Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (13 page)

“I’m working.”

“Working whom?”

“Hey,” VanAllen said with a little too much cheek, “I’m not the one who kissed and ran.”

“Easy, you two. The rest of you, take a break. Back here in ten.” Lance lowered himself to the chair. “Hogan, I hear you’re giving Khat trouble about the donors.”

“No, not about donors. About
a
donor.”

Lance slumped back against the chair. “Nina Laurens.”

Lips tight, Timbrel darted a look at VanAllen but gave a sharp nod at the same time. “I’d rather not discuss this here, sir.”

“Well, too bad. And don’t worry about VanAllen. He’s got more clearance than you. Besides, he already knows about Nina.”

Timbrel’s facade shattered like a glass pane. In each sliver, he saw pieces of a broken childhood and upbringing, all mixing into a massive ball of insecurity and uncertainty.

“Listen, Hogan. I’m sorry for the way things are between you and your mom, but your demands, your little fit here, are making things worse. Just leave it alone. While I am utilizing this organization, I cannot keep you fully funded. Khouri needs the money.”

“It’s not a
fit
, sir,” she spat out. “And how could I make it worse on them? They’re getting their money.”

“Not on them.” Burnett tugged his wire-rimmed glasses from his face. Man he hated the readers, but getting old did that to a fella. “On yourself. Nina called about an hour ago. She’ll give the other half of the donation …”

She looked like she was about to hurl. “But?”

“But you have to retrieve it.”

        Nine        

C
an’t you do something about her?”

Tony saw the angst in Timbrel’s face, the borderline panic lurking beneath her frustration. Even in shorts and a T-shirt, she made a formidable impression.

General Burnett laughed. “What am I supposed to do about a movie star? I’m not a superhero.” He tossed his Dr Pepper can in the trash. “A woman like her has more power than me, I think.”

“Look,” Timbrel said, leaning across the table, “you know that woman is just yanking my chain.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do, but that doesn’t mean I can stop her.”

“Is it so bad?” Tony put in, curious about the mother-daughter hatred. “To just go get the check from her?”

“Yes, it’s bad,” Timbrel hissed at him. “This isn’t some quaint little family dinner. She wants me there Friday night.”

Tony looked to the general, who shrugged.

“She has a social every Friday night with close friends—a hundred
close
friends. It’s not dinner, it’s an event.”

Tony shrugged. “It’s one night.”

Timbrel jerked away.

“One night,” Tony repeated, “and ABA is set up for the rest of the year.”

“It’s not just one night!” Timbrel shouted. “Forget it.” With that, she snapped her fingers and Beowulf was at her side as she left the room.

“Timbrel,” Tony said as he followed her.

The dog swung around, snarling.

“Timbrel, wait.”

She didn’t. Instead, she stomped out the front door with her hound right on her heels.

“What’s she mad about this time?” Ghost Daniels asked.

Tony looked at him and snorted. “Her mom.”

“You brought up her mom and she left you alive?”

Tony eyed him.

“Sorry. A little sarcasm, but not much. Her mom is a nuclear area for her.”

“What happened?”

Ghost bounced his shoulders. “Nobody knows. She won’t talk about it.”

“Any way around taking that money?”

“Afraid not,” Ghost said as he headed back to the conference room. “We’re already behind, and if we don’t get her donation, we may not survive the next year in operation.”

“But you’re taking on new handlers.” Tony nodded to the others milling around the living room.

“Contingent upon that money from Elysian—Nina’s company.” Ghost paused in the doorway. “What’s the story with you and Timbrel?”

“No story, in case you didn’t just see that arctic blast she threw my way.”

“That’s not what Aspen told me. She said you two seemed to hit it off in Djibouti.”

Tony laughed, not surprised that Talon’s handler would’ve said that. “She also warned me I might as well play with fire.”

“Less painful.”

Tony nodded.

“But…?”

Tony considered Ghost. They’d worked together once. Until Ghost went down in an op gone bad. “I can’t stop thinking about her. When she yells at me, I hear the hurt that’s making her feel threatened. I don’t see a bitter, angry woman. I see a raw, hurting, beautiful, incredible woman.”

“Is this a mission for you, soldier?”

“Mission?”

