Lockpaw's Arc

Chapter 2 of 1

The next morning, Lockpaw went back underground. He couldn't outrun the syndicate anymore, so he had chosen to learn them. The packed subway station was the last place they'd expect him to return. He crouched behind a signpost near the turnstiles and watched. Commuters poured down two wide staircases. Somewhere in this system, a guard would be posted to watch for him. Lockpaw meant to spot that guard first, follow him, and find where the syndicate hid. He found the guard leaning against a tiled pillar. The man wore a black suit and didn't sweat in the crowd. He stood still while everyone else rushed, brown eyes sweeping the platform like a slow searchlight. Lockpaw knew that stillness. This was the man who had dragged experiments back to their cells with his bare hands. Isaiah Harold. Lockpaw's ears flattened. He edged sideways to slip away. A turnstile clicked. Isaiah's head turned. Their eyes met across the crowd. "There you are," Isaiah said. He didn't shout. He just walked. Lockpaw bolted for the stairs. Isaiah cut through the commuters and caught his collar at the top step. He slammed Lockpaw against the tiled wall. The dog's breath left him. He kicked, but his skinny legs did nothing against the grip. Isaiah lifted him off his feet with one hand. "Stop squirming," Isaiah said. "You're going home." Lockpaw's brain worked while his body failed. He couldn't win the muscle. He needed the crowd and the machine. His paw found the dead pen in his vest. Empty, but Isaiah didn't know that. Lockpaw jammed the tip against Isaiah's neck and clicked it loud. "Scent gas," Lockpaw gasped. "You'll reek like me. Every hunter down here will chase you instead." Isaiah flinched. His grip loosened for half a second. That was all Lockpaw needed. He twisted free and dropped low, then rolled between a woman's shopping bags into the thick of the crowd. Isaiah lunged after him and crashed into three commuters. Bodies tangled. Shouts rose. Lockpaw sprinted for the far staircase. Behind him, Isaiah shoved people aside, but the packed platform swallowed the small dog whole. Lockpaw reached the turnstiles, ducked under the bar, and vanished up into the street light. He didn't stop running for two blocks. Then he leaned against a wall and breathed. He had gotten away. Again. But this was different. He had seen the guard's face now. He had felt the man's grip and heard his flat, certain voice. Lockpaw pulled a scrap of paper from his vest. During the fight, his fast eyes had caught the plastic badge clipped inside Isaiah's jacket. He'd memorized the numbers on it. He wrote them down now, paw shaking. Those numbers were a thread. A thread led back to the syndicate. For the first time, Lockpaw wasn't running from them. He was holding a piece of them in his hand.