Page 92 of Surge

She turned off the phone and slipped it back into the pocket of her denim jacket.

Once at the coffee farm, what would she and Surge do about the chemicals before they became hydrogen cyanide? She had no idea.

I’d appreciate an idea, God, but please get Garrett there.

Surge popped into a stand, his hackles raised. He gave a low-throated rumble.

“What’s up?” she whispered, suddenly very alert.

His rumble turned into a growl. What had gotten his attention? She pushed up, but her toe accidentally sent that rock rolling across the floor. “Oh n?—”

The doors of the car slid open and shut.

Sucking in a breath, she jerked back. Carefully peered around the containers to see if it was Hakim who’d entered the boxcar.

From behind, arms hooked her back into a choke hold.

The feral snapping and barking of Surge blended with her own panic as rough fabric scratched her cheek, as her air cut off.

She felt the impact as Surge lunged into the guy, clamping onto his only available limb—a leg. Though the guy cried out, his grip on her did not release. Air cut off, she panicked. Knew Surge was doing all he could.

Her vision started blurring, veins pulsing against her temples. Hearing started going.

God, help.The time Garrett taught her how to defend the choke hold wasn’t enough. She didn’t have any muscle memory to work from.

Or brain memory. Hands . . . something else . . . crotch, then eyes . . . Shoot. There was more. Where was her brain?

Hands, gravity, crotch, eyes, twist, ground.

She pulled down on his arm as hard as she could. Gave herself a little room to breathe. She dropped her center of gravity.

He stumbled, and though he still held her, the grip had lessened. She could breathe. Enough to remember what to do next. She leaned to the side, dropped an arm, and threw her elbow into his crotch. No pretending this time.

Amid a strained, pained groan, he dropped low. That’s when she saw his sleeve tugged up . . . and peeking out from it, the Sachaai S tattoo.

Moonlight through the narrow window gave her a look at the man. Bald. Thick, trim beard. Rashid! The man who’d passed her in the alley during Garrett’s second undercover operation.

A chill crashed down her spine.

Delaney used the moment to scrabble out of reach. “Surge, on me!” She patted his side and steadied herself.

“You stupid woman!”

Heart in her throat, Delaney flipped back to face Rashid, found him aiming a weapon at her. She sucked in a hard breath. Realized too late that she was blocking Surge from reaching him. Then again, she wasn’t sure she wanted him in the line of bullet fire. But that’s what he was trained for, right?

Firming his grip, Rashid took aim.

Choice made for her, she held out a hand. Then at the last minute, angled aside. “Surge, attack!”

The sleek black body of her Malinois sailed through the air. The report of the shot echoed in the space. She could only pray there was enough noise on the train that the others didn’t hear. That the shot hadn’t hit Surge.

Shock forced the Sachaai to rely on instinct—his arm raised to protect himself gave the perfect anchoring point for the maligator’s powerful jaws. Surge hung onto Rashid’s arm. Though the guy thrashed and fought, he couldn’t keep the hold on his weapon. And Surge wasn’t letting go.

Staggering around, Rashid lifted his arm, swung it around, hard. Thrashed Surge into a container. That normally wouldn’t have worked—MWDs were trained to lock and hold until their handler gave a command to release. But the confined space and the angle of the hit dislodged him.

With a yelp, Surge dropped and crashed to the deck.

Her heart stopped. Delaney struggled for air. “Surge!” She started toward him.