“Are you trying to fix her?”

Tony frowned.

“Because if you are, it’ll backfire. I promise.”

“I just want a chance.”

“What if she never gives it?”

Tony looked at Ghost, sandy blond hair trimmed short, dressed in a black shirt and black jeans. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Which is?”

“Same thing Aspen did—trying to get me to see the futility.”

“No, I’m trying to make you understand that Timbrel won’t give you that chance. She’s been hurt. You pose a threat. She’s had enough training through hard life experiences to know not to let anyone in, that even if she wants to, she can’t take that risk. So like I said, Timbrel won’t give you the chance you want.”

Jaw set, Tony refused to back down. “Then I’ll take it.”

“Take it, how?” Ghost scowled. “You hurt her and I’ll—”

“No, I mean … Listen, I’ve got a dad at home who doesn’t recognize me half the time. I work some of the most dangerous missions in some of the darkest places on earth. I don’t scare easily. I’ll do what I do in the field with the candy bars, gaining the trust of the people.”

“You’re going to give her candy bars?”

Tony grinned. “I’m going to make her life sweet.”

How? How did her mom always get her way?

Timbrel swatted the bag-draped dresses at the back of her small closet. She stepped back and dropped on the bed then threw herself backward. “Augh! Give me jeans, a T-shirt, and hiking boots any day!” Not the glitz and glamour that defined her mother’s life and friends. Fake, artificial people that they were.

The twangy roar of a sport bike raced down the street, the sound hesitating, it seemed, in front of her home. Pulling off the mattress, she muttered, “Who…?”

A low rumble trilled through Beo’s throat and chest as he hopped off the bed and trotted out of the room.

Timbrel peered down the hall and through the front window curtain. A rider in a black leather jacket and silver helmet turned a circle in front of the house then backed in against the curb. He set the stand and dismounted.

Pinpricks of dread filtered through her for a couple of reasons: One—she’d left the door open during the rain, and now the screen provided the only protection against her boy. Two—she’d
never
let anyone into her private space. She’d done that once before …

“Beo, easy,” Timbrel said as he stood guard at the screen door. “Do we know someone who owns a bike?” Halfway down the hall, she paused as the rider swung his helmeted head toward the house.

Maybe once he took that shiny dome off, she’d recognize him. He had a big build, but …

The rider shed his helmet and ruffled his hair and turned toward the house.

Beowulf’s growl increased.

“Candyman,” she whispered. The shock that registered at A Breed Apart when she realized who the gorgeous man was in jeans and a black T-shirt … the concussive boom from that moment vibrated through her again.

But she didn’t want him here. Didn’t want him in her life.

That’s a lie
.

She did want him. Did want to experiment, see if they could stay alive beyond one date, but she’d played Russian roulette once before.

When Candyman started for the four-foot fence that encompassed her front yard, Timbrel noticed the hook on the door dangling free. “No!”

Beowulf bolted.

The screen’s wood frame hit the wall with a loud crack. Beo’s “out” command lodged in her throat.

Candyman reacted, his face ashen as he spotted her bullmastiff charging him. “Timbrel!” Scrambling, he threw himself back.

It wasn’t funny. It really wasn’t, but she couldn’t stop laughing.

He launched over the fence.

The chain-link ensnared his pant leg. He tipped over and down, thudding against the cracked cement sidewalk. “Timbrel! Call him off!”

He looked like a slab of beef hanging on a hook. Arms on the sidewalk, he supported himself. Kicked at the fence.

Beowulf snapped.

Candyman kicked again. “Get back. Timbrel,” he called, a warning growl in his tone.

Beowulf went up on his hind legs, chomping at Tony’s boots.

“I swear, if he—” Finally freed, he swung his leg away and vaulted to his feet. Legs apart, he drew his fists. Probably would’ve drawn a gun if he’d had it on him. And yet, he didn’t move.

Neither did Beo.

“My dog knows his boundaries. Beo, sit.” As her dog complied, sitting right in front of the fence with his “stiff-upper-lip” snout giving him a
hmph!
look, Timbrel folded her arms over her chest. She snickered at the way Beo acted all gangsta. “You don’t.”

He looked up at her. “Timbrel, call him off.”