Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (32 page)

Tony stepped into the house, his expression taut. “We need to go.”

“What? Now?” Switching gears from