HERB

Harry!” Herb yells. “Do something!”

Harry looks at Herb. Looks at Tequila and the Russian. Then raises his good hand to his mouth.

For god’s sake, is he eating something?

No, McGlade wasn’t eating.

He was whistling.

And five seconds later, the biggest dog Herb had ever seen was bounding up to them, barreling into the Russian, and tearing out his throat.

Then the beast’s gigantic muzzle, dripping with gore, turned on Tequila—

—and began to lick his face.

“Good girl, Rosa,” Tequila moaned. “Good girl.”

That’s the last thing Herb saw before the pain took hold and he blessedly passed out.