Page 8 of Surge

Amid the squeal of someone’s phone—earning a quick remonstration from Mr. Finch—Surge’s behavior shifted. He wasn’t as eager.

Stomach tight, Delaney clicked her tongue, diverting him to the wall, trailing her hand along a rack of basketballs. Redirecting and guiding him.

When he followed and sniffed the trail, she felt the knot in her stomach loosen. It’d worked.

For two seconds.

Then it happened again. This time, he went lower . . . then down, as if trying to sink into the floor. She pulled out his KONG.God, please.Again pointing, again clicking her tongue, she tried to inspire him.

No response. Not even to the KONG.

Great. Middle school was the perfect place for embarrassment, right?

His ears flattened back against his head. His panting ramped up to sixty miles an hour.

Stressed. Overwhelmed.

Just like before. Delaney winced, feeling her own gallons of stress and being overwhelmed, especially when he pressed his belly to the floor and sank his snout onto his paws.

He was done.

“Is he scared?” someone asked.

“No, dummy, he’s tired,” another kid scoffed.

“You’re right,” Delaney said, her face hot, “that does happen, even to the toughest dogs. Or they have a bad day.” She wanted to shake some confidence into Surge, but it wasn’t his fault. It must have been the frequency from that crazy phone. “Anyone ever have a bad day?” she asked, breathing a little easier when several hands went up. “Well, so can even the most hard-hitting working dogs like Surge.”

Nods around from the kids.

To see him shut down killed her.

Her brain scrambled through ideas, what might have triggered him. It had to have been that phone that made the particular sound that triggered Surge. After all that progress, maybe he hadn’t been ready. Her fault.

But the one thing she knew right now was that she had to get him out of here.

* * *

HILL COUNTRY, TEXAS

Three things kept Garrett rooted in this middle-of-nowhere area: wide open spaces, no military, and sweet-tang barbecue.

He whipped his F150 into the restaurant parking lot. His mouth watered, and his stomach grumbled as he thought about the spicy, smoky flavor of their pulled pork and brisket. The Foxes had owned this place in the Blanco County for four generations. The only legit barbecue in the world as far as he was concerned. He’d globe-hopped enough to vouch for that.

He opened the restaurant door and just stood there, soaking in the rich smokiness of the mesquite they used to slow-cook the meat. Loud country music reverberated against his chest, making conversation almost impossible.

Perfect.

Add to that the fundraiser the Foxes held every year to benefit the Navy SEAL Foundation—they gave the foundation all their profits from that day—a guy started to feel like God actually existed. Especially when he could stuff his gut with barbecue while supporting his SEAL brothers.

“Hey, Boss!”

Stunned at that voice, Garrett stilled. Turned. He barked a disbelieving laugh at who stood there with a wide smile and big hands propped on his hips. “Zim! What on earth?” He pulled the guy into a shoulder hug.

“Wow. Looks like freelance contractor biceps aren’t anywhere as big as Navy SEAL biceps!” He flexed.

“Maybe. But my perfectly trimmed beard is ten times cooler than your baby face.”

Zim rubbed proudly at his hair-free cheeks.