Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (37 page)

Life would be empty.

No, not true. She had Beo.

A dog
, she thought with a snort.

She loved Beo. More than life itself. But now … now … was it possible she felt that way about a man? About Tony? A knot of dread—no, not dread. What was swirling through her stomach as she watched the water rushing down the drain? She placed a hand over the spot where the crazy warmth emanated.

Maybe I’m sick
.

Too much violence. Too much blood. Too much chaos.

“Go get something to drink.” Harry’s voice invaded her thoughts.

Timbrel slapped off the water, yanked a paper towel from the dispenser, and turned as she dried her hands.

Harry didn’t look up, but he seemed unusually aware of what was happening as he shaved Beo’s side near the hip joint. “There’s food in the break room.”

“No way I could eat right now.”

“You’re pale. Did you get hurt?”

Timbrel frowned as she pitched the used towels in the trash. “No. I wasn’t close to the building when it …” Her mind shifted to the blast. To being thrown across the courtyard. Slamming into a shack.

“Timbrel?” Harry was watching her.

“I … The blast threw me.”

“You should go to the hospital. Get checked.”

“No, I’m not leaving Beo.” Thumbnail between her teeth, Timbrel watched her boy. Watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.

Saw the similar motion with Tony. Laid out. Injured. Bleeding out.

“Okay,” Harry said. “Once we’re done here, I’ll drive you over.”

Timbrel gave a short nod. She was fine. And she wasn’t leaving Beo until she knew he’d be okay, that there wasn’t any permanent damage. She might not be able to be there for Tony, but she sure wasn’t going to leave the one guy who’d protected her for the last five years. Rather than pacing, she planted herself in the corner, leaning against a counter.

Twenty minutes in, Timbrel shifted. Sighed.

Harry shook his head.

Okay, so she wasn’t a very patient patient. Especially when it came to Beo. “Thoughts?”

“That you need rest.” Harry worked quietly over the next hour, cleaning, stitching, bandaging, until finally he straightened. Stretched his back and plucked off a glove.

Timbrel straightened, too. “Well?”

“Cuts are minor, mostly. One took a dozen stitches, another three. Removed a couple of pieces of shrapnel. We’ll do X-rays and make sure he doesn’t have any internal injuries.” His voice lowered as he crouched and angled his head to the side, seized the opportunity while Beo was unconscious to give him a quick physical. “His pads will need fresh bandages and cleaning regularly. Afraid he needs to get home and rest. I want to keep him here for a few days to make sure no infection sets and that he can get up and move around before I release him.”

Timbrel drew up her head. Swallowed. “That bad?”

“He’s a tough dog, Timbrel, so I doubt much will keep him down.” He shifted to the sink and scrubbed his hands while the techs took X-rays. “He’s going to need treatments for a few weeks, but”—Harry’s features softened—“I think he’ll be fine.” He ran a hand over Beo’s abdomen. “Not hurting for food.”

Once the techs cleared the room, Timbrel eased toward the table. “Never has.” She rubbed Beo’s ear. Though he wasn’t awake, she knew it was his favorite spot to be rubbed, next to his chest. But only those he let into his personal space ever figured that out. The others, he just bit their heads—or hands—off. Not literally. Unless the person was too slow.

Timbrel kissed his broad skull.

“What happened out there?” Harry asked as he relocated Beo to a rear kennel and laid him out comfortably.

What
did
happen out there? Timbrel couldn’t help but wonder. Tony and Beo had been mortal enemies. But Beo … Beowulf had knocked Tony to safety. Well, as much as he could. And he’d taken some shrapnel and singed off the pads of his paws in the process.

“My furry hero.” She squatted by his kennel, rubbing his fur. “You big softie.” Tears burned her eyes. “Thank you.”

“How is he?”

Timbrel pivoted on her haunches toward the strong voice from behind. There stood Watters, helmet in hand. Face still dirty but hands clean, he nodded to Beowulf. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Captain.” Harry folded his arms. “The dog will recover. Hopefully 100 percent.”

“Hopefully?” Timbrel punched to her feet.

The world washed gray, squeezing hard against her abdomen. A warbling din exploded in her mind then vanished.

