Page 32 of So Smitten

Turk didn’t respond.

Michael turned his grin at the man and lifted his hands. “I’m not threatening anyone. Don’t worry, Turk will do what I say. I won’t let him hurt you.”

The four of them laughed. The woman said, “We haven’t seen him hurt anything. You say he can fight. Well, show us.”

Michael shrugged. “All right.”

He looked at Turk and said, “Turk. Be mean.”

Turk still didn’t respond. Michael felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

The men looked at each other. The woman scowled at Michael.

“What is this, a cartoon?” one of the men asked derisively. “Come on, man, show us something or get your bitch ass out of here before we shoot you.”

Come on, Turk, Michael said.

He met the man’s eyes and said, “Bad idea. Turk? Be mean.”

This time, thank God, Turk did what he was told. He lunged at the man, teeth bared, jaws snapping, so quickly that Michael himself was terrified. The four organizers all jerked backward, eyes wide with alarm.

“Stop!” Michael cried.

Turk stopped inches from the man’s face. He whined and growled, and when the man eased back slightly, he barked and snapped at him.

“Don’t kill him, Turk,” Michael said, his cocky grin returned. “He needs to pay us money.”

Turk growled and bunched his shoulders in a perfect imitation of being irritated at holding back.

“All right,” the man said, wide eyes fixed on Turk. “We get it. Call him off.”

Michael hesitated just a half-second. Then he said, “Easy, Turk. Come on back.”

Turk backed off and stopped growling, but never took his eyes off of the man as he trotted back to Michael.

“Well,” the woman said, “He’s got the spirit, that’s for sure. How many fights has he had?”

“Good fights or crapshows that didn’t even last thirty seconds?” Michael asked.

“Easy, Michael,” Faith said in his earpiece. “Don’t lay it on too thick.”

Sure enough, one of the men narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “You have your dog,” he said, “We all have handguns. Not to mention thirty men outside with more guns. Show some respect.”

Michael lifted his hands and said, “No disrespect intended. He’s had seventeen fights. Most of them ended within a minute. The only time he had trouble was a Tibetan Mastiff some visiting Yakuza brought. Took him almost three minutes to break the mastiff’s neck.”

Michael’s stomach turned as he thought of the fights he had just seen. God, he hated this.

The woman chuckled. “A part of me still thinks you’re lying to us,” she said, “but we’ll give you a shot. Actually, Roman here has a dog he wants to try.”

The man Turk had threatened narrowed his eyes. “You sure you want to lose Turk that fast?”

Michael grinned humorlessly. “No disrespect intended,” he said, “but Turk will utterly obliterate your dog. Whatever it is.”

Roman glared and said, “You talk a lot of shit, white boy. Maybe I should throw you and your dog in with Ceasar.”

“Calm down, Roman,” one of the other men said, “he’s just backing up his dog. You sure got a lot of faith in that little shepherd. You have other dogs?”

“A few,” Michael said, “I had more, but I made the mistake of letting them eat dinner together. I learned that lesson the hard way.”

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