The phrase had been coined by Captain Mateo Alvarez, listed as killed in action eight years ago. His name etched into a memorial wall and into Elena Marquez’s wedding band. The operating room doors sealed with a hiss that felt like a verdict.
Titan sat on the cold tile outside, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the red “IN SURGERY” light as if it were a target he needed to hold.
Elena retreated to a supply alcove, fluorescent lights flickering enough to make her vision swim, her fingers gripping a metal cart edge.
Unintentionally, she had reached for a memory long buried, a phrase she had last heard whispered by Mateo in his sleep. He had once told her it was a way to tell a dog the fight was over, that the human would take it from there.
Now, a man lay on a surgical table because Mateo had once run toward danger, not away, and Titan, who had once been part of that history, responded as if Elena were part of a map he still carried.
Sergeant Caleb Rourke, the medic, approached her with respect. “You said the stand-down phrase,” he murmured. “How do you know that?”
Elena lifted her hand, the wedding band catching the harsh light. “My husband trained K-9 teams,” she replied, voice steady by force of will.
Caleb stared at the ring as if it might blink. “Captain Alvarez?” he asked, and when she nodded, he sat down hard, grasping the gravity of it all.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
