Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (26 page)

Hastings smiled. “She didn’t. According to the report”—Hastings indicated to the paper—“he came to her.”

Lance scanned the rest of the page. “He wants a meeting—but why? And with whom?”

“Unknown. Specifics are also unknown at this time. We haven’t relayed authorization to reengage the asset.”

“Bull.” Lance tapped the communiqué. “If I know Jeffries, she’s already engaged him. And we verified that Jeffries submitted this?”

“Sir,” Lieutenant Hastings said, “it has her official seal.”

“Yeah,” Lance said, but it still didn’t convince him. “I’ll look over this stuff and we’ll talk this afternoon.”

What was all this about? Why now? Maybe he should be asking a bigger question.

What pulled Variable out of retirement?

Sitting still with a guilty conscience proved monumentally impossible. But Timbrel steeled herself and Beo alerted, lifting his head from the carpeted area and looking in the direction from which footsteps echoed.

She followed his lead and spotted a man in uniform approaching. Lieutenant Smith—they’d met once before during Heath’s first mission as an ABA handler.

“Miss Hogan.” The man smiled—flirted, really.

“Hi.”

“It’s good to see you on safe ground.”

“Thanks.” Why did the thought of flirting with anyone or vice versa churn violently in her stomach?

He shifted on his feet and motioned toward the elevators. “The general is ready for you.”

After waiting for more than an hour, she wasn’t sure he’d see her. Burnett had always ushered her into the facility with an almost air of mystery and urgency. But today he hadn’t. Maybe Tony had already told him.

Then again, the delay could’ve been that she didn’t have an appointment and therefore had no clearance to enter the secure offices. Lieutenant Smith escorted her to the DIA offices without commentary on her weekend, nor did he ask the whereabouts of a certain hunky, green-eyed Special Forces soldier.

Then again, they probably had Candyman’s status recorded down to his number of heartbeats per minute. A guy with that level of security clearance and operating on “eyes only” missions—yeah, he was probably tagged and logged hourly.

Timbrel held Beo’s lead tight as they made their way down the narrow hall. She couldn’t help but think about Neo in the movie
The Matrix
being led to the corner office where his life forever changed.

As gypsum walls gave way to half-glass and carpeted cubicles, Timbrel took a long draught of the cool air that swirled through this place. It helped. A little. She just hoped Burnett would listen to her. Their last conversation had been … well, loud.

Smith gripped the handle, his shoulder blade to the wood as he turned to her. “Good luck.”

With a nod, she stepped into the inner sanctum of the man who worked night and day to keep the world at peace through violence of action.

“Why are you in my neck of the woods, Miss Hogan?” The booming voice wrapped itself around her and tugged her into the unusually cold office.

“Good afternoon, sir. Nice to see you, too.” Timbrel didn’t want him in a foul mood when she was about to throw one major wrench in the war game.

His phone rang and he held a finger up at her as he answered.

His chair creaked as he pushed back and stared at her over the rim of his glasses. Ensconced by a library that no doubt rivaled the National Archives, Burnett had this air about him. One that bespoke power and presence. The gilded frames on the wall portrayed him with a number of dignitaries, and one—whoa! The dude was quite the looker in his younger days—captured his wedding day. Jet-black wavy hair, a killer smile, and clearly had eyes only for the blond wrapped in his arms. Now at sixtyish, she’d call him distinguished. But she couldn’t be nicer than that. He treated her like a daughter, and yelled at her like one, too.

“Don’t give me any of your cheek, young lady.” He stood and shuffled to a side cabinet, where he opened a door and then another. Burnett held up a Dr Pepper. “Drink?”

“No, thank you.”

He shut the doors and straightened, the
tssssk
hissing through the room. After a slurp, he moved back to his desk. “I’ve got an AHOD in fifteen, so you’d better get on with what you want.” Then he hesitated. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your mom, does it?”

Timbrel smirked. “No, sir. Well, not directly.”

