The hellhound’s howl is still ringing through the night air when I take my first shot.

It misses. Shit.

I take a deep breath and try to steady myself for another shot, but I’m worried about the hound. There’s always a risk of injury when setting traps, though we’re using the safest traps in the industry. I’m worried I set the trap too tight and may have fractured a bone. I’m guessing Dr. Stevens’ friend up in North Carolina will be able to provide care if that’s the case, but that doesn’t help the hound now. The poor thing is obviously scared—I don’t want it to be in pain, too.

I take another breath, raise the tranquilizer gun, and fire.

The hound whimpers again, twists around to bite at its back, and then rears back and lets loose another howl.

I can’t see that well from this distance, but I think that means I got it. I wait, counting the seconds.

Seven long mississippis she howls, then turns around again to her hind haunches, whining and snapping, but I don’t think she can reach the dart. Fifteen mississippis. Twenty mississippis. Twenty-five mississippis.

It takes a full thirty seconds before the hound finally slumps to the ground. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

I reach over and grab the giant kennel resting on the ground behind me and drag it over to the sedated hound. I’m about to begin the process of releasing the hound’s leg from the trap and kenneling it when I hear the sound of scuffling behind me.

I stand and turn, and there’s one of the pups, ears perked up, teeth bared, and growling at me. Aw, fuck.

I take a step back and scan the woods behind the pup, but I don’t see any of the other pups, or Dr. Stevens, for that matter. My tranq gun is back resting on the tree I was hiding behind, and anyway, I’m not about to tranq a pup with a dart made for an adult—that’d kill it for sure.

Still, I’m torn on what to do. I want to get the adult wolf kenneled as quickly as possible so we can haul it back to the truck and reverse the sedation, but I also don’t want to let this pup run off into the woods and get lost. I don’t want to keep these hounds kenneled any longer than we’ve got to—certainly not long enough to set a-whole-nother set of traps.

Before I can decide what to do, however, the pup makes its move.

It ends its growl in a yip of a bark that would be cute as hell if I wasn’t so anxious to get the dang dog kenneled.

Then, it charges.