Chapter 4 - The Decision of Goliath
The pitbull didn't lung. He didn't launch himself into the air like a trained attack dog, nor did he let out a loud, terrifying roar that would have alerted the whole neighborhood.
Goliath simply stepped through the gap between Mike and Dutch, lowered his shoulder, and planted his massive, ninety-pound frame directly on the threshold between Richard Sterling and the little girl.
Then, Goliath looked Richard directly in the eyes.
And for the first time in six years, Goliath spoke.
It wasn't a bark. It was a sound that seemed to come from thirty feet beneath the earth—a deep, low, vibrating rumble that vibrated through the floorboards, through the soles of Richard’s leather loafers, and straight up into his chest. It was a sound that carried no anger, no panic, no hesitation. It was the absolute, unyielding statement of a predator that had recognized another predator—and declared itself the apex.
Richard froze. His hand, which had been reaching for the doorframe, hovered in mid-air, three inches from Goliath’s scarred nose.
Goliath slowly raised his upper lip.
He didn't show all his teeth—just the left canine, a thick, white peg of bone surrounded by pink gums and old grey scar tissue. He tilted his head one inch to the side, his golden eyes locking onto Richard’s pupils with a terrifying, unblinking intensity.
The message was clear, universal, and instantly understood by every human being on the porch:
Step over this sill, and I will destroy you.
Richard Sterling backed up three full steps.
His pristine leather loafers slipped in the wet gravel, and he nearly lost his balance, his hand slapping against the wet hood of his grey Porsche to steady himself. His polished hair fell forward over his forehead, and his face was no longer red—it was the color of curdled milk.
"You... you people are insane," Richard stuttered, his voice jumping an octave as he pointed a shaking forefinger at Mike. "You’re harbouring a runaway! You’re using a dangerous, vicious animal to intimidate me! Do you have any idea who I am? Do you have any idea who sits on the board of the city police foundation?"
Mike took a slow step onto the porch.
He didn't raise his hands. He didn't draw a weapon. He just stood there in his black undershirt, six-foot-four of scarred muscle and white beard, with the cold rain falling over his bald head.
"I don't care if you're the Pope, mister," Mike said, his voice as smooth and hard as river granite. "You aren't touching that girl tonight."
"She’s my legal ward!" Richard screamed, his corporate composure fully shattered into a frantic, hysterical rage. "I have full custody! Her mother left her to me in her will! She is my property until she’s eighteen!"
"A dog ain't property to us, Sterling," Dutch added from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. "And a little girl sure as hell isn't."
Richard reached into his pocket and yanked out his phone, his thumb slamming against the screen so hard he nearly dropped the device into the mud.
"I'm calling the Sheriff," Richard snarled, backing away toward the driver's side door of his car. "I’m having this whole rat-hole shut down. I’m having that savage dog put down by animal control before sunrise. You’re all going to federal prison for kidnapping!"
"Go ahead," Mike said, folding his massive arms across his chest. "Call 'em."
Richard slammed his car door shut, threw the Cayenne into reverse, and sprayed a wave of wet gravel across the front of the clubhouse as he spun the wheels, turning the SUV around and speeding off into the dark rain toward the highway.
The red taillights vanished into the fog.
The garage returned to the sound of falling rain and the rhythmic click of the wind in the trees.
Goliath didn't chase the car. He didn't bark as it drove away. He turned around slowly, walked back through the doorway, and walked directly to the back office door. He pressed his snout against the wood and let out a single, soft, questioning whine.
The door opened.
Doc stepped out, followed by Mia.
The little girl dropped to her knees right there in the hallway, letting go of the puppy just long enough to throw both of her tiny arms around Goliath’s thick, scarred neck. She buried her face in his shoulder, her small body shaking with deep, silent sobs.
Goliath didn't move. He stood like a statue, leaning his heavy head over her shoulder, shielding her from the room with his body.
Mike looked down at Dutch.
"Call the lawyer," Mike said.
"Which one?" Dutch asked. "The one who handles our traffic tickets or the one who handles our land titles?"
"Neither," Mike said, his eyes fixed on the little girl crying against the pitbull. "Call Sarah Vance. The one who spent ten years in the District Attorney's child protection unit before she went into private practice."
Mike walked over to the bar, pulled out a notepad and a pencil, and set them down next to Doc.
"And Doc?" Mike added softly.
May you like
"Yeah, Mike?"
"Photograph every bruise on that girl’s body. Photograph the dog’s leg. Photograph the grip marks on her arm." Mike’s voice dropped until it was barely audible above the rain. "Because tomorrow morning, we aren't just defending ourselves. We’re going to war."
