Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (10 page)

“Colonel.” Irfael strode toward him, hard lines gouged into his face by years of working in the unrelenting Afghan heat. Tall, beady-eyed, he could be trusted only in the way of violence. “We’ve gathered the men around back.”

Shrieking, a young girl bolted from a house. Fist up, dagger in hand, she dove at him. “I’ll kill you!”

Catching her wrist, the colonel sidestepped. Yanked her around in front. Arm around her throat. Hand struggling to control her more against that deadly blade. “Why do you do this?” His heart spun. Her fire. Her passion. Her willingness to throw herself on the coals of hell for something she believed in.

Brown eyes met his with hatred. “You killed my father.”

“So you come to kill me? To deliver your own justice?”

Her nostrils flared, revealing a small gem embedded there. “Isn’t that what you are doing?”

He grabbed her by the hair and jerked her toward the vehicles. “You want to see justice?”

She cried out, slapping at him, kicking. She even dropped to her knees, but he yanked her onward. Stumbling, she regained her feet.

Irfael stepped out from a plaster-and-thatched-roof hut, blood splattered across his face.

Around the corner, the colonel found his men guarding a half-dozen men. All dressed in international uniforms. All on their knees.

One of the younger men looked up, and his gaze widened at the prize the colonel dragged with him. “Leave her!” He lunged upward.

A single shot rang out.

The man crumpled to the ground, a plume of dirt the last applause of his life.

The girl screamed. “No!” She wrested herself from the colonel and threw herself at the man’s body.

“Please,” the village elder begged, spittle clinging to his beard as thickly as the man’s betrayal. “Do not do this thing. They are innocent.”

“They are
not innocent
!” Sword in hand, he walked around him. “You have tainted them, Shamil, when you helped the Americans.”

“No, no. I did not help.” Tears marked beige paths down the man’s dirty cheeks. Knuckles white from clenching his hands so hard, he continued to beg.

“Colonel.” Irfael nodded to the end of the street.

He turned and saw two of his guards assaulting a young girl. “See what it is you have done, Shamil?
You
have done this. Your sin.”

“No, no, no,” the man cried as he hung his head. “Please stop this, Colonel. You have the power. I beg you. I will do anything. Just do not do this.”

“I have the power because it is given by Allah.” He lifted the sword and let it ring along Shamil’s neck. Once the head rolled from its body, the colonel marched over to the girl. Hauled her up and away from the body.

“A prize, Colonel?” A sneer on Irfael’s face infuriated him.

He held her up before the men. “Shamil was a fool. He believed working with the Americans and British would bring peace. But only Allah can bring peace, and I am an instrument of peace. Through violence. We must not work with the devil! Did not the Prophet Muhammad—peace be upon him—”

“Peace be upon him.”

“—say: ‘My Lord has enjoined upon me justice.’ Then we must be that justice.” He swept his arm around the village. The smoke fleeing the sins of the people. The fire searing away their evil ways. “This,
this
, is what happens when one is not faithful to Allah!

“You wear the uniforms of the Infidels. A year ago, I would have shot each of you dead in the street. But today”—he drew in an impassioned breath—“today I give you a chance to redeem yourselves. Wage war on the Americans. You have access to the bases. Wipe them out!”

Uncertainty flickered through the men’s gazes. Some slid sideways glances to the others. Others refused to look at him.

Cries of women rose and grew.

“If you do not follow this way, Allah will bring death upon you. And I pray with all my heart that it is me who will deliver that justice.” He gripped the face of the young girl with his right hand, resting his other on her shoulder. “If you do not, then this”—he snapped her neck—“is what will become of your families.”

She fell onto the dirty earth.

The colonel walked over to his armored vehicle and opened the door. He knelt against the running board and cupped the face of a ten-year-old boy. “Did you see?”

Wide brown eyes held his. The boy nodded.

“Do you understand, my son?” The two months he’d had with the street urchin transformed the youth, but doubt still lingered in his eyes.

He nodded.

The colonel smiled.

“No.” The boy shook his head. “Why did you harm them? The women, the children—”

“Oh, Dehqan.” He motioned the boy over, climbed into the warmed seat, and closed the door. “What does the Qur’an say, son?”

Uncertainty flickered where confidence should rest.

Nudging aside the disappointment, he gave the boy a hint. Instruction would take time, to convert the boy, to have him consumed with a passion for Islam. But it was time well spent. More of the sons of Islam needed to be raised up, trained, equipped both mentally and psychologically. “ ‘We did not wrong them, but they wronged themselves.’ ”

A crack of a smile. “Surah 16, verse 118.”

