Kill Switch (9780062135285) by Grant James; Blackwood Rollins Page B

and the sharper cracks of a pistol.
    His other was in danger, threatened.
    The last command remained etched behind his eyes.
    Evade .
    So he kept hidden, following the whiff of gun smoke, the musk of the hot skin, ever down toward the flow of water and creaking ice.
    There, beyond the woman, he sees his partner out on the ice. He holds back a whine of concern, wanting to call out.
    Then movement.
    A hand raised.
    A command given.
    He obeys that now.
    The woman turns, fear bursting from her skin. As she swings , her gun barrel dips slightly.
    He sees and explodes with his hind end, springing high.
    As Tucker watched, Kane slammed into Felice like a linebacker, his jaws clamping on to her arm before the pair hit the ice. Felice screamed and thrashed, but she held tight to the rifle’s stock.
    A sniper to the end, Tucker thought. Lose your rifle, lose your life.
    He shoved up, ready to help his partner—­only to hear a sharp crack erupt beneath him. A rift snaked outward from his body and headed toward Kane and Felice. Dark, icy water gushed through the fault line.
    â€œFelice, stop struggling!” Tucker called. “Lie still!”
    Panicked, deaf to his warning, she continued to struggle, her left hand still clenched around the rifle stock.
    He forced himself to his knees, then his feet. The ice shifted beneath him, dipping sideways. He leaped forward, balancing on the teetering slabs as the river broke under him. He hopscotched toward Kane and Felice.
    The crack reached them, then spider-­webbed outward, enveloping them. With a whoosh, the ice opened up. The pair dropped headlong into the water.
    With his heart thundering in his ears, Tucker stumbled forward. Fifteen feet from the hole, he threw himself into a slide, on his belly, his arms extended, trying to distinguish between the two shapes thrashing in the icy water. He saw a pale white hand slapping at the ice, spotted Kane’s head surge from the water, his snout pointed at the sky.
    The shepherd gasped, coughing.
    Sliding parallel to the hole, Tucker grabbed Kane’s vest collar and jerked hard, plucking the wet dog from the water.
    From the corner of his eye, Tucker saw Felice’s rifle jut out of the water; the barrel swung toward them.
    Even now, she hadn’t given up the fight.
    She slapped at the ice with a bloody arm, while trying to bring her rifle to bear with the other hand.
    Tucker rolled onto his side and kicked off with his heel, spinning on his hip. He snapped out with his other leg and struck the rifle, sending it skittering across the ice and into the snow along the opposite bank.
    With a final, spasmodic flailing, Felice’s arm vanished underwater, her body pulled down by the current, and she disappeared from view.
    Together, Tucker and Kane crawled to the bank, but both kept watch on the shattered hole. He half expected Felice to reappear. Only after two minutes did he feel confident enough to state, “I think she’s gone.”
    Still, he kept a vigil at the bank, probing his neck wound. The gouge was narrow but deep. Beside him, Kane did a full body shake, casting out a shower of icy water, his tail wagging off the last few drops.
    Tucker checked over his partner for injuries. For his efforts, he earned a warm lick to his cold cheek, his dog’s message easy to read: Glad we’re still alive.
    â€œI know, pal, me too,” he muttered.
    He shrugged off his rucksack, unzipped the side pocket, and dug out his first-­aid kit. Working from feel alone, he squeezed a thick stripe of surgical glue into the wound and pinched the edges together, clenching his teeth against the sting.
    Once finished, a shiver shook through him. Kane’s haunches also quaked against the cold. In this weather, the effects of cold water were amplified. Hypothermia couldn’t be far off.
    â€œLet’s go,” he said, ready to set off, but not before completing one last duty.
    Moving fifty yards downriver, he