“Okay, Tank,” I said, extending my hand as he examined my license. “I’m just here to see a close friend. No trouble and no shenanigans. Just here to see a recovering friend.”
“What are you?” Tank said, narrowing his eyes at me. “You’re reading all over the place, but I know for a fact that you’re no mage.”
“No,” I said, “I’m a little more complicated than that.”
There was nowhere that conversation could go, except south. I opted on the side of discretion and limited my response to the bare minimum.
“I bet,” Tank answered slowly, blading his body away from me. “How about we take this conversation into the office? I’m sure we could find this Roxanne friend of yours. Get you all sorted out and on your way.”
“You’re not paying attention, Tank,” I said, repeating his name deliberately to increase his focus. “Your team thinks they are dealing with a threat. I am not, in any way, shape, or form, a threat to you.”
“See? That’s good,” Tank answered, as his team slowly closed in. “The last thing anyone needs today is a threat. I know you don’t need one, and I certainly don’t need one. Here you go.”
He handed me my license, which I returned to my wallet, inadvertently causing my jacket to open. This in turn revealed my oversized holster which held Grim Whisper. This caused Tank to open his eyes, first in wonder, followed immediately by a look of suspicion, and lastly by a decision for overt violence…directed at me.
“I have a perfectly good explanation for—”
“Gun!” Tank yelled as he drew his weapon and aimed at my face. “Get on the floor…now!”
I want to say that what happened next wasn’t my fault, but I’d be lying. Some of it was my fault.
Most of the blame lay with Peaches.
TWO
Peaches didn’t even wait for the command.
He blinked out and reappeared several feet higher, moving at speed and aimed at the now truly-shocked Tank. He crashed into Tank’s chest, unbalancing him. The next moment, Peaches’ massive jaws were clamped down so hard on the arm holding the gun, that I heard Tank gasp in pain.
With a few head shakes, Tank was easily disarmed.
Actually, it was incredibly impressive. I had no idea a hellhound could build up that much speed over such a short distance. Peaches slowly began applying pressure. I could tell this because the grunts of pain escaping Tank began increasing in volume.
The jaw strength of a hellhound has not, to my knowledge, ever been measured. I would guess it had something to do with the fact that if a hellhound had you trapped in its jaws, the last thing you’d be thinking about—aside from the excruciating pain and imminent loss of whatever body part said hellhound was latched onto—was, How much jaw pressure is being exerted on my soft tissue and delicate bones?
At this moment—from the look of surprise mixed with terror on Tank’s face—I would have to say things were not heading in a positive direction for any of us.
<Can I bite him?>
“No!” I said out loud, hoping to assuage Tank. “That’s a good boy. But Tank needs his arm. No chewing.”
<He tried to hurt you. I should hurt him. A small bite?>
Tank looked at me in confusion.
“Did…did you just say he was a good boy?” Tank asked as he looked at Peaches and then back at me. “Really?”
I held up a finger.
“Give me a second,” I said, focusing on my exuberant hellhound. “Do not remove his arm. Or…no extra meat.”
<Frank says an ounce of destruction is worth a pound of prevention. If I destroy his hand, I will prevent him from hurting you.>
I don’t pretend to understand hellhound logic. Even when it seems to make some kind of sense.
<That is so wrong on so many levels. Don’t hurt him…not anymore. Leave his arm attached. I’m serious.>
“Yes,” I answered, turning my focus back to the now pale Tank. “Is your arm still attached to your body?”
“Yes,” Tank said as sweat started forming on his brow.
“Then he’s being a good boy, trust me. Do you want your arm to remain attached?”
“Yes. I’d really prefer my arm attached.”
“Are you lead on this team?” I asked. “If not, who is?”
“I’m lead,” Tank said with a nod. He was drenched in sweat now. I feared he would soon go into shock from the pain. “Can you tell him to ease up? I can’t feel my fingers.”
“Sure. Call off your team…now,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Unless you want to go from Tank to Lefty.”
Tank slowly raised a shaky hand and shook his head.
“Stand down,” he said, his voice tight with pain. “I’ve got this under control.”
The team stopped closing in on us.
“Weren’t you briefed on—what would you call it—cleared visitors, or something like that?”
“Just started…today,” Tank answered through a grimace. “This was my…first shift. Was just about to check the Vetted Visitor Log when you walked in.”
“That’s it! The Vetted Visitors,” I said, relieved he had jogged my memory. “Where is it?”
“Front desk and my phone.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“Front pocket.”
I reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. I held it while he accessed the page of Vetted Visitors. The first name on the top was mine.
“What’s that name at the top?” I asked. “Can you say it out loud?”
“Simon Strong, vetted visitor authorized by Director DeMarco.”
“See?” I said. “This has all been a misunderstanding.” I glanced at Peaches. “Maybe Monty was onto something with the whole diplomacy thing.”
“Mr. Strong, I’m really sorry,” Tank said apologetically. “You started singing and acting strange—then I saw the gun, and my reflexes kicked in.”
“No, no, I totally get it,” I said, returning the phone to his front pocket. “These things happen, believe me.”
“Could you, you know, ask your dog, sorry, your hellhound to let go of my arm?” Tank asked. “I can’t feel
