. Breathe in and breathe out." I say it as calmly as I can. 

He calms down as he takes deep breaths, and other than squeezing Cub's hand, he's doing very well. He opens his eyes and looks at me, questioning, "Um, maybe; I don't know. I... um... in like what?"

This is it; I can feel it. I really think I'm on to something. "Ryder, tell me the last contract they made you read."

"The whole thing?"

"Yup, the whole thing, and I'll make you two hot chocolate," I add to entice them to stay on subject.

They cheer, and Ryder begins reciting. We all get up and head into the cabin, but not before Cub calls out into the darkness for Bear. He eventually comes our way, strutting and panting after a successful night of marking his territory. Cub shuts the door behind him, and Bear curls up over by the fireplace.

I get a pan and the milk out as the small boy climbs up on one of the bar stools. I can feel the heat from the milk as the pan warms up. The contract he's chosen to tell us about is as normal as any contract between two people I've ever seen. Except it's about renting boys to be fucked by fat, sweaty, disgusting men. There are clauses covering if the boy is hurt at a different level. It totally turns my stomach. There is even a clause that says that in case the boy is lost, he is defined as killed, lamed, or rescued. I wondered, if that is because I've rescued a few, and that makes me feel a little better. 

Cub entertains himself by working on copying the list of words I gave him. It's not hard--cat, dog, car, Joe, Gus, Cub, etc.--but he needs to start somewhere. He was so brave, coming to me and asking for help learning to read. Once this whole thing is over, I'll get him a proper tutor--better than me, that is.

Slowly, I add the chocolate and stir it as it combines. Ryder talks about and draws childhood pictures with his finger on the bar top: "...The fresh group of boys will be delivered on the first of every month, and the payment is to be taken to 2501 and deposited in 7792. Failure to meet these terms will lead to..."

"Wait..." I interrupt him, making him jump a little. I remove the pan and pour the mixture into two mugs next to the stove. "Do those numbers appear anywhere on the paper?" I asked and thought about the last sentence he said. Why word it like that? Why use numbers?

Ryder blows on the steam from the mug. I can see him working over my question and searching through everything he's ever memorized. I set Cub's mug on the bar, and he hurries over, bringing over his word list, his pencil, and notebook paper. He climbs up on his stool next to his hot-chocolate mug. I'm not sure if he's totally ignoring us or if he just doesn't care. It's commendable that he works on his words as much as he does. 

Suddenly Ryder speaks up: "They appear next to each other, separated by the number three: 250137792."

"Okay, good, we're on the right track," I tell him, messing up his hair as I walk over and fill my glass with Bourbon. "So, the first number is probably a drop house or whatever they keep the family's money."

"A bank silly, everyone knows you keep money in a bank," Ryder interrupts me, then blows on his cocoa. His eyes look up at me, and his smile exhibits pride. 

"That's impossible. My team has checked every bank in town. There is no record of any accounts for the Kevson family." I corrected him and sat down on the couch. I watch the fire burn as I mull it over. 

"Well, I don't know why you never found any, but every Friday is banking day," he says as if what he's saying isn't important. 

"Banking day? Which bank?" I ask as I sit up.

Ryder simply shrugs and answers me, "All of them."

All of them? Bank day... bank... 2501, It's a bank number. All banks are given numbers. That's how armored truck companies can tell which money came from which bank. Satisfied with what I have figured out so far, I move on to the next mystery, 7792. It's too short to be an account number. I say before I take a smooth drink from my glass, "Tell me about banking day."

Looking over at the bar, I watch Ryder helping Cub with his words. I watch him for a little bit as I patiently wait for Ryder to finish. He kissed Cub on the cheek, hopped off his stool, and got his cocoa mug. He comes over to me, snuggles under my arm, and says, "Well, we enter a bank and go to a big vault with lots of drawers. I read off the numbers, and Lenny gets the boxes."

