One of them carried a black duffel bag, slung low against his side. The other, taller and broad-shouldered, held a syringe in his gloved hand. Daniel’s heart pounded. What the hell were they doing? The men moved toward the cages. Without hesitation, the tall one knelt beside a weak-looking retriever, gripping its scruff as he plunged the syringe into its neck.
Daniel clenched his fists. This wasn’t a treatment. This was something else—something worse. He barely breathed, his body tense, willing himself to stay invisible. But then—a sharp bark. His stomach dropped. One of the puppies had woken, its frail body trembling as it yipped in Daniel’s direction. It had sensed him. The men froze. Then, slowly, the taller one turned toward the crates.