Zubair stepped into the open where the heat line he'd rolled off the grain bin met the shade.
The first pair of dogs locked on him and darted in a pincer. They were highly trained.
The dog on the right feinted and skittered, his teeth flashing for a calf.
The left took the head-on line—the kill line.
Zubair spread his fingers and let the air between his palms turn heavy with temperature. The heat didn't jump; it thickened, a curtain right at muzzle height.
The lead dog hit that curtain and reared, not understanding why the world suddenly hurt for no reason at all.
Its momentum died in three stuttering steps. The second tried to shoot the gap and found the same wall. Their fur curled at their shoulders. The smell of singed fur lifted under diesel and old grain.
"Back," Sera ordered, and Luci stayed, every muscle trembling with the insult of it.
Hunters used the dogs' rush for their own push.
