Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (25 page)

Tony hesitated, hearing a weird twinge in her words that got hung up in his mind. The words were off somehow.

Nah. Probably just him. Lying in that position with Beo cramping his back and shoulders, he’d woken up a bit grumpy.

Timbrel climbed out, holding the door as her dog vacated the Jeep, then she started for the gas nozzle. She had to be dog tired. He snickered at his own joke as he peeled himself out of the vehicle, muscles seizing and aching. “I can take over driving from here.” Arms over his head, he stretched. “Where are we?”

“Little Rock.” Timbrel stuffed the nozzle into the Jeep and set it then headed into the store, her lumbering beast with her.

Whoa—she’d driven for over six hours! Which meant he’d slept for that long. Maybe that’s why she was short with him. The hose clicked, and Tony returned it to the pump then secured her vehicle. Trotting inside, he heard someone inside the store shouting, “No dogs.”

“He’s a working dog,” Timbrel said as she waited on the side for her food.

“I don’t care. He’s not allowed in a place that serves food.”

“Wrong. Check the laws.” Arms crossed, Timbrel stood steadfast with her canine buddy.

Tony stood on the opposite side, posing as a stranger, and nodded. “She’s right. I know a really great handler and she’s telling the truth.” He looked at Timbrel, but she kept her attention on the counter. By the way she held her lips in a tight line, she was ticked off.

“Whatever.” The food guy walked away from the counter.

Tony tried to catch Timbrel’s gaze again, but she remained focused on the bag another employee filled and handed to her. She thanked the lady, took the bag, and headed out the side door.

Okay, just keeping up the pretense that they weren’t together. Cool.

After making use of the facilities, Tony washed up and splashed the lukewarm water on his face. He checked himself in the mirror, did a breath check, then returned to the food counter to order.

Tony hung back as his burgers and peach milkshake were prepared. Bag in hand, he stepped outside. The smack of humidity pulled his gaze to the sky. A bit gray, but nothing threatening.

He started crossing toward the pump, tugging some fries from the bag, when he realized Timbrel’s Jeep wasn’t in that stall. Wrong one. Munching fries, he angled left. Then stilled. What the—? He lowered the bag, straining to see all the pumps. He turned a circle, checking the spots lining the front of the convenience store.

A knot formed in the pit of his stomach.

Lightning snaked through the afternoon, crackling.

Tony spotted the car wash. Hey, maybe … He trotted toward the cement structure and peered into the bay where a black sedan sat.

Nope.

Tony strode back. “She did
not
just leave me.” Disbelief wove a tight band around his chest and mind.

A white SUV pulled away from the pump and the knot tightened. The trailer with his bike sat at the edge of the parking lot. Unhitched. Abandoned.

        Sixteen        

T
hunder boomed and cracked, vibrating through him. Rain doused him.

Tony cursed. “Un-friggin’-believable.” He had no helmet, no safety jacket. Unless … He jogged over to the trailer and found his pack, helmet, and safety jacket. He fished his phone out of his pocket and hit her speed-dial number.

Grabbing his gear, he pressed the phone to his ear. It rang … and rang. He hustled back into the convenience store restaurant. He deposited his gear and food on the table and ran a hand through his hair to wipe away the rain. The phone still rang.

He’d hound the tar out of her backside. No way would she get away with this.

Pushing himself into the seat, he stared out the window mottled with raindrops, creating a blurry mural. He ended the call and tossed the phone on the table with the rest of his stuff. Fingers threaded, elbows on the grimy surface, he stared.

Why would she do this? They were fine. He’d even started contemplating the words “long-term” when it came to their relationship. Though hadn’t he always thought that way about her? He wanted her—not sexually—well okay, yes, there was that—but Tony had “for the rest of our lives” in mind while pursuing Timbrel.

And she’d played him. Right up to the predawn sob story.

No. Now he was just reacting out of the hurt of her yet-again rejection.

God, I do not know what to do
.

He’d chased her. From the very beginning. Nothing could fend him off, not even that toothy, ugly mutt of hers.

But in his line of work, Tony knew there were some people you just couldn’t sway, and forcing them might get immediate results, but the net product would be resentment.

