The Enforcer (4 page)

Toby looked at Milly, who put her head on her paws with a long-suffering sigh.

“Don’t say it,” he grumbled. Pushing to his feet, he removed the hair-dusted towel.

He
’d thought it would be a simple matter to
develop
Dylan Connelly—to use the word his team lead had supplied. Toby hadn’t met a woman yet who didn’t respond to his easy-going charm. But the militia leader wasn’t like any woman he had ever tried to flirt with. She was so preoccupied by political matters and civil rights concerns that he had to wonder if she even saw him as a man at all, let alone a prospective confidant.

This job is going to be a little harder than I thought
.

Chapter
Three

At dawn the next morning, Dylan stepped out of her house and drew up short as she spied the solitary figure bathed in the silvery light, waiting for the others to join him. Tobias Burke had beat all of them to morning PT, and given Milly’s labored breathing as the dog padded up to the porch to greet her, he’d even walked his dog already. Given her humiliation yesterday, she harbored no desire to find herself alone with the hunk, not before downing her morning coffee.

The man was too appealing by far, not to mention disturbingly astute.

Bending at the waist, Dylan paused to pet Milly’s head—anything to delay joining Tobias in the yard.

“
Morning, ma’am,” he called, removing her choice to ignore him.  

“
Hello.”

She
’d seen for herself at supper that he’d buzzed the rest of his hair just fine, with or without Morrison’s help. This morning, the spiky strands were mussed from sleep, and the strong jaw he’d shaven smooth had already grown new stubble.

The flutter in the pit of her stomach annoyed her as she determined whether to stay where she was or to find something else to preoccupy her. What was it about the man that unsettled her at such a visceral level? She had thought herself immune to animal attraction.

None of her NCOs or militia members had ever dared to mention her struggle with PTSD. It was their faith in her that kept her going. Tobias’s insight left her feeling transparent. It crippled her confidence. Would he follow her leadership knowing what a wreck she was?

“
You’re up early,” he persisted, forcing her to stop petting Milly at the risk of looking rude.

“
I don’t sleep much,” she admitted, joining him in the yard.

“
Might want to switch to decaf, at least in the afternoon,” he suggested.

She wasn
’t about to defend her habit of drinking coffee all day long when it gave her the energy to combat her lack of sleep. “How was the attic?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly. “Did you freeze?”

“
No ma’am. It was perfectly comfortable in the sleeping bag. Thanks again for taking me in. I have a sense of purpose, now.”

“
Hmm.” He must have sensed her doubts about him.

In all fairness, aside from commenting on her PTSD, she had no real complaints—yet. He
’d projected an upbeat outlook at the supper table, deflecting Ackerman’s nastiness with humor and deferring to the rest of them. She managed a small smile. “Then you’ll have no complaints about the workout this morning,” she said sweetly.

His white teeth flashed in the gloom.
“No, ma’am.”

His exuberance teased a smile out of her. She quickly masked it as light poured out of the house and three men tumbled into view. At the same time, Chet Lee rounded the building from the guest cottage. The NCOs fell into place next to Burke, while the officers squared off to face them.

Terrence Ashby got them moving. “Jumping jacks!” he bellowed. Hampered by his prosthetic and fatigued by his illness, Terrence oversaw the routine more than he participated in it. Dylan, who craved the endorphins, lived for exercise. Fifty jumping jacks preceded a series of stretches and core-conditioning exercises.

Terrence
’s voice boomed in the quiet yard. “High knees!”

Over the stamping of their feet and the huffing of their breaths, Dylan heard a rooster crow.
If not for that distinct sound and the smell of wood smoke wafting from the fireplaces in the county, she could almost close her eyes and pretend she was back in Afghanistan, leading PT in the barren yard outside the MACP. In her mind, her specialists—her boys—were still alive, ribbing each other, telling dark-humored jokes.

What do you call two dead guys hanging in your closet? Curt and Rod—get it? Curt-n-rod?

