The range is quiet except for the soft clink of gear and the distant hum of generators when the boys wander over to the K-9 lane.

Price folds his arms. “Alright, then,” he says, watching the dogs line up. “You always grab the Malinois first. Thought you’d be a Shepherd handler.”

Soap smirks. “Yeah. That little rocket yours ever slow down?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you glance at your dogs.

“Watch,” you say.

You signal the German Shepherd first.

The Shepherd moves out smoothly—controlled, deliberate. He approaches the obstacle course like he’s thinking through every step: checks footing, adjusts his angle, clears the wall cleanly, tunnels through, scales the ladder with precision. It’s methodical. Calm. Professional.

Solid.

Then you whistle and point to the Belgian Malinois.

The difference is immediate.

The Malinois launches.

He doesn’t approach the obstacles—he attacks them. Clears the wall in one fluid motion, barely touching it. Hits the A-frame at a dead sprint. Vaults the barrier without hesitation. Lands, spins, and is already looking back at you, vibrating with focus and drive, tail low, eyes locked.

Soap lets out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”

Gaz blinks. “That dog even touch the ground?”

You give a small, proud smile and kneel, letting the Malinois slam into a perfect sit at your side.

“That’s why.”

They look at you expectantly.

You straighten up. “Belgian Malinois are fast, reactive, and relentless. They don’t hesitate. They don’t second-guess. If I need speed, tracking, pursuit, or chaos control—he’s my dog. Search calls, perimeter sweeps, high-energy ops, anything that needs aggression on a leash.”

You glance back at the Shepherd, who’s now calmly sitting, ears up, unbothered.

“But Shepherds,” you continue, “think before they move. They read rooms. They hold under pressure. They’re steadier with gunfire, crowds, tight stacks, long overwatch.”

Price nods slowly, already understanding.

“So,” you finish, “I take German Shepherds on tactical missions—hostage rescue, raids, anything where one wrong move gets someone killed.”

You rest a hand on the Malinois’ collar as he leans into you, coiled and ready.

“And I take Malinois on everything else, because if something runs—” you smirk slightly, “—this one ends it.”

Soap shakes his head, half amused, half impressed. “Remind me never to be on the wrong side of your leash.”

Price exhales through his nose, approving. “Handler who knows her dogs,” he mutters. “That’s why you’re here.”