Boxes, deposit boxes at the bank--that's genius. So, the long number is really banks and the deposit boxes where the Kevsons collect their money. No wonder they want him back so badly. Ryder could be the only key to a few million dollars. I need some time to think about this. Will they stop hunting Ryder? Can we ever be safe? What have I gotten myself tangled into? 

I finish my glass, excuse myself from Ryder, and stand up. Heading to the liquor cabinet, I see, by pure coincidence, or call it luck if you believe in that type of thing, a blinking red light in the security room in the corner of my eye. Setting my glass down, I walk over into the room and check the security cameras. Absolute panic almost makes me freak out as I watch a pickup truck with five or six guys in it pull the gate off the hinges. My Jeep then followed it over the broken gate as they head to the cabin.

"Boys! Go grab your backpacks and run as fast as you can!" I shout and run up the stairs. I met them on the way back down. Their eyes grow large, realizing the urgency when they see my two underarm holsters, extra clips, and the sawed-off shotgun with extra shotgun shells from one end of my ammo belt to the other. "Run! Hurry!" I shout to hasten them. 

"What I don't understand," Ryder protests as Cub practically pulls him upstairs. 

"Come on, hurry! Just do it!" I hear Cub shout as their feet pound on the hard wood floor as they run to their room. I head outside and call for Bear to follow me. I tip over the patio table and double lounger. `Come on... come on...' I think as I place clips behind the tipped table and in my back pockets. I take the time to set the empty shotgun behind the hot tub, leaning on one of the walls.

Finally, the boys come down the stairs in a full run. It's a miracle that neither one fell. They run up to me with tears streaming down their faces, and I kneel to hug them. "You're fine. You're going to be fine. You need to run to the forest watch tower! Look, see it," I ask, pointing towards the lighted tower in the distance. 

"Yeah, yeah, but what about you?" Sobs Ryder.

"I'll be right behind you, I swear! I just need you two to make it there and call for help. The men in the tower will know what to do."

As Ryder leaps into my arms, I embrace my youngest boy for a few brief seconds. Cub is over at the picnic table, dumping his clothes out on the ground and filling his backpack with fireworks. "What are you doing? Go! Take Bear! Hurry!" 

Cub comes back to me, hugs me quickly, and tells me, "I love you, Burns. You better be right behind me."

"I promise," I tell him and give him a little tighter squeeze. Then he kisses me on the cheek, takes Ryder by the hand, and runs off into the night, calling for Bear to follow.

I hear voices coming around the house, and I prepare to hide behind the tipped table. I wait as long as I can before I start shooting. Flashlight beams slice through the cabin as men search each of the floors. I let them waste all the time they wanted. Each minute they waste, the boys get closer and closer to helping.

Cub

Ryder eventually started to run along with me instead of pulling me. Not much is said between the two of us, as I'm sure his thoughts mimic my own. Burns is once again putting his life on the line to protect us, but this time, he's alone. We get around the lake, and I take his hand, pulling him behind the fishing shed. 

Ryder is heaving painfully to catch his breath, as I am. We come to a stop, and I drop to my knees to dig in my backpack, producing the pack of smoke I've been hiding. I've been lucky that Burns doesn't count his supply of cigarette packs he keeps in the liquor cabinet back in the hotel. I snap out one cigarette and my dark blue lighter. The flint emits sparks that laminate my face in an odd, strobe-like fashion as I attempt to ignite this damn fuse.

"Really? You think stopping to smoke right now is a good idea?" Ryder asks me. 

"Shhh," I hush Ryder as Bear begins to emit a sick, deep growl, warning us that we're not alone. I pull him back into the shadow of the hut and whisper to him, "There's someone out there."

Clyde Burns

I remove the pistol from my back, take a long black cylinder from my pocket, and begin screwing on the silencer. I know what you're going to say: it's not fighting fair, it's illegal, or don't sink to their level. I should call out and make my presence known. I should be using non-lethal rounds, or maybe just run up to them and beat them up with my fist, arrest them, and take them in. But if you haven't figured it out by now, I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm not that type of cop. 

