Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (2 page)

His gaze traced the simple dwelling. He had not done so well in providing for her. But someday … someday he would. If only—

Something flickered. Through the window, he saw something … What? What was it?

Frowning, Ahmad moved to the window. Nudged aside the curtain. He peered out at the massive hulk of steel lumbering through the narrow streets. Cars and wagons beat into submission beneath its mammoth tracks. The M1A1 Abrams tank—a colossal giant of steel and destruction. Beyond it, in stark contrast to the dirty hull, the opulence and splendor of a dictator who had crushed his people, gassed thousands, and brutally beat others to death, mentally if not physically, towered over the city in defiance.

And here … here Ahmad sat with his wife and unborn child fighting to live, in squalor.

At least the Americans would stop Saddam.
Madman!

A loud, lusty cry streaked through the day.

Ahmad jerked to the back of the home.

The cry strengthened.

He scurried three steps forward, his nose almost against the rough wool material. “What is it? What’s happening? Can I see the babe? Freshta, are you well?”

The curtain swung aside. His mother stood before him, a babe wrapped in a blanket. “Your son!”

Awe spread through him. Spilled through his brain, stifling a response. Down through his chest until he felt as if the sun itself existed within him.
My son!
He reached for his son. “Siddiq … his name is—”

Boom! Boom!

BooooOOOOOOooooom!

Thrown upward. Then thrust aside by the maniacal claws of gravity, Ahmad screamed as his body slammed into a wall. Cement exploded. Collapsed on top of him. His hearing faded. His breathing shallowed.
My son! Where is my son!

Darkness snuffed out his breath.

Six Months Ago
A Breed Apart Ranch, Outside Austin, Texas

“Go out with me.”

“No.”

“Why?” From behind, his hands came around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his beard tickling her chin and neck. He tugged her closer. “C’mon. I know you like me. And you know it.”

Warmth and pleasure spun a heady cocktail numbing Timbrel Hogan, slowing her automatic responses, her sensibility. It felt good, so very good to be in his arms. To be held. To hear his voice, the teasing huskiness in her ear. The zinging and zipping through her arms and belly at his touch. She saw herself kissing him. Saw herself enjoying it.

Too much like Mom
.

“You can’t even give me a good reason.”

She rolled out of his reach, stretching her neck to shake the lingering effects of
his
effect.

“Because I don’t want to.” Timbrel focused on setting out the trays of food Khaterah had provided.

Candyman palmed the counter, hung his head, then peered up through a knotted brow. “That’s a lie.”

With a mean sidelong glare, she gritted her teeth.

“I can see straight through you, Timbrel.”

She snorted. He didn’t even know her real name. “You don’t know anything about me, so don’t even pretend to. If there’s something I can’t stand, it’s a liar.”

“Then you must hate yourself a lot.”

She snapped to him. Augh! Why had she left Beo in the yard? He’d so lunge at this arrogant jerk. The vault of anger thrust her past him.

“Timbrel, wait!”

Tears burned. She stuffed on sunglasses as she punched through the front door. Barreled around Aspen and Mr. SexyKillerBlueEyes, who stood frozen on the front porch. Ghost stood by the training yard.

“Beo, come!” Timbrel called, waving to Ghost and praying he didn’t make her come over there to get her dog.

Thankfully, despite his frown, he released Beo, who bounded across the yard and leapt into the back of the Jeep. She climbed in, ignoring the blurring vision, cranked the engine, and ripped out of the yard.

“Timbrel!”

She wouldn’t look in the rearview mirror. Wouldn’t.

She checked.

Candyman stood, hands on his blue truck. Kicked the tires. Punched the side. Threw a fist in the air.

She swallowed. Good. He knew some of what she felt.

Her Jeep lumbered onto the paved road and leveled out at sixty. Dirt plumed behind, cocooning her. Protecting her—from trying to check to see if he followed. Of course he wouldn’t. She’d ticked him off. It was her safety net. Making men angry so they’d go away. Safety and security in solitude.

Warm and wet, Beo’s tongue swiped her cheek. She laughed and roughed his head, pressing her cheek against his skull as she angled onto the access road and aimed for the highway. Put as much distance between her and the ranch. Between her and James Anthony “Candyman” VanAllen.

She hit seventy mph and glanced in the mirror. A silver glint merging into traffic detonated the nervous jellies in her stomach.

“No,” she breathed as she glanced over her shoulder.

Jerked back.

It was him!

He’s chasing me
.

But no … no, that wouldn’t work. She couldn’t go there. She couldn’t become her mother. Wouldn’t. Timbrel fished her cell phone from the console and pressed 911. He’d never forgive her for this, but it was the only way.

        One        

Present Day
Bagram AFB, Afghanistan

S
ays here, bullmastiffs were originally bred in England. Supposed to be 40 percent bulldog, 60 percent English mastiff.” Candyman stroked his beard as he stared at the monitor in the communications tent.

Team commander Captain Dean “Watterboy” Watters shrugged. “Yeah, but the handler is 80 percent bulldog.”

“Hey.”

“C’mon, Tony,” Dean said. “Even you have to admit that—she called the cops on you, man. Or did you forget?”

Tony. The name that reminded him of who he was, who he wasn’t. Only Dean had permission to use his middle name instead of his call sign or first name. They’d worked the last seven years together, affording them a larger berth than he gave to the rest of the ODA452 team.

“Didn’t forget. I understood it.” Which was why Tony should back down now. But why did it pour acid through his gut when Dean said that about Timbrel?

“Then I don’t know if it makes you as crazy as her or worse. Right, Rocket?” Dean shot a grin to the sergeant first class who’d entered the briefing room, a closing arc of morning sun sliding across the floor, bringing with it a gust of warmth. August rated “too hot” here.

“What’s that?” Rocket’s black hair was mussed and the bags under his eyes bespoke the exhaustion he must be feeling from the last patrol. He lumbered to the coffee bar, fisting a hand against a yawn.

“Hogan—”

“Who?” Rocket slurped the black tar.

“Hogan,” Dean repeated. “The handler from A Breed Apart.”

Rocket turned back to the bar and applied a lid to his hot brew. “That tough-as-nails witch?”

Tony punched to his feet, straddling the metal folding chair. Drew back his arms. “Hey.” He wouldn’t let anyone talk about Timbrel that way. Not if he had a say in it. And he did. With two fists if necessary.

“That’s the one.” Though Dean wasn’t smiling, it could be heard in his words. “I mentioned to Tony she was part bulldog.”

“Part?” Rocket angled back to the table, cup to his mouth. “That woman is pure bulldog and 100 percent rabid.”

“Rocket.” Stabbing a finger at the man, Tony glared. “You better get a lock on that mouth before I do it for you.”

Rocket and Dean laughed long and hard.

You’ve been played
. Tony dropped into the chair. Stared at the monitor, hand balled against his lips. He felt ready to blow. Weird. So not like him. But just like Dad.

He sat up straight, feeling nauseated. He powered down the computer and his anger. No way he was going there. No way he would become like—

“You’re right.” Tony propelled himself on the wheeled chair to the briefing table, then scooted back and snatched the bag of candy his mom had sent. These sweet treats had gotten him branded with the call sign Candyman because he used them on patrol to ingratiate the team with the locals. “She’s got attitude. It’s what I like.”

“Attitude? That’s a nice word for it.” Thumbing the side of his eye, Dean shook his head. “I’ve never seen you get so worked up.”

“You and me both,” Rocket said as he dug in the bag and withdrew a mini Butterfinger. “Why are we talking about her anyway?”

Tony popped Rocket’s hand. “Stay out of my stash.”

“Burnett tapped her for this mission.”

“The good general taps a lot of people.” Rocket then added, “And teams.”

“His stars give him the right.” Dean lifted a pack and set it on the chair. “Regardless, she’s coming with her dog—a bullmastiff. He’s EDD.”

Calmed, Tony nodded mentally to himself. Better. In control. Focused.

“We have a whole kennel of bomb and drug sniffers out there.”

“Not like this one.” Dean checked his watch, then glanced out the window into the main hall of the subbase command building. “He’s specially trained for WMD chemicals.”

“That’s reassuring that I won’t die in a fallout like Chernobyl, but I’m still not getting it.”

“You will—during the brief when the team gets here.”

“Roger,” Rocket nodded, “but I want it on record that I object to her presence here.” He avoided looking at Tony.