“Pushups!” Ashby announced, snatching Dylan out of the past. They all dropped belly-down onto the cold, damp grass. The sun edged higher to illuminate their sweating faces. Most of them had shed their jackets, including Tobias, whose broad shoulders made her think of the tattoo on his upper arm. He’d chosen a shield over a skull. She liked that about him. 

Intercepting her stare, he shot her a grin, and she promptly looked down at the grass.

Down. Up. Down. Up.
With each depression, the scent of fertile soil and wet grass filled her lungs. The dirt under her hands made her think about her boys, all buried deep beneath the earth, while she remained above, still alive … for what?

Sergeant Burke
’s baritone startled her from her reverie as he cut off the others’ groans. “Come on, guys. We got this. Easy day.”

They had fifteen more pushups to go to get to fifty. He joined Terrence Ashby in belting out the count.
“Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one…”

Sergeants Morrison and Lee chimed in, latching onto Burke
’s enthusiasm. Dylan, whose own arms had started burning, added her own voice. Only Ackerman refused to count, but then he was barely even doing pushups.

“
Fifty!” they chorused, scrambling to their feet with a sense of accomplishment.

Dylan
’s gaze fell to Tobias’s broad chest and the message on his red T-shirt.

I
’D LIKE TO APOLOGIZE IN ADVANCE FOR WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY LATER.

A rusty chuckle scraped up her throat and escaped her parted lips. Catching her eye, he sent her a quick nod, and she realized that was his way of apologizing for his PTSD comment, yesterday.

“Burpees!” Ashby shouted, reclaiming her attention.

With muttered curses, the men dropped into a plank position, but Tobias kept them motivated as he called out the count again. Dylan fought to keep her eyes off him.

His charisma, even more than the skills he could teach them, made him an asset to the militia. Was it possible that he might want to take Terrence’s position?

Hope for the future, so long absent, pulsed through her bloodstream, keeping her from drifting back into the past.  

“Two miles!” Terrence called as their calisthenics came to an end. He consulted his watch, preparing to time them. “On your mark.”

Dylan pointed out the running course to Tobias.
“Follow the path.”

“
Go!” Terrence pushed a button, and they all took off, Dylan at the lead.

Down the hill and along the perimeter of the open field she raced, her warmed muscles accommodating her with ease. Dew glimmered like droplets of liquid mercury under the ever-brightening sky. The chilly air nipped at her ears and cheeks. Her hair, caught up in a ponytail, whipped back and forth in rhythm to her graceful strides.

Running was her refuge. When she ran at top speed, her memories could not keep up, and so she pushed herself to stay ahead of them—free of pain—if only temporarily. 

She could hear her NCOs falling behind, as usual, even though they dared one another to overtake her.

The running course split at the tree line. A right turn would take her to the firing range, only used on Saturdays. Dylan bore left, running parallel to the forest. Normally, by the first mile marker, she found herself running all alone—in a still, peaceful setting where the drum of her heart and the patter of her feet were her only company. But today, someone was gaining on her fast, and she didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

Innately competitive, she lengthened her stride.

But it was no use. By the time she turned uphill in the last half mile to the house, she could hear Tobias gaining on her. With her calves screaming and lungs burning, she gave up the pretense of being able to outrun him.

He pulled alongside her, shooting her a gamey smile.
“Damn, you’re fast,” he huffed.

The compliment took some of the sting out of being overtaken. He was obviously giving it his best effort.
“You run pretty fast yourself.”

“
Used to be a lot faster. This is good for me.”

There he was, kissing up to her again.
“Beat you to the finish,” she tossed out, shifting like an engine into an alternate gear.

With a muttered curse, he surged forward to meet her challenge.

Their sawing breaths and pounding feet silenced a twittering cardinal. It lit out from a dogwood tree as they tore up the slow grade to the back of the house. Ashby stood by the willow tree, poised to call out their times.

Accelerating at the last instant, Dylan defeated her newest NCO by two seconds and beat her personal best record by seven.