I peek around the table and see three beams of light cutting through the dark cabin. Two of them head upstairs, and the third goes into the security room. Working like a cop, like they've instructed you to from some book, just isn't reality. It tells us that everyone respects the badge when, in truth, nearly no one does anymore, not even those who wear it. 

I slip through the darkness and enter the cabin as quickly and quietly as possible. Checking up the stairs, I see the flashlights moving around from the end of the hall. They're not there, fellas. I think to myself and smile at the thought of the aggravation of driving from LA to here just to find the cabin empty. Well, it's about to get worse for you. 

The man comes out of the security room, and I watch his beam swing towards me, and I roll my body around the stair baluster. It connects with it and shines past me without revealing my position. It swings back across the living room when I lean out and shoot. POOT! He never saw it coming. I don't shoot to maim. I'm putting them down. They were coming for my boys, and I had to know I would stand against them. 

I hurry to him and click off his flashlight. The slight orange glow from the fireplace becomes the only light source and shows me that I just killed Emmet with narcotics. He brought cops! What an idiot! That makes things a little more difficult, but my end game is still the same. I take his clips and empty his pistol as quietly as I can. 

The two guys upstairs are coming down, and I hurry into position against the wall. The two are complaining that this trip was for nothing. I don't recognize the man, but the female--I don't think I'll ever forget--it's Jen. How'd she get mixed up in this? Smith seems to want Ryder badly if he's willing to use this amount of force. 

Once she hits the bottom of the stairs, I slam her into the wall with all my strength, holding her in place with my forearm across her throat. The log cabin wall doesn't give, and she drops her gun to weakly try and force me off her. With my other hand, I shoot up the stairs, POOT, POOT, and her partner falls back onto the stairs, and his shotgun clatters on the steps all the way down until it comes to rest at my feet. 

"Now, Jen, what are you doing here? And the company you're keeping while off duty is sketchy. I might have to add this to your performance review," I tell her with a sneer. Looking around, I don't see any more flashlight beams, and I wonder why. "How many of you are there? You better tell me, Jen, or I'll forget the debt I owe your mother and just shoot you and move on, until I find someone who will tell me."

"The boy... Smith wants the boy!" She gurgles painfully. I adjust my forearm to let her continue, "We need the boy... for, for..." 

But before she can finish, glass implodes into the cabin. Gun fire riddles the living room, tearing into everything and sending glass, wood, and other materials flying through the air. As the true gentleman that I am, I push Jen down the hall safe from the bullets and hasten my way up the stairs. Before running down the hall, I turn to look to see her lifeless body back at the foot of the stairs clutching the shotgun that was at my feet.

Damn it! I really did like her. 

Cub

Not-so-silent footsteps fall around us, and my right hand is tangled in thick, black fur. Bear's strong body practically vibrates in anticipation. This is what he's trained for. This is what he lives for. Bud would have been so proud of the guard dog he made. The men are milling around the fishing hut and can probably smell my cigarettes. Tall, dark shadows move around us, searching for us, searching for Ryder. His body is also shaking, but he's terrified. Not that I'm not scared. I've spent my whole life running from the cops, store owners, and the particular customer that won't take `no' for an answer, and I've gotten good at it. But something even more important is how good I am at `Distracting and Attacking.' 

Bringing up the baseball-sized firework to my cigarette, I gauge my next move carefully. Then, I take one of the Roman Candles and jam it in between the logs next to the fishing hut. Bear twitches with excitement, waiting for my command. I reach back and cover Ryder's eyes, and he gets the message and does so with both of his hands. This particular fist-sized firework is a mystery to me; all I know is that it's supposed to be let off in the air. The man comes around the corner, and the lit firework is tossed to him like a baseball would be tossed to a child. 

His first instinct is to catch it before knowing what it is or realizing it's on fire. I spin my back to him and stand in front of Bear, shielding his eyes, just in time for the light show to begin. Night becomes day, and the horrific screams coming from my victim alert the rest of them to where to look. I light the Roman Candle and take Ryder by the hand. We run out into the night as at least three men, one on fire, run into the lake as the surprise I left them in that wood pile goes off and showers them with brilliantly colored balls of fire and joy. 

