“Start getting them back inside!” I yell while grabbing a leash from the wall.
I move toward a frightened hound pressed against the fencing near the side yard. Across the property, Ivy stands near thebuilding entrance, beside Irina, with wide eyes, as barking erupts from every direction.
“Sugar, stay right there!” I shout.
“We are!” Irina calls back immediately.
Another dog darts past my legs while security moves through the property trying to contain both the animals and the growing panic spreading among the visitors. Then I notice the side employee gate hanging partially open, too. Someone was testing how fast we respond once mayhem starts.
Across the parking lot, the same black SUV from earlier idles near the curb before slowly pulling away into traffic, watching us the entire time.
The next hour passes in pure madness. Dogs race through the property while volunteers scramble in every direction trying to keep terrified adopters from getting knocked over by sixty pounds of panicked fur. Mr. Pickles somehow steals an entire package of hot dog buns from the refreshment table before Jules finally corners him near grooming. One of the younger volunteers ends up crying after a frightened shepherd slips its leash and nearly bolts through the courtyard.
By the time we regain control over the shelter grounds, sweat clings to the back of my neck, and my nerves feel scraped raw.
“This,” Jules says breathlessly while bracing both hands against his knees, “is why I drink iced coffee like they’re discontinuin’ it tomorrow.”
I tighten a leash around the hound, finally resting beside my leg before looking toward the outdoor kennels again. “Did we get everybody back inside?”
“Almost. One of the volunteers spotted Lulu behind the donation shed.”
“Well, of course she’s behind the donation shed,” I mutter.
“She’s orange, Maggie. Orange cats are the Lord’s way of keepin’ people humble.”
Despite everything, I laugh tiredly.
Jules straightens slowly before wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt. The humor fades from his face when he notices my attention on the side gate and latches. Three separate kennel gates hang open while one of Alexei’s security men photographs them with his phone. Another crouches beside the employee entrance, studying the lock mechanism there.
“It wasn’t accidental,” Jules says quietly.
“No, it wasn’t,” I agree.
The longer I look at the gates, the worse my stomach feels. Each latch is fully open, done by someone who knew exactly how scared animals would react in a crowded shelter. They knew security would focus on the people first, then try to keep the dogs from running into the road. For those first few minutes, no one was watching the shelter itself. No one was watching me.
The thought hits me, cold and ugly.
Jules notices my expression. “Hey.”
I drag my eyes toward him.
“You alright?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “I think somebody’s playin’ games with us.”
His eyebrows snap together. “Yeah. I think so too.”
Across the lot, Ivy sits on the curb beside Irina, holding a puppy in her lap while he licks enthusiastically at her cheek. Ivy giggles like the last sixty minutes never happened, completely relaxed again now that the dogs are safe.
Thank God for that.
Irina looks less calm. Her posture stays rigid while her eyes move across the property carefully, and for the first time since I met her, I notice fear beneath all that composure. Not panic exactly. More like recognition. Like part of her already understands what this is, and that unsettles me far more than I want to admit.
One of the security men approaches us a moment later. Mid-thirties, maybe. Muscular build. Dark black hair cropped short enough to emphasize the scar near his jawline.
“Mr. Agapov is on his way,” he says.
Wonderful.