“Then how,
indirectly
?” He motioned her to one of the two leather chairs in front of his massive mahogany desk as he clanked down in his.

Where to start? Mom’s house … Sajjan… “Remember the op we had some difficulty with—the bookshop one?”

After another slurp, he scowled.

Yeah. Right. “Remember that I mentioned one of the men who was escorted out of the hidden publishing area?”

Burnett said nothing. Only stared. He had some seriously fierce eyes.

“Well, I think that man was at my mother’s dinner last Friday night.”

“Hogan.”

Timbrel gritted her teeth against the condescension that thickened the way he said her name. She unzipped her pack. “I got his jacket.” She held it out. “I was thinking—”

“No! No, you weren’t thinking.” Burnett’s red face matched his neck. “Of all the—what do you think you were doing?”

“Sir, I am convinced Beo had a positive hit in that bookshop—”

“Yes, on—” He shoved to his feet. “We already had this conversation. I won’t repeat myself. That operation is over. There was nothing there except dadgum books! And you and I both know the chemicals used to make books are also used for bombs. It’s an honest mistake, but one I’m not even going to attempt to make again. Your dog won’t know the difference.”

“I disagree.”

Burnett growled. “Hogan, I’m not doing this again. I had to take heart meds the last time you and I talked.”

“Sir, will you please just test the fabrics of this coat? Lab analysis will prove whether it’s simple bookmaking chemicals or … more.”

“No. Now listen—you were once an MP and it was your job to investigate. But not anymore. You’re a dog handler.”

“And if you won’t listen to me when I say my dog has a hit—”

“That’s not in question. I listened. You were wrong. End of story.”

“But—”

“End. Of. Story!”

“Is everyone in the Army pigheaded like you?”

“Absolutely. We’ve been bred and trained.” His lips pressed tight told her the story. Burnett knew what she’d done in Arkansas, to his soldier. “Now, I have an appointment.”

Timbrel slam-dunked the lab coat on his desk. “Prove me wrong. I dare you. That man knew who I was, and there was something in his expression that warned me we’d hit close to a very raw nerve. He pulled a gun on me. Tony had to incapacitate him. If that doesn’t tell you something, if you won’t explore it—”

“So help me God—and I do mean that I will need the help of God not to bring everything down your neck if you go out there and stir up any more trouble.” He jabbed a thick finger at her. “I will have your hardheaded butt on so many charges, you won’t see straight.” He grabbed his jacket and stuffed his fists through the sleeves. “You’d do well to mind your own business over the next few weeks while my teams work to quiet this storm you’ve stirred up. By the way, VanAllen was right.”

Heat flared down Timbrel’s spine and coiled around her stomach at the mention of his name. “What?”

“You might want to check the news. I don’t think you have a home anymore. Seems someone didn’t take kindly to you stealing that lab coat.”

The world spun beneath her feet. “What?” She steeled herself, and in some vague, peripheral way felt Beo nudge her hand. No home? What did he mean no home? “But you see, that means my point is valid.”

“No, it means you’ve stirred a hornet’s nest that has me in some seriously deep kimchi. I mean it—stay out of it or you’ll find yourself in jail. And remember this, Hogan. VanAllen saved your behind—again. What’s it going to take after your home burning to the ground?”

Like a video powering down or freezing, Timbrel heard the general’s words melted over the mental image of her home.
My home…
“Were you serious that I have no home?”

He quieted then clicked his tongue. “I’d say I’m sorry, and in a way I am. I see you like a daughter in some twisted way, but you did this to yourself.”

Her eyes stung. “So, really—I have no home.”

Burnett lowered his gaze for a moment. He blurred like a nightmarish image. “Too bad you walked away from the only person willing to give you the time of day.” He grabbed a stack of files, his hat, and started for the door. “Good day, Miss Hogan.” Down the narrow hall that separated the offices from cubicles, he could be heard saying, “Hastings, escort her out.”

Hot, wet drops slipped down her face. She had nothing left. What did he mean? Her gaze hit a TV and she shoved herself across the office and jabbed the P
OWER
button.