        Twenty-four        

L
ance stood in the hall, arms folded, anger rippling. He glowered through the glass at the surgeons working to save the leg of one of the best operatives he’d ever met. VanAllen’s father had an exemplary service record, the part anyone could access. It made him want to kill someone for almost taking out the son of one of the country’s most valiant and unrecognized heroes. Nobody could know what James VanAllen Sr. had done, what he’d sacrificed. But his family suffered through the repercussions.

Lifting his chin, Lance tried to shake the fog of doom. He wanted to wring someone’s ruddy neck. That op should’ve been clean. His source …

Doors flapped open.

“I need a doctor!” Watters sprinted in, Hogan limp in his arms.

Lance hurried toward them, his pulse skyrocketing at the sight of the woman. “What in blazes? She was fine!”

Two nurses shot forward and ushered Watters to a room with a gurney.

“She just collapsed.” Out of breath, Watters laid her down gently then stepped back. “Out cold. Vet said she blanked a couple of times, looked pale, then when she stood—”

“Who is she?”

“Timbrel Hogan,” Watters said. “Dog handler.”

“I’ll get her records transferred.” Lance hurried toward the nurse’s desk. He filled out a form and handed it off to an orderly then jerked around.

Watters, shoulders still rising and falling from the exertion of carrying Hogan, dropped against the wall. Farther down, Lance spotted Russo with the others, apparently still waiting on word about VanAllen. “Watters, get Russo. In my office in five.”

He spun on his heels and stormed out of the hospital. Phone in hand, he punched in his code. Authenticated. Then dialed.

“This is risky—”

“I want your butt here tomorrow night.”

Silence. Then, “You know that is not possible.”

“What I know is you screwed us over.”

“No. I did—”

“Tomorrow, or I’m floating your name to every server I can access. I’ll rip your cover so wide open, you’ll feel a draft halfway across the world.” Lance stabbed the phone with a finger, ending the call. Stuffed the device back in his pocket and hopped into his Jeep. The driver delivered him to the SOCOM subbase command center.

Inside, Lance made it to his office, yanked out a can of Texas bliss, and popped the top. He guzzled the Dr Pepper, emptying it. With a heavy intake of breath, he arched his back and neck as a wiggling made its way up his esophagus. Then let out a long belch. As he reached for another can, he heard voices in the hall.

A light rap on the door preceded the entrance of Watters and Russo, who’d showered, it seemed, by the wet hair, clean pants, and black T-shirt. They closed the door and stood, hands at their sides, full attention.

With a wave of his hand, he growled, “At ease.” He grunted, slammed down the can, then planted his hands on his belt. “What in Sam Hill happened out there, Watters?”

Captain Dean Watters tucked his chin at the verbal assault. “Sir, the explosion”—he shook his head—“it wasn’t accidental.”

Firm, hazel eyes held his own. “What are you saying?”

Jaw set, Watters scowled. “I think you know what I’m saying, sir.”

“Then you know that what you’re suggesting incriminates a half-dozen key intelligence sources.” Including the one Lance had just threatened to expose.

“What I know,” Watters said, his eyes ablaze, “is one of my men died, another is fighting for his life, the dog had his feet burned off, and the girl is in surgery to relieve cranial bleeding.” Chest heaving, the man held his ground. “With all due respect, sir, someone wanted us dead. I want to know why.”

“You and me both, son.” Lance collapsed into his chair and waved them into the others opposite where he sat. Head in his hands, he gave a long sigh. “Give it to me. Play by play. I want to know everything.”

Bleep … bleep … bleep …

Annoying and grating, the incessant noise hauled Timbrel from a deep sleep. Her eyes felt as though sandbags sat on them. She groaned and reached for her alarm clock, determined to silence its shrieking.

Her fingers hit something.

That something clattered.

A glass. She must’ve knocked over a glass. She yanked open her eyes—and slammed them shut with another loud groan. Too bright!

“Timbrel, please,” a soft voice whispered. “Keep still. Don’t move yet.” She frowned and squinted around the blinding light exploding around her. “Who…?”

An oval face came into view. Well, not perfectly. A bit distorted. As Timbrel blinked quickly, the blurred visage slowly came into focus. Large, almond-shaped brown eyes. Rich dark brown hair. Exotic beauty. “Khat?” Timbrel reached to push herself up. “What are you doing in my room?” Something pinched at the top of her hand. “Ow.” She glanced down and spotted the needle and the tube taped to her skin. “Where…?”