Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (36 page)

“Help me!” she shouted again, her voice lost amid the howling blaze. She twisted and looked up where she’d seen Pops. The rooftop sat empty.
God, not him, too
. Timbrel’s panic reached a fevered pitch.

Fire shot into the sky, its roar deafening and scalding. Timbrel leaned over Tony’s body, shielding both of them from the angry claws of the fire. Crackling and popping debris floated through the air. Hissed against her cheek as another volley shot into the sky.

She ducked and found herself looking at Tony’s chest. Was he even breathing? Her gaze flipped to his mouth. His throat. Blood squished between her fingers. She whimpered and tightened her grip. “Tony!” she shouted, though their faces were only inches apart. “Tony! Tony, wake up!”

He groaned, his head lolling from side to side.

“Tony!” Hope surged as she touched his shoulders.

Eyes fluttering, he let out another groan.

Oh man, those beautiful green eyes. So beautiful. “Tony, can you hear me? Please say you can.”

He pried himself off the ground with a grunt.

“No, stay down!” She pinned his shoulders but he fought her.

“Get off!” He coughed, his personality combative. He came off the ground. “We need”—pain corkscrewed through his face—“augh!” The injury must have caught up with his adrenaline rush that tried to throw him back into the fray. Agony twisted his words and expression. He curled onto his side as he reached toward the injury.

“Don’t,” Timbrel snapped as she tried to hold him off. “Watters, help!”

“Get me out of here,” Tony grunted, spittle sliding down his chin as he ground out the words. “It’s not safe.” He pushed up—threw himself backward, howling as he reached down. His head bounced off the ground. He writhed. Face red, he cried out. Gritted his teeth. “Crap, crap, crap!” The veins in his temples bulged. “My leg!”

“Stop it, Tony. Just keep still or you’ll make it worse.”

“I can’t—it …” He groaned again.

I need help!
Tony had to get a tourniquet or he’d bleed out with the artery chewed up by the bomb. She checked over her shoulder. Java and Watters were shaking their heads.

Someone had died. But if that man was dead, they needed to divert their attention to Tony. “Help!” she shouted again. “Tony’s bleeding out!”

A thud beside her yanked her from the quicksand of grief that threatened to devour her. She flinched and found Pops at her side. He whipped a kit from his pack.

“I can’t stop the bleeding.”

“Pops, just get me out of here,” Tony begged.

“Working on it, Candyman.” Hands already bloodied, Pops ripped open a velcroed strap. He lifted Tony’s knee and tucked the strap under it then tightened the strap.

A demonic howl roared from Tony. He dropped back, his eyes rolling.

“Tony!” Timbrel choked on her panic. “Tony, don’t leave me. Hang in there, you hear me?”

“He’s better unconscious.” Using a straight bar secured to the top, Pops twisted it. Over and over, his hands slipping in the blood and fatty tissue. Bones exposed, broken.

Timbrel pressed her fingers to Tony’s carotid. Where … where was his pulse?

“Is he breathing?” Pops asked as he cranked the tourniquet tighter and tighter.

But she saw his chest rise and drop quickly.

“Barely! His pulse is weak.”

“Halo 1, this is Raptor 6, we need immediate evac,” Watters demanded into his mic. “We have one man down, another critical.” He knelt so he kept Tony’s head between his knees while Java slipped in and set Tony’s neck in a brace. “Halo 1, this is Raptor 6. Repeat, we have sustained serious injuries and need immediate evac!” Watters slid an oxygen mask over Tony’s face.

Timbrel scooted aside, letting the elite warriors do what they did best. She shifted her attention to Beo, tugging her first-aid kit from her pack. She gently cleaned his cuts and bandaged them. Darts of sympathy pain raced through her. The pads of his paws were burned off! And he’d stood there over Tony, protecting him.

Wrapping her arms around his chest, she gave Beowulf a hug. Held on to him. The only constant. The only reliable force.

Except Tony … Timbrel shifted her gaze to him. She wanted to cup his face, tell him to hang in there. But she would be in the way of their life-saving attempts. And she was not going to put Tony’s life at risk.

Risk
. He’d wanted her to risk love for him.

Something tickled her cheek.

“I’d do that and more,” she whispered into Beo’s fur.

“He’s not going to make it!” Pops’s grim face and shout startled Timbrel. She watched as he slid a needle into Tony’s arm. “Where’s that chopper?”

“En route. Two minutes.”

“He’s bad. Lost too much blood. He doesn’t have two minutes!”

The words pounded Timbrel’s conscience. Her hands felt funny. She looked down at them, surreal nightmare enveloping her. Tony’s blood covered her hands. The realization bounced her gaze to his face.

With the fire and darkness in a death dance around them, she couldn’t tell if he was pale. What she didn’t like was that he was still. And silent.

