In Sheep's Clothing

Softness is the first thing eaten.

Animals had gotten to the corpse, tearing flesh off the skeleton and exposing bone. The man standing over the body, his green-blue gaze the same shade as Caribbean waters if they ever froze, stared into the empty eye sockets of his former employee. Bloody, torn flesh, ribboned by some bird, hung down the dead man's cheeks.

Robert Maxim scanned the ground again, tracing the fight. Blood splattered the dirt. Phillip had died slowly. He'd tried to pull the knife free, but the black, blood-crusted handle still protruded from his throat. Philip's left forearm was particularly ravaged, probably from Sydney Rye's dog, Blue.

Next to Philip, a depression in the dirt—the outline of a medium-sized woman punctuated with pools of blood—kept pulling his attention.

Sydney Rye plunged the knife home, then fell over, succumbing to her own wounds. Which, judging by the blood on the ground, were grave.

Deep scratches marked where Blue leapt, nails digging into the dirt as his back legs propelled him into the air. Other dog prints, too. Not as large as Blue's, but far bigger than the common dogs of this contested territory along the Syrian-Iraqi border.

Robert crouched and looked at the dirt. Goats. Goats had come through here after the fight.

Sydney Rye didn't get up and walk away. The bald tread of a homemade boot wound through the forest, goat hooves obscuring all but the smallest trace. Someone had carried Sydney Rye away. Why?

Herders passed through here from village to village. The person must be under Daesh protection…or desperate. Why take a bleeding woman? That injured, she'd be useless, the work to patch her up hardly worth the price. Unless this herder knew who Sydney Rye was.

And Robert Maxim would pay any price to get her back.

P.S. The dog does not die.