Ambrose clutched his wounded shoulder, applying as much pressure as he could muster. The graze wound inflicted by the bullets of the men-in-black continued to bleed. He knew he needed stitches.
Sipping from a bottle of vodka, he gazed back at the site of Brightside, which now stood engulfed in flames and smoke. The facility was reduced to ruins.
"Drinking will thin your blood. It won't help stop the bleeding." Carrion cautioned his boss.
"Shut the hell up and drive." Ambrose retorted, his tone dripping with hostility.
In the back of the truck, the dogs were barking incessantly. Among them were fighting dogs – they could rebuild elsewhere. Ambrose still clung to the bowling bag containing nearly a million dollars in cash and his desert eagle. Armed and prepared, he contrasted starkly with his last remaining henchman, who was unarmed. Ambrose was now haunted by his own paranoia. His empire had crumbled, and the power vacuum left anyone capable of seizing control.
The dogs' agitation grew, sparking a commotion in the back of the truck.
Yet, this wasn't their immediate concern. Despite being small-town police, the Brightside Police Department had managed to assemble an elite force through a series of coincidental recruitments. Their vehicles formed an interlocked barrier fortified with police strips.
"Does that cop have a damn bazooka? Stop the van, stop!" Ambrose urgently directed Carrion.
Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.
Carrion decelerated and struggled to maneuver the van. Ambrose handed him the desert eagle. "Take the gun." he commanded.
"Absolutely not." Carrion hissed. In the ensuing chaos, a single sniper shot found its mark, obliterating Carrion's head as he failed to stop in time.
Ambrose surrendered.
He was brought back to the Brightside police station, the location of his apprehension. Animal control officers were summoned to handle the fighting dogs. As the truck's rear compartment was opened, an immense and unseen force surged forth, shoving aside the assembled officers. The creature vanished into the ether.
Within the truck, lifeless bodies filled the cages – a grim testament to the invisible dog's merciless rampage. One cage remained empty, its padlock unfastened and hanging from the closing bar. How and why had this cage been opened?
"You claimed there was an invisible dog, and now it's gone." the police officer remarked, echoing Ambrose's own words. Disbelief lingered, but the reality was undeniable.
"We used to feed stray dogs behind the restaurant, tossing them garbage. That's where we got most of our dogs, not the top fighters – sometimes we'd use feral dogs." Ambrose confessed. The painkillers had loosened his tongue, and words flowed freely.
"Chef Saladin is dead." the officers informed him.
"Killed by dogs?" Ambrose inquired.
"No, just one dog – you know which one." came the reply.
Trembling with fear, Ambrose vomited. The invisible dog had turned against its captor.
Would he be its next victim? The growls echoed in the shadows, the image of the vengeful hellhound's teeth looming in his mind. It could strike from anywhere, at any time. He would have no warning until its jaws closed around his throat.
Ambrose retched again.
"There's this dog – it phases through walls, and it's invisible. A specter of all the dogs from our operations." he muttered, his words tinged with terror.
Then, staring at the puddle of vomit before him, Ambrose leaned forward and, in a grotesque gesture, extended his tongue to lick it up.