His color was bad. His normally tan complexion had turned the color of whey. Blood pooled across the pavement from his injured shoulder. Max stood braced over him. His fangs were bared as he growled at everyone around him. “If you can’t get that dog to calm down so the EMT can work on your buddy,” the FBI agent told Remy, “we’re gonna have to shoot him.” “No.” Remy looked at Max and tried to focus on the fact that he could still see Shel’s chest rising and falling. But the motion was too slow and too shallow. “You can’t shoot the dog.” “We can’t let that man die either.” “Free my hands,” Remy said. He turned his back toward the agent. “You’re in custody.” Remy cursed. “Have you got concrete between your ears? Free my hands. If I’m not free, that dog isn’t going to listen to me. Do it now.” “Do it, McKinley,” a gruff voice ordered. The salt-and-pepper–haired FBI agent came up beside the ambulance. Max growled at him. McKinley unfastened the cuffs.