Suddenly our way is lit up by headlights as some kind of truck is behind us, meaning I didn't trick everyone. "When I stop, you keep running; promise me!" I yell back to my companion. 

"No, we should stay together," he responds, tears still rolling down his cheeks. 

"I've got Bear, and they're not after me; they're after you. You have to keep going," I tell him, and then come sliding to a stop on the forest floor. He reluctantly runs past me, and the first guy I see, I yell, pointing at the idiot, "Fass!"

The dog is fast and lethal. I ignite an additional boomer from my cigarette and throw it with everything I have towards the hood of the truck, causing damage to the windshield. It lands on the hood and begins to pop and spin. I reach in my bag and pull out one of the Roman Candles and light it. The guys in the truck bail out and take cover as the ground-shaking boom takes place right before it explodes, sending debris everywhere. I turn from the blast and see Ryder about ten yards in front of me. "Run! What are you doing? Run!"

Clyde Burns

Bullets, bullets, and more bullets. Those assholes completely fill the first floor with everything they have. Nothing survived. I get the occasional ricochet, but I'm very safe upstairs. I unclip the five-inch cylinder from my ammo belt and insert my finger into the small pin at the top. When I begin to hear the clicking from empty guns, I jump out of the window onto the roof, throwing myself down the ninety-degree surface. As soon as I see them all standing on the back porch, I pull the pin and throw the flash bang grenade. Then, I block my eyes with my arms as it goes off right in the middle of the unexpecting group of gunmen. By the time I hit the ground with a thud and both of my nine-millimeters were drawn, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. 

They screamed and cursed in anger while trying to find cover and reload their automatic weapons. Three, four, five of them go down with three left. I take safety behind the hot tub and change my pistol clips, then put them back in my underarm holsters. Looking around the tub wall, I see the three of them clearly searching for me with burned retinas. Taking the shotgun I left back here, I filled it with shells. As the last one goes in, I cock it and yell, "You're the lucky few that survived, so don't press your luck; turn and stumble away. You're out classed here." 

Their response is immediate, as bullets riddle the hot tub, sending small streams of water to soak everything. I toss my last flash-bang grenade to the left, towards where they are, and head to the right.  When the bang goes off, I kick off the tub wall sliding from behind it and shoot three more times, one shell for each, and they go down wondering what happened.

Cub

Ryders eyes going wide is my first warning. Bear's bark and growling to my right were the second, but it's not enough to save me from a man and dog flying through the air slamming into me. Rolling around on the ground, I kick the man in the face as he screams, so I can get free of his grip. My eyes frantically look for Ryder. Did he run? Is he still standing there, frozen in fear? But instead, I see my Roman Candle I dropped. The man's grip is like steel on my ankle, and my kicks seem to be doing nothing to free me. 

My fingers claw and pull, trying to get it. The tips of my fingers roll the foot and a half-long stick away from my reach as panic begins to take over my mind. The only command that Bud taught me to never use was because he said it was inhuman and below us, but I couldn't think of anything else to yell but, "Beißball, Bear! Beißball!"

The sound the man made was more than a scream, howl, or curse. He releases me and draws his attention to the hundred-pound dog that has locked its jaw around the man's junk. As soon as it sinks in that I'm free, I scamper to the candle and dig the lighter out of my pocket. The fuse is lit, and I fall on my back and shower the men coming to get my dog off his victim's junk. 

"Aus Fuss! Aus Fuss!"

My guardian lets go and hurries to my side as I cover him with exploding balls of colored celebration. Grabbing my bag, I head in the direction of the forest watch tower, hoping that Ryder will run. I find a large tree and slide behind it, pulling Bear in close. I hear gunfire towards the house, and I begin to lose control of myself. Sobbing doesn't help anyone. Tears stream down my cheeks as doubt freezes my thoughts. 

Burns will be okay, as he promised. 

I have to protect Ryder, as I promised. 