She stabbed the channel nub till she found a news source.

“Miss Hogan … May I help you?”

Timbrel spun. “What happened to my home?”

Crestfallen, Hastings gave her a sympathetic look. “Come here. I’ll show you.” She held the knob as Timbrel stumbled past her and wrapped her arms around her waist. She led her back to her cubicle, and after few keystrokes, she leaned back. Nudged her monitor toward her as Timbrel stood numb and mute.

There, a photo caption from the
Austin American-Statesman
read: H
OME
B
URNS TO
G
ROUND
—O
WNER
M
ISSING
.

Hauling in a painful breath, Timbrel covered her mouth.

“Burnett notified the authorities that you’re okay and requested all future information about this be reported directly to him. It won’t be in the media again.”

As if that mattered or could make anything better.
“You did this to yourself.”
Tears swirled and blurred the office into an impressionistic painting.

An arm came around her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Timbrel burrowed out of the hold, smashing the tears from her face. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“Hey.” A soft voice from behind turned her around.

Lieutenant Smith stood there, a small piece of paper in his hand. “Here.”

Blinking against the tears she’d held back, Timbrel struggled to make out the lettering. “What…?”

“He said if you asked about him, to give you this.” Smith shrugged. “But he didn’t know about your house, so … I think he would want you to have it, especially now that you have no home.”

Hastings slapped his gut. “Ignore him. He’s a man—he’s insensitive.”

Timbrel glanced down as she unfolded the torn paper. An address scrawled in block letters filled the small ragged piece. “Tony?” Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. “He was here?”

Smith nodded. “Yesterday with his team. Go see him.”

A squall of guilt and a burning ache churned through her chest. Timbrel shoved it back at him. “I … I can’t.” Strangled by the thought of facing Tony after abandoning him, she knew she didn’t have any right to see him, to want to see him. And she did. Everything in her wanted to run to him. But she’d closed that door by leaving him in Little Rock.

The rain. Oh man, the downpour that unleashed haunted her—it almost felt like the earth cried over her betrayal—and nearly made her turn back, ate her up with condemnation for leaving him there in the storm. Did he try to drive home then? Or …

Tormenting herself wouldn’t help. “I can’t.” A hollow laugh climbed her throat. “He hates me. There’s no way he’d see me now.”

Hastings folded her hand over Timbrel’s that held the note. “He wouldn’t have left this if he hated you.”

Timbrel wouldn’t buy into false hopes. She’d known where to hit Tony and had nailed her mark. She wasn’t as stupid as to think he’d just welcome her back with open arms. She crumpled the note into her pocket. On her way out, she’d pitch it in the lobby. Mustering her courage took what little she had left, but she met their gazes—
ugh, the sympathy
!—and plastered on a smile. “Thanks. I need to go.”

Had to get out.
“You’re useless. You ruin everything.”

The voices from the past came screaming back as she dragged herself and her beaten pride from the Pentagon.
Had to get out. Gotta breathe
. She aimed out of Arlington, Virginia, and just drove. But the torrent threatened.

She’d betrayed him. Abandoned him. Ran like a scared little girl—
which, I am
—and left him in the rain. And still—
still
—he left his address.

A sob leapt from her throat.

She shook her head. Steeled herself.

No, it had to be this way. It’d hurt for a while, but she’d get over it.

The lie tasted bitter and salty.

Air ruffled her hair as she crossed a bridge. Water sparkled from below, taunting and inviting. She glanced to the side and saw the Tidal Basin. She yanked the steering wheel right, narrowly avoiding a white SUV as she beelined for the exit.

Beo shifted in the passenger seat, then swung his head out the window, sniffing as she slowed and made her way onto Iowa, the street running along the basin. A car pulled away from the curb and Timbrel swung into the open spot. She hopped out and trudged over to the water’s edge, her legs becoming leaden as she grew closer. Freeing her hair, she felt tendrils of control loosening. Control of her life. Control of her very being.