But Bear couldn’t worry about his wayward dog right now. All he could focus on was the dark house across the street. His feet slapped the pavement, still warm from the day’s sun, then the damp grass, then the wood of her front porch.
The door hung open.
The house was silent.
If Atlas had been barking, he wasn’t now.
“Greta!”
The living room was untouched. Couch, coffee table, lamp, TV— all exactly where they should be. The only change was the corkboard on the wall with its empty spot where Alice’s flyer used to be.
No signs of struggle.
“Greta!” He took the stairs two at a time, and there, in the upstairs hallway, was Atlas.
The dog lay on his side near Greta’s bedroom door, his breathing shallow and fast, his eyes open but unfocused. Blood matted the fur around his muzzle and ran in a thin line from his nose to the tile. His back legs scrabbled against the floor like he was trying to get up, trying to stand, but nothing was working right.
Bear checked the bedroom and found it empty. It also looked undisturbed, like nothing had happened.
But Greta wasn’t here, and Atlas was hurt, and Logan had seen someone loading a fucking body-shaped tarp into a truck.
Fuck.
He wanted to put his fist through the wall. He wanted to rip the house down to the studs.
But instead, he went back to the hall and dropped to his knees beside Atlas. He checked the dog’s head, running his fingers over the skull, checking for the give of broken bone. Atlas tried to lift his head. A low whine built in his throat.
“Easy. I’ve got you.” Bear’s voice came out steadier than he felt. His hands kept moving, checking Atlas’s jaw, his neck, his ribs. The skull felt intact. The jaw was another story—swollen on the left side. Fractured. Maybe worse.
But the dog was conscious and taking his movements. That was something. Hurt, but conscious, and trying to get up even now. Trying to do his job even though someone had hit him hard enough to break bone.
Bear’s vision went white at the edges.
He made himself breathe. Made himself keep checking—ribs, spine, hips, legs. Nothing else obviously broken. Just the jaw and whatever internal damage he couldn’t see. Atlas’s back legs kicked again, claws scratching the hardwood, and Bear put a hand on the dog’s shoulder to hold him still.
“Logan.”
His son was hovering on the stairs behind him, phone in hand, face pale. He held out the phone. “I called Boone.”
Bear took it. His hands were shaking as he raised it to his ear.
“Bear! Bear, talk to me! What the fuck is going on?” Boone demanded.
“Someone took her.” Was that his voice, all raw and ragged? “Logan saw it. Saw someone putting her in—” He couldn’t make his brain finish the sentence.
“Fuck. Was it Daniel Goodwin?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have a description of the guy, the vehicle?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Boone blew out a breath. “Okay, I’m letting Ghost off his leash. He’ll find her.”
Ghost off-leash was a terrifying thing, and, in that moment, Bear couldn’t be more relieved to have the ex-CIA operative in his corner. “Thank you.”
“In the meantime, stay there. We’re on my way.”