I push myself off of the tree, fighting my fear, and head in the direction I saw Ryder run off. "Such Ryder, Bear, such," I command my tracking beast, and he pulls me deeper into the woods. Tree after tree, the dog passes them all with his nose planted inches from the ground. I know he can't see where he's going, and it still amazes me how he can track like that. 

Suddenly, Bear stops. The rumble in his throat makes my fear take over, and I find it hard to breathe. I whirl in place, looking for what has stopped Bear in his tracks. It's so dark, and I can't even see the lights from the pickup truck. Echoes of gunfire and Bear all I can hear. I stop whirling at every noise a forest makes at night; if you've been in a forest at night, you understand when my eyes spot the lights in the watchtower. I wonder to myself if he's heard the gunfire or seen the lights of the pickup trucks. Maybe he's called for help already.

"Well, well, look what I have here." The voice is known to me, but it seems all too sinister to be from the man who carried Ryder to the Jeep as we escaped a little more than twenty-four hours ago. 

"W...w...what? W...w...why did you drive back?" I was afraid of the answer. Smith rubs his chin, and I recognize the look he's giving me. The last time I saw it was on the fat old man who died in that hotel room when he first laid eyes on me. It feels like years ago to me now, but that look is something I will always see in my nightmares. 

"Damn, I've wanted you since the first time I saw you getting sucked off in that alley, and if it wasn't for that fucking DA bidding over a hundred thousand dollars, well, let's just say I wanted that money more than you. Of course, my bid was fake. Why wouldn't the owner of the `Boy Auction' get his pick-of-the-litter?"

Most of what happened that night is fuzzy and is only revealed when I wake up screaming, but memories of Smith's face flash through my head when I confirm, "Y...y...you were t...th...there?"

He takes a few steps towards me, and I back up, eyeing the pistol in his hand. "Yup, but I left early. I was too pissed that I lost your V-card, and I lucked out, missing the slaughter. I was wondering if you'd recognize me without my red hair, but you don't remember much from that night, do you?" he asks as he continues to walk towards me until I'm back-to-back with a big tree. I run behind the tree, leaving my dog, to stop Smith's advances. 

As I hurry around the tree, hidden from Smith's view, I pull the last Roman Candle from my backpack and my blue lighter from my pocket. Come on, lighter; don't fail me now. The spark goes off, the fuse is lit, and I come back around the tree holding a small 4th of July cannon. Sparkling ball after ball fires off into Smith's face. He backpeddles and cusses at me, telling me if I don't stop, he's going to shoot me. 

"You've ruined my life," I shout at him. I see his gun hand go up to cover his face. I yell, "Fass Bear, fass!" The black lab takes to the air and lands on Smith, knocking him to the ground. The gun goes off and strikes me in the thigh. The force of the shot kicks me back onto my ass and into the tree behind me. The pain isn't the first thing you notice; it's the burn. It feels like I set off one of the fireworks in my pants leg! 

"Cub! Cub!" Ryder screams as he comes from behind a tree.

"Careful, Ryder! He's been shot; we can't move him. Come with me; we'll go get help," shouts Smith as Bear returns just in front of me. 

"Don't listen to him! He shot me! Ryder, run!" I yell over his lies. 

"He's hit his head and doesn't know what he's saying," Smith says so calmly that it stops Ryder from running away.

Ryder looks so confused and scared that it doesn't take much for Smith to grab him by the arm. "Bear, Fass!" I scream, and the dog jerks towards him but refuses to leave my side. He growls and barks at Smith, sending drool flying from his teeth. "Fass!" I yell at him, pushing the dog in that direction, but his refusal to leave me has me so frustrated that every emotion that I've ignored, pushed down, or denied burst out of me. I watch Smith drag Ryder into the darkness until the trees block my view as I sob and beg for my dog to save him. I weakly pound on the dogs back with my free hand, shouting commands to attack Smith until only a whisper slips from my lips. The darkness begins to envelop me, and I don't even feel my leg anymore. 

Burns is going to hate me. Without Ryder, he won't love me.

I lost Ryder... 

I didn't keep him safe...

I promised...