 Clint held his breath. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the signed baseball bat resting on a stand on top of his office shelves. It had been a housewarming gift from his grandmother when he and Griff had moved in. He could do a lot of damage with a baseball bat. Unfortunately, to get to the bat, he’d have to go back into his office and would lose the advantage of being able to see most of the kitchen and all of the living room. He had two choices: stand there and watch whoever was in the house come at him, or arm himself with a weapon he could use. Clint opted for arming himself. Moving as quietly and as quickly as possible, he stepped back into his office, mentally cursing when he hit a squeaky floorboard. He was almost close enough to reach up and grab his prize when he felt a presence behind him. Clint jumped and tried to turn around when Phoenix erupted like some rabid movie dog, barking and snarling. He didn’t need the dog to alert him to the fact the arm wrapped around his neck wasn’t Griff’s. Lunging forward proved useless. All that accomplished was knocking into the shelves. He heard the bat rattle back and forth on the stand. Clint tried to reach back and grab his assailant with one hand and rammed his elbow back with the other arm into his attacker, but those moves proved useless. Pressure on either side of his neck and his vision graying out happened simultaneously. Through a haze he heard the sickening sound of flesh and muscle being hit. A canine yelp and the only spoken words—“Fucking dog!”—all came in a jumble.    
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