James Smith - The Flock

And so the dog did not see and was not prepared to be kicked.

The animal's huge, clawed foot lashed out. Fortunately for the Doberman, the claws were not hinged out, since the blow had been from the ground up, rather than a downward, slashing strike. Instead of opening his body like an overfilled water balloon, the foot instead struck him like an unimaginably powerful fist. So, rather than falling to the ground as dripping meat, he was kicked like a two hundred-pound football and sent tumbling, airborne.

Denny Eagleburger had had no time to react. He watched his Number One Dog crash through the brush on the far side of the trail. His hand was fumbling for the big, metal flashlight on his right hip, the one that served both as illumination and as a blunt weapon, if the need was there. The guard was still poking at the on switch when he heard something-a hissing, like a quickly leaking tire-and suddenly.

He was struck in the chest. His dog, his Doberman, his one-man canine hit him like a sack of bricks.

The air whooshed out of Eagleburger's lungs at the impact. Despite the impossibility of it all, he immediately realized what was happening. Someone has dropped kicked his one hundred and seventy pound Doberman pinscher. Just like that. Man and dog tumbled to the ground in a heap, human limbs tangled with hound legs.

As the man caught his breath, sucking in air, he struggled away from the limp form of his animal. Thinking more of trying to see what had attacked the dog than of going for the pistol on his hip, he finally succeeded in firing the light that was still gripped in his right fist. A tight beam of yellow light arced out from his hand, and he shined it at the clump of oleander and bear grass where the action had taken place.

Except for the branches and limbs moving slightly, either from wind or the passing of something more solid, there was nothing. He aimed the beam further into the forest, toward the north where that entire wilderness lay. For just an instant, and he wasn't sure it wasn't just the sparkling of the stars he was seeing from the impact, he caught a brief glance of something red, something scarlet vanishing into the trees.

But he wasn't going to give chase. Whatever it had been, if it had been anything at all, was moving as fast as a car on a city street. He put out his hand and touched his dog. Number One whimpered and slowly got to its feet. The Doberman's back was arched, and if it still had any tail to speak of, it would have been firmly tucked between its shivering legs.

"Come on, boy," Eagleburger said. "Let's get the heck out of here." And the two limped back to the truck.

Tatum had been called into the main office in Orlando. And this was not some meeting with his immediate superior. This was Michael Irons, The Man. There was no one bigger in the company. His ideas and sense of commercialism had rescued Berg Brothers from two decades of mediocrity and flat profits. He was, in entertainment jargon, a true genius. Salutations had been his personal baby, and he had his reputation tied up in it. Every great plan had its rough spots and quirks, but this was starting to get out of hand. You would buy yourself out of most problems, if you could, and the company had deep pockets.

But there was a limit to Irons' patience.

Out in the plush lobby, Tatum had been left to cool, and to wait. His appointment had been at seven a.m., but it was almost eight, and all he'd seen of Irons had been his beautiful secretary's pouty lips whispering sweet nothings into her headset. He assumed she had a direct line to Irons, but Tatum couldn't be sure. You couldn't be sure of anything where that man was concerned. He waited, staring up at the brightly patterned tiles fourteen feet overhead.

The walls were decorated by floor-to-roof paintings of the studio's most famous cartoon characters. "You know who painted these?" he'd once been asked. When he'd been unable to answer, he'd been told. "Karl Tree painted these. You probably don't even know who Karl Tree is, but he created half the characters we animated up until 1965. The guy's a genius. He retired in '68, and lives in a trailer park near Boca Raton. But we got him out here to paint these things five years ago. Old guy's eighty-five, eighty-six years old. Jesus, he paints a beautiful picture. Still does, after all this time."

Well, even Tatum, who cared little for such things, had to admit that the toon figures were beautifully crafted. He looked up at Grandpa Duck and Daisy Cow and Sheriff Dog. Every kid had grown up with them, and even Tatum, in all of his hard, buzz-cut glory, was no exception. If he hadn't been so nervous, he would have smiled.

Finally, the secretary looked up at him, her perfect Aryan features glowing just a bit more (if that were possible). "Mr. Irons will see you now," she said, flashing flawless teeth that were about as white as Montana snow. Tatum got up from the plush comfort of the couch, and he marched stiffly across the foyer to a massive door of solid cherry, a hand-carved bas-relief of Sammy Squirrel grinning madly through the stained wood grain. Brass clicked perfectly under his fingers as he turned the knob.

He entered.

Irons' office was gigantic. It took a lot of space to accommodate such an ego. The room was large enough for a Cadillac to navigate a wide U-turn without ever bumping into anything. Tatum had been here before, and the size of the place always intimidated him, as it was intended to do.

The CEO was standing behind his equally gigantic desk, watching Tatum approach across the wide space. He was disconcertingly young for a man who made most of the big decisions for one of the world's largest entertainment businesses. Forty-three years old and ready, willing, and eager to shred anyone who wanted to try to wrest this juicy bone out of his tiger shark grip. He was smiling at Tatum: a full, toothy smile, and the resemblance between himself and a shark were closer than one might have thought, considering the traditional kiddy fare that poured out of the company. In fact, though, there was nothing very amusing about Michael Irons' demeanor. One had only to ask those who had gotten in his way.

Irons extended his right arm, stiffly, palm up. "Have a seat, Mr. Tatum." So. It wasn't "Bill" today. "Do have a seat."

Bill Tatum, security chief and company ramrod, did as he was told. He sat, obediently, like a dog. The CEO remained standing for a moment, still with that smile on. It was all Tatum could do not to squirm or wilt beneath that predatory visage. He did himself credit by enduring it stoically.

"Well." At last, Irons sat, his chair not unlike a throne, of course. "Tell me about this latest development. Or developments, I should say."

Despite not wanting to reveal his nervousness, Tatum swallowed, lubricating his dry mouth before he could speak. "Well, as the reports I e-mailed to you indicate, there might be some kind of contact between a number of the company's adversaries." Irons' stare continued to be icy, unreadable. There might be rage underneath it, there might be calm. Only Irons knew.

"Explain in more detail," he ordered.

"We've been watching Riggs. He's the official sent to us by Fish and Wildlife over our concerns about the, ah, problems some of our residents have experienced over missing pets."

"And how have you administered this espionage, concerning Riggs?" Irons' perfect, manicured fingers lightly caressed the manila folder on the desktop. Tatum knew the files he'd sent had been printed out and were enclosed, and that Irons had read them all.

"A combination of visual contact, and video surveillance. The discreet placement of cameras only allowed limited access to Riggs' movements. He was inspecting an area that's part of Phase Three. We don't have that part of Salutations as well monitored, and I didn't feel comfortable having him tailed this early on. Riggs ended up going far deeper into the forest around the village than we had thought, so we only reported on his actions around the substation where he parked his vehicle."