Walking in circles with her hands clasped at the back of her head, she gasped for breath. Tobias doubled over, hands propped on his knees, his chest heaving. He glanced up suddenly, caught her watching him, and grinned. A sense of camaraderie washed through her, sending her into confusion.  

As he turned away, calling encouragement down to Sergeant Lee, Dylan studied him covertly. She liked his enthusiasm, his natural leadership. She liked more than that, only she wasn
’t ready to admit it.

“
Come on, brother,” Burke called, encouraging Lee, who tackled the incline with his only arm pumping furiously. Tobias held out his hand for him to slap as he crossed the finish line, well ahead of his colleagues. Sergeant Morrison huffed up the hill twenty seconds later, and Sergeant Ackerman trotted up dead last.

“
Twenty minutes and ten seconds,” Ashby announced on a disgusted note. “That’s pathetic, Sergeant. You’re supposed to beat your last time, not add to it.”

Ivan Ackerman
’s hands balled into fists. Sensing his volatility, Dylan chimed in, “You’ll pick up the pace next time, won’t you, Ivan?”

“
Yeah, sure,” the supply sergeant muttered. “I’m coming down with something.” He hacked up some phlegm, beating his chest to prove it.

“
We’ll all beat our times on the next run.” Tobias Burke’s dancing eyes swung in her direction. 

Dylan frowned at him. How the hell was she supposed to run any faster than she had?

He countered her dismay with a wink that made her jaw drop.
He did not just wink at me
. Horrified, she glanced at the others to see if they’d noticed. Thank God, no one had. Next time they were alone, she’d take him to task for his insubordination.

Or maybe she
’d take the high road and let him off the hook as she’d done with Ackerman. In good time, they’d all settle into the roles they were meant to fill.

At least she hoped that was true, especially for her. 

***

An hour later, Dylan climbed into her Chevy Suburban with a travel mug of fresh coffee and drove off in the direction of the Martinsburg Medical Center. Ivan Ackerman went with her.

“For counseling,” Sergeant Morrison explained as they watched the Suburban disappear. Lt. Ashby had ordered them to paint the front of the house. “Ackerman has more issues than most.”

Toby turned toward the ladder.
“Why, what happened to him?”

“
From what I heard, he was on leave from the service, visiting his family over Christmas. His wife and daughter went shopping at the mall and were killed by a thug who opened fire.”

Toby stared at him aghast.
“No shit.”

“
True story.”

“
Damn.” Dylan had tried telling him not to judge Ackerman too harshly. In Ackerman’s world, predators were everywhere, even at the mall. No wonder he’d joined her militia.

“
Sergeants Morrison and Burke!” Lt. Ashby’s stentorian voice carried easily across the yard. “Get to work.”

All morning and into the afternoon, Toby stood at the height of a ladder, coating window frames with paint so thick it went on like glue. The sun shone warmly on his back. A lone fly buzzed around his head. On a ladder not too far away from him, Sergeant Morrison rolled the chiffon-colored paint over the scraped old clapboard with desultory sweeps. What Morrison failed to accomplish in work, he made up for in gossip.  

“You know, I used to be a patient over at the veterans hospital,” the artillery expert divulged in the middle of his running monologue.

Toby glanced over in surprise. 

“I’d been going to Martinsburg for years, trying to find relief from Gulf War Syndrome, which I got in the first Gulf War. You know, bone aches, lethargy, the whole nine yards. I used to pop a dozen different pills a day, and it didn’t make a lick of difference. Matter of fact, I got worse. Started having heart palpitations. Then these black outs would hit me out of nowhere.” He spit a wad of phlegm into the rhododendron below him. “Can’t keep a job when you pass out for no good reason. I used to head up security at a software development company in Kearneysville.”

“
Oh, yeah?” Toby picture Morrison in a blue uniform wearing a gun in a holster that went across his pot belly.  

“
Yep. Liked it, too, but I was sicker’n hell, and when I keeled over one night, they fired my ass the next day.” Morrison moved his roller to a new area.