Hard Rain

Murakami would see me but where my appearance would be obscured
    by shadows. I needed him to come as close as possible, to maximize the
    element of surprise. Surprise might be the only advantage I would have
    over him.
    Two minutes later he emerged from the rear door. I hung back just
    inside the shadows, the shades on, the hat pulled low.
    There was a dog with him, straining on a leash. It took me a second to
    recognize it without the muzzle. The white pit bull, the one that had
    been in the car after my fight with Adonis.
    Ohfuck.
    I almost turned and ran for it. But a dog's most atavistic instincts
    are triggered by flight, and there was too great a chance that the
    thing would have caught me and brought me down from behind. I'd have
    to play this out.
    At least Murakami's attention was partly engaged by the animal. He saw
    me and lifted his head in curt acknowledgment, then looked down at the
    dog, which had begun to growl.
    Nice doggy, I thought. Nice fucking doggy.
    They came closer. Murakami looked up at me again, then back to the
    dog. The damn thing was really growling now, staccato killing sounds
    that rumbled up from deep in its chest.
    Murakami didn't seem unduly concerned. I guessed that a dog that took
    gunpowder and steroids with its Alpo and jalapeno pepper suppositories
    for dessert might growl at the fucking wind, and that Murakami would be
    used to the behavior, might even welcome it.
    They came closer. The dog was starting to get out of control, snarling
    and straining at the leash. Murakami looked down at it. I heard him
    say, "Doushitanda?"I What the hell is with you?
    Then his head started to come up. He wasn't as close as I wanted, but
    I knew his next glance was going to put things together. I wasn't
    going to get a better opportunity.
    I leaped out at them and closed the distance in two long strides.
    Murakami reacted instantly, releasing the leash and getting his hands
    up to protect his upper body and head.
    It was a well-trained reaction and I'd been expecting it. Ignoring the
    dog, which I ranked as the lesser threat, I dropped to a crouch, cocked
    my right arm back, and whipped it forward like a tennis backhand. The
    baton started telescoping out. By the time it reached Murakami's lead
    ankle, it had achieved its proper twenty-six inches. The impact of
    that steel to his ankle was one of the best feelings I'd ever known. If
    I'd missed, I would have been dead a few seconds later.
    But I didn't miss. I felt bone shatter under the steel and heard
    Murakami howl. An instant later all I could see was white dog, coming
    at me like a cruise missile.
    I managed to get my left arm up in front of my throat. The dog shot
    forward and clamped onto it just above the wrist. There was an
    explosion of pain. The impact knocked me backward.
    I knew if I fell to my back with that creature on top of me there
    wouldn't even be body parts for the clean-up crew afterward. Partly by
    instinct, partly by judo training, I let our paired momentum somersault
    us backward and rolled into a squat on the other end of it. The dog
    still had me just above the wrist, snarling and shaking its head,
    holding on in a dead game grip the way it had been trained. I couldn't
    feel anything in my arm anymore.
    I tried to bring the baton up and crack the thing over the head, but I
    couldn't. The dog's claws scraped against the pavement, seeking
    purchase, leverage from which it could force me over onto my back.
    I dropped the baton and reached around with my good hand, scrabbling
    for its testicles. The beast dodged left, then right, knowing what I
    was going for. I found it anyway. I grabbed that canine package and
    yanked downward as hard as I've ever yanked anything in my life. The
    jaws loosened and I jerked my arm free.
    I lurched to my feet. The dog writhed for a moment, then got its legs
    under it. It snarled and looked up at me with bloodshot eyes.
    I glanced at my left hand. It was clamped around the pepper spray
    canister with rigor mortis determination. The tendons must have locked
    up from the pressure of the animal's jaws.
    The dog's muscles coiled together. I pried the canister loose with my
    good hand. The dog leaped. I turned the canister forward and
    depressed the trigger.
    There was a satisfying sound of gas escaping under pressure, and a red
    cloud hit the beast directly in the face. Its momentum carried it into
    me and knocked me backward, but it was jerking and slobbering now, no
    longer attacking. I