“I’m losing him, Commander!”

        Twenty-three        

T
ony never woke up. The twenty-minute flight back to base had only served to heighten Timbrel’s fears. He’d lost way too much blood. Face gray, lips pale, he lay lifeless on that stretcher, a strap securing his chest and thighs as the landscape blurred beneath them. The medics worked nonstop en route to Bagram’s medical facility. Even as the skids touched down, the doctors were transferring Tony to a gurney. They rolled him away, two medical staff riding on the sides as they hurried him to surgery.

But she heard them—not their words so much, but their tone. Their hopelessness as they rushed him into the building.

Timbrel climbed down and stood there, watching as the hospital doors closed.

Something bumped her. She inched aside, feeling distanced from her own body. From this nightmare. As she turned, she saw the man they’d called Scrip now tucked in a body bag as they wheeled him toward the same doors.

What if they couldn’t stop Tony’s bleeding? What if they … they couldn’t save him?

Her knees jellied. Wobbled.

He can’t die
. “He can’t,” she muttered.

“Hogan, your dog.”

The barked words seemed to blast the hair from the back of her neck. She spun and spotted Beowulf. He hopped down from the chopper then hunkered as if in pain. He went down. Onto the ground. Looked up at her with those soulful eyes.

She rushed to his side. Her mind jarred from the thick cesspool of grief to the frantic fight-for-her-life—her dog’s life—adrenaline burst.

Timbrel scooped him into her arms. Jerked toward Watters. “Where’s the vet?”

“Get in,” someone shouted.

Timbrel came around and found Rocket with a Jeep. “Thank you!” She climbed in, Beo’s head resting against her shoulder. She hoisted him into a better hold, her boot pressed into the side of the Jeep’s foot well as Rocket spun the steering wheel to round a corner. Timbrel strained against the pull of gravity as they shot toward the kennels.

Light exploded as the front door flew open. Timbrel saw a familiar face. “Harry,” she whispered as she pressed her cheek against Beo’s head. “It’s okay, boy. Almost there.”

Tires squealed as Rocket swung the Jeep around, almost throwing Timbrel and Beo from the vehicle.

Before she could set boot on ground, Harry was there. “What happened?”

“An explosion,” Timbrel said as she hurried toward the building, Beo still coddled in her arms. It was safest to keep him in her arms until they could muzzle him, the grump and wimp he was when it came to pain. “He has cuts on his hind legs, and I think his paws were burned pretty bad.”

“Here,” Harry said as they raced through a door and into a bay. “Right there.” He pointed to a table.

Timbrel eased Beo down, and two techs quickly slipped a muzzle on him. Her boy grew skittish, his claws scraping over the steel as he scrambled for safety from a danger that didn’t exist.

“See he still hates doctor visits,” Harry said with a note of amusement as he lifted a syringe from the tray sitting on the counter.

“You would too if someone stuck one of those in your butt every time you came.” Timbrel stretched over Beo’s abdomen and shoulder as Harry slid the needle into the fatty part of his hip.

With a grunt and long-suffering sigh—
I can’t believe you did this to me again
—Beo slumped against the cold examination table. His brown eyes sought hers, but the focus quickly faded.

The techs moved in and Timbrel took a step back as Harry bent over her boy. “How’s it look?”

“Timbrel,” Harry said with a warning.

“Don’t do that to me, Harry.”

“Your hands are bloody. You’re an unsanitary mess. Do you want to risk your dog’s life?”

As if she’d been smacked, Timbrel took another step back, her gaze sliding to her hands.

“Wash up.” Harry pointed to the sink. “Use the soap. Scrub hard.”

Water rushed over her hands, the blood running in crimson rivulets down the industrial-sized sink. Tony’s blood … his howls. The guy who went with the flow. The guy who’d stolen her heart. The guy who’d taken her to task for wimping out on a real commitment to him.

“He’s bad. Lost too much blood.”

A tool clattered, steel against steel, jarring her.

Timbrel sniffed, only then aware of the tears threatening. Using her elbow, she pumped several squirts of soap into her other hand. The strong scent of antiseptic filled her nostrils. Timbrel rubbed her palms together. Scrubbed and scrubbed. Stole a glance at the surgery happening behind her. Doused her hands with more cleanser, sloughed off the dirt … the memories. Oh, if only she could slough those off.

What if she had to live with the truth that she’d watched him die tonight?

He couldn’t die. Beowulf had saved his life. Almost sacrificed his own to make sure Tony had a chance to live.

I could’ve lost them both!

Her knees went weak. She gripped the edge of the sink.
They’re all I’ve got
. Timbrel pressed a wet hand against her mouth and stood there, water running and spiraling down the drain just like her thoughts.

He braved her mom. Handled it like a pro. He even put up with Beo’s grumpiness. If Tony was gone …