Is that what happened? He’d pushed too hard?

Fingers threaded, he rested his forehead in his palms.
What do I do, God? I’ve tried everything I know
. Despite the overall sense of futility where prayer was concerned—God certainly hadn’t answered the pleas regarding his dad—Tony had no options left. Add to that, he wasn’t ready to give up on Timbrel. That felt a lot like giving up on his dad.

He groaned and tugged a burger from the bag, unfolded the wrapper, caught a whiff, and tossed it back down. Why couldn’t she just try to make things work? They’d made some great headway. He’d always known great pain buffered her from letting anyone in. But she pushed away anyone who got too close or knew too much.

You were two for two, genius
.

I love her, God
. Man. He did. He’d never voiced it before nor even gone there with the “L” word, but the truth was like a double-tap. Burnett had warned him off, so had the entire ODA452 team.

Tony snatched up the burger. Chomped into it, watching the downpour.
But you had to go and try to prove them wrong
.

He grabbed his shake and took a drag on the straw.

He was Class A certifiably stupid. Because loving her was more painful than a bullet to the brain.

What would it take to win her over, completely?

Him taking a bullet for her?

Loving her dog?

I’d rather take the bullet
.

Two Days Later
The Pentagon, Virginia

“What have ya got?” Lance Burnett crumpled his Dr Pepper can, let out a belch, then tossed it in the recycle bin. It clanked and nestled among the rest of the burgundy cans.

Lieutenant Brie Hastings handed him a grainy black-and-white aerial shot. “SATINT shows some unusual activity going on in a small village an hour south of Kabul. Nothing airtight but enough to keep our interest.”

Burnett nodded.

“Internet chatter seems to indicate something big is developing, but again, nothing airtight.”

Things never came as simple as “airtight” in this day and age. The enemy was swiftly gaining access to the same high-tech methods. They had to stay one step ahead or they’d lose—equipment, troops, and the whole bloody war.

But chatter and grainy pictures wouldn’t cut it. “What about boots on ground?”

Hastings nodded. “Yes, sir.” She handed over a report. “This is the reason I suggested we meet. HUMINT is humming, but we haven’t been able to sort it.”

Chair squeaking as he dropped forward, Lance flung the paper back at her. “For cryin’ out loud, Hastings!”

She held up another page.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is that?”

Pushing up but not standing, she leaned closer and slid it onto his desk.

“You realize we are in the doghouse with all this, right? After that bookshop fiasco …”

“Yes, sir, but I think that will help our situation.”

Issuing an exaggerated sigh, Lance shifted his attention to the eight-and-a-half-by-eleven page. The first thing to settle the nerves in his stomach—besides the Dr Pepper fix—were the nearly half-dozen stamps at the top. Terah Jeffries, the field officer whose signature scrawled along the bottom. Ahmed Khan, the information center employee who collected the letter and sent it on up to DIA.

Nothing really to get his knickers in a knot considering the source of origination: Terah Jeffries. She’d been responsible for losing one of the single most important assets the United States ever had.

“What’s Jeffries up to?”

“Finally some good.”

The channels had been verified and the report passed to Hastings. Sent her running into his office.

Lance lifted his glasses, slid them on, and started reading. “In light of buzzing activity and rumors of an unprecedented attack against the West and her allies … after numerous attempts have been made over the last six months to secure definitive information … escalation of our intelligence efforts alerted counterintelligence … despite years of silence and unanswered requests for help, contact made with Vari—” His breath backed into his throat as his mind processed the code name typed on the page. Lance stopped and peered over the rim of his glasses, disbelief doing a number on his high blood pressure. “Is this—?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Variable’s back?”

A knock sounded at the door.

“What now?” Lance groused. “Enter!”

Lieutenant Smith poked his head in. “Sorry, sir. I tried to buzz you—”

“We’re busy.”

He nodded. “Yes, sir. But you have a visitor.”

“I don’t care who it is. He can wait.” He waved Smith out and returned his energy to the news Hastings had delivered. “So … how in Sam Hill did Jeffries get Variable to come back?”