The colonel hugged the boy. “Well done, my son.”

        Seven        

Austin, Texas

Y
ou’re serious? Black-tie formal?” Staring past her booted feet propped on the table, Timbrel ignored the way her stomach squirmed over wearing a dress again.

“Absolutely.” Khaterah Khouri’s smile gleamed as she sat at the conference table at the back of the ranch house. “We’re bringing in some very distinguished dignitaries and holding it at the National in New York.”

“New York,” Timbrel balked. “Do you know how expensive that will be?”

Khat nodded. “I’m aware, but most of the investors are in that area, and we want to make a good impression.”

“You mean, you want to empty their pockets into ABA’s coffers.”

Khat’s smile went wicked. “Is there a difference?”

Timbrel shoved her hands through her hair. “But seriously, Khat. Dresses?”

“It’s one night. It won’t kill you.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, this isn’t about you.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Timbrel snapped.

“I see your people skills are as good as ever,” Heath “Ghost” Daniels said as he entered.

Timbrel glared.

Folding her arms over her chest, Khaterah held her ground. “This benefit gala is crucial for A Breed Apart. My brother has worked very hard to make this facility a success, to give back where he saw a way. After all he’s gone through, I won’t let him down.” Large mahogany eyes glossed. “And I won’t let anyone else ruin the night for him. Not over a dress. He believed in you, Timbrel. The least you can do for him is this small thing.”

Chastised, Timbrel hung her head. “Okay.” She couldn’t hide from this. “You’re right.” Jibril had sacrificed more than most of them—he’d come back from Afghanistan minus a leg. And yet he fought on.

But a dress—nobody here could understand what that meant. Broke beyond broke, she would have to use one of her old gowns.

“Do you need help with a gown … I mean, financially?”

Timbrel snorted and let her boots thud against the ground. “No.” She needed to redirect this conversation and deflect the attention. She tugged a spreadsheet closer and scanned the numbers and names. “How far are we from our goal?”

“Well, we’ve really stretched our faith out there, believing for a million dollars. We’re about halfway.” Khaterah blew a stream of air from puffed cheeks. “I can’t lie to you—we’ll really be hurting if we don’t make it.”

“Hurting? What are you doing with the money? I just did a mission—”

“Are you accusing me of stealing?”

“If the boots—”

“Whoa!” Ghost shouted. “Stop. Both of you. Nobody’s going there. This business is expensive. Jibril is growing the organization. He’s just invested in a stud for breeding.”

“Why are we holding it at the hotel? Host it here—”

“It’s the middle of August. In Central Texas. Want to offer ice-cube baths with their champagne?”

“We’re serving champagne?”

Khat huffed. “It was a figure of speech.”

“I say dump the hotel and liquor—”

“The hotel has been donated by—”

“Hogan,” Ghost snapped. He looked down then at Timbrel. “She doesn’t have to justify every decision to you. Trust her to get the job done. She didn’t go over to A-stan with you and Beowulf, second-guessing your every move. That new harness, that new vest you got for Beo—that’s Khat working her backside off to get the best at the lowest prices. Get over yourself.”

Timbrel swallowed the baseball-sized lump of humble pie.

Khaterah sighed. “A lot happened in the month you were gone. Vet bills—”

“You’re the vet!”

“Yes,” Khat hissed. “But I am not a specialist. One of the donated dogs got hurt.”

Timbrel’s heart and head thudded. What was she doing?
Shut up and sit down
.

Khaterah sighed again. “I’m interviewing for a kennel master and …” She shook her head.

“So we still need a lot,” Ghost said.

“Yes,” Khaterah said. “I’ve spent the day sending out invitations, e-mailing others, and phoning.”

“Oh, speaking of phone lists …” Ghost tugged a folded paper from his back pocket. “Darci gave me this. She said this list should prove lucrative and to use her name when calling.”

Leave it to Heath’s spy wife to have connections that would be lucrative.

“Brilliant!” Khat had cornered the market on gorgeous. Those exotic features and the fiery personality, a brother who cared, parents who loved them … Khat loved animals, devoted her life to taking care of them, giving back. She deserved to be loved and loved completely.

So, why hadn’t a guy tripped over his tongue regarding her? Why didn’t she have a man like Candyman pounding down her door? Khaterah deserved that.

I don’t
.

“I’m heading out. Hogan, do something productive.” Ghost gave her a warning look. “Khat, thanks for your hard work.”

Draped in heat and silence, the room seemed to throb. Timbrel tugged a sheet closer and aimed her gaze at it with the pretense of studying it.

“So what happened over there?”

Timbrel flinched. “What?”