Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (23 page)

Tony stilled. Fought not to fist his hands. To stay still. Not stir her emotional pot.

And failed.

He pushed to his feet. Paced.

“Don’t go all Chuck Norris on me, Tony.”

“I won’t. I’m better—a Green Beret. He’ll never know what hit him.”

“Sit.” Timbrel reached out and caught his hand, tugged him back to the steps. “Don—that’s my stepfather—is why I left home, why I left the glamour world my mom thrust me into from birth. He wouldn’t stop. After the third time and his constantly telling me I was useless for anything else … I found a way out.”

She ran her hands through her hair, looking out at the sky rimmed in dark blue as dawn made its approach. “Ya know, I actually used to love that lifestyle. The money, the designer labels. But when I realized my friends were only there for the money and props, that my mother preferred that to being a mom, to protecting me …” She looked at him with a sad smile. “She refused to believe me that he’d forced himself on me. I was seventeen. He …” Her head went down again. Then a shuddering breath. “He got me pregnant—but I miscarried. Only when I was in the hospital did my mom somehow believe me. But that whole ordeal left a pretty big hole in our relationship. I was so glad …”

Sitting quiet, sitting still,
listening
was the hardest thing he had ever done.

“Back then, I was so glad the baby died. Now, I have a greater appreciation for life, and I can’t help but wonder … what he might be like today. He would’ve been ten this year.”

“He?”

With a sardonic smile, she shrugged. “The doctor could tell after …”

“Timbrel … I am so sorry.”

She had every right and more to hate men. To push and lock them out of her life.

“Yeah, me too. Carson—he was my fault. I went in determined I could change him.” Another hollow laugh. “He changed me. I finally saw how stupid I’d been and broke it off before things got out of hand. Maybe I was too late. That bugger was smart—he penned Beo then ambushed me in the dark.”

Tony couldn’t harness his thoughts. They bled red. Murderously red. He’d kill those men if he ever met them. Rip the life from them that they stole from her.

“Tony?”

He blinked and looked at her.

“Did I say too much?” Vulnerability and fear swirled through her brown eyes.

“No.” He reached over Beowulf, praying the bullmastiff didn’t rip out the soft tissue under his arm, and took her hand. “No, I want to know. But you know me—I’m a protector. It’s in my blood. And I just …” He fisted a hand and squeezed hard.

“Yeah, me too.” Her gaze softened. “That’s why I like you so much.”

He leaned over the dog and kissed her.

Forehead against his, she smiled. “You make me crazy.”

He cracked a grin.

“I can’t promise I’ll be an open book, but … I’ll give it my best shot.”

“That’s all I ask, and knowing about those men explains a few things to me.”

“Like what?”

“Like your lack of faith in God—I mean, it’s not like you hate Him, but letting Him have control can be crazy-scary sometimes.”

“Right?” she said with a grin.

Tony bounced his shoulders. “Sometimes, I think if it’s not scary, it’s not real faith. It means you’re trusting someone else.”

“Myself.”

Tony beamed. “That’s my girl. But maybe letting go of what you can’t control will help you release your hatred of men, stop you from closing people out, walling-off, so to speak.” He rubbed her back as a little more space sifted them. “You’ve been to hell and back, Timbrel. It’s understandable for you to have some trust issues, but God never gave up on me, so if I see you trying, that’s enough.”

She nodded. “I’ll try.”

He went in for another kiss—and planted one solidly on Beowulf’s slobbery mug.

My name is Aazim. It means “determined.” I think my parents were right in giving me this name, but my name changed when a man altered my life. The colonel has told my story, but now … now I’d like to tell my own story. I miss my mother and father, even though they died when I was only three. In truth, they did not just die. They were killed. Not by the Taliban. Not by the Americans. They were killed on a bus by a suicide bomber.

The old men of my village said it was the Americans.

Americans said it was terrorists—the Taliban.

I did not care who caused my parents to leave me. I only cared that I was alone now. Angry and scared, I hated everyone and everything. My anger protected me and pushed me to do things I would not have otherwise done. My aunts and uncles would not let me in their homes because I would punch, spit, and kick. I hurt many. And each time, a piece of the old me, the safe me, broke off, until all that was left of the little boy my parents left behind was a ghost.

As a youth, one of my favorite things to do was throw rocks at every car and bus that passed. Drivers might curse at me for denting or scratching their cars, and a few men would get out and chase me, but it never discouraged me enough to stop. I even pelted the big trucks Americans drove through our town.

That was when he found me, the man who took me off the street, gave me good food and a warm bed. He did many good things for me, but still my anger simmered. Brewed hot and angry within my chest. At first the things he did, the things he allowed me to see, were so shocking and so awful that my heart would beat wildly, ready to escape. My fiery spirit fed off his violence. For a time.

But then, the way a father might give his child a toy, he gave me
her
.

Nafisa.

I think he wanted to make me feel better after I’d been shot—bullets meant for him. But taken through my chest. I still have the scars, and moving quickly stirs fire in my lungs.

“What about Isa?”

I blinked as she said the words and darted my gaze to the heavy doors that closed out the rest of the compound. Wetting my lips, I leaned on the mound of books and papers strewn between us. “I have told you of Isa before.” If
he
heard her ask about the Christian Messiah, he would become irate.

Hair black as night, lips the same color as a poppy, she stared back at me. A brightly colored hijab of blues and golds wrapped her heart-shaped face. So pretty. So sweet. She is a Christian, which does not make sense to me. I have been told they are mean, intolerant people. But Nafisa had never shown me that. Which I did not understand either because I was there the day her father had been shot. How could she be so nice to me? As far as she knew, I was the son of the man who murdered her father so cruelly. I wanted her to know the truth, to know who I really was.

But who am I?

Aazim? Dehqan? Or someone else?

She gave me a coy smile. “No, you’ve avoided Him before.” She shifted and lifted a text.

Voices in the hall warned me. I slapped a hand over the book she held. “No. Enough.” If Father—it was the only name I was allowed to use—heard this conversation, he would kill her. “I am hungry.”

Laughing, Nafisa slumped back. “What scares you, Dehqan?”

That, too, was the only name I was allowed to use. It was my own fault, though. The day he had pulled me aside, I thought I was in trouble again so I lied. Told him my name was Dehqan. Maybe … maybe I was now that boy I so hated who had beaten me up more times than I could count.

“I am not afraid of anything!”

The doors flung open. “Dehqan!”

Jumping to my feet, I felt my heart pounding. My father. He was back. I’d grown lazy while he traveled for business. Now he returned—had he heard her forbidden question about Isa? As my father stepped into sight, I heard Nafisa’s intake of breath, and something in me, something very deep that I could not fight or understand, surged to the front of my mind screaming:
Protect her!

Scowling, he looked from me to Nafisa then to the table of books. “Stop wasting your breath talking to her. Beat the truth into her if you must.”

Nothing hurt me as much as to hear him treat her as if she were a dog to be trained and taught to beg. But I had spent enough time with him, at his side, to learn his ways. “Father, it is good to see you. Was your meeting well?”

His wrath returned with a vengeance. “Come with me!” He whirled and stomped out of the room.

I gave Nafisa a look that I hope told her I was sorry for leaving. “Soon, I will return.”

She smiled, but then one of the guards roughly dragged her to her feet.

“Do not—”

“Dehqan, now!”

I turned to stop the guard, but Nafisa’s warm brown eyes hit mine. She gave me a frantic shake of her head. As if to warn me not to say anything, not to worry about her. Because she, too, knew my father’s anger would burn against her if I appeared soft. But I do. How could I not? She is mine. Given to me to protect.

Then why did
she
protect me?

Rushing into the hall, I feared how the guards would treat her. But I feared more what my father would do to me in a state if I was not obedient. Only by the shaken expressions on the guards’ faces in the marble-lined halls did I find him in the main library.

He threw a book across the room. “We must crush them!” He slammed his fist against the counter then flung his arms along the surface, sweeping glass, flowers, books to the floor. Palms on the wood, he drew in ragged breaths.

I started forward. “Father—”

He sliced a hand at me, silencing me. He looked to Irfael. “I still don’t know how—
how
—they knew where to look. It won’t leave my mind. I think there is something to this.” He straightened, staring at Irfael then at me. With a pointed finger, he aimed his accusations at his first officer. “You have worked that store more than anyone, staffed its workers. Did you know th—?”

“No, Colonel! No, of course not.” My father’s officer looked paler than I’ve ever seen him. Sweat ringed his forehead and underarms, darkening his tan uniform. “You know I would have warned you.”

“They are too close.” Father ducked his head, thinking, pacing. “Much too close.”

“The dog, Colonel.”

“I saw the beast,” he spat out, then curled his lip as he looked at me. “They had tracking dogs. Led them right to the hidden factory. We barely had time to conceal our work.” He spun to his first officer again. “But how did the American soldiers know to even come looking? What tipped them off?”

“We are looking into that,” Irfael said. “Have you … have you considered—?”

“Sir!” a guard shouted as he burst into the library and stopped short.

My father whipped around, and in that fluid motion, I could sense things were collapsing around the man who had worked so hard, for so many years, crafting a great plan against the Americans.

“He’s—”

Another man walked into the room now. One I had seen before, one who had stolen the courage of every man—including myself—with a single glance. I could feel my muscles and stomach tightening as he moved into the room without a word.

Father was quiet. Unmoving. Watching.

The man walked to the eastern wall of windows and stared out through the thin sheer curtains over the town. He turned, and the sun silhouetted his broad shoulders draped in an expensive suit. This man had a silent strength that both repelled and drew me. He always wore dark suits that looked tailored and expensive, but since I wore a perahan tunban and waistcoat, what would I know about the cost? Besides, a long tunic had to be more comfortable than a tight-fitting suit. I could not deny, though, that I would like to wear a suit. Just once. Like the stranger. To have the impact he had when he walked into a room. But it was not the clothes that gave the man his confidence, nor the white turban atop his head.

It is fear
. He held their hearts in his hand because of a silent power he wielded.
Maahir
. That was the name they gave this man for it meant “skilled.”

“Ah, friend.” When Father spoke, it jolted the room as if wakened from a slumber. Father took two steps closer, but no more. And the smile did not make it to his words. “You are come at last!”

“Forgive my delay,” Maahir said with a slight nod. “What has happened?”

“My shop—have you already forgotten what they did to my shop?” That was Father. Right down to business, as Maahir demanded. And I doubted Father wanted to spend more time in this man’s presence than he must. “If they are allowed to continue invasive actions like this, we will be discovered. The bombs, the nukes—”

“What do you expect from me?”

My father swallowed but did not waver. “Put pressure on them. You have the contacts, the connections.”

Maahir shrugged. “And because I have these connections, you expect me to use them to help you.” When the man’s probing eyes hit me, I felt dread and excitement at the same time. Excitement that he had noticed me—never before had he acknowledged I even existed. Yet having this man’s attention was not something one wanted to have too often.

“Your loyalty—”

“Is it in question?” The speculating arch of Maahir’s eyebrow held its own warning. “What you forget, Colonel, is that I
do
have the means, but I also have the means to shut down someone who is out of control.”

“Out of—”

“One who does not know how to hold his tongue when it’s good for him.” Amazing how the man’s words never raised, yet his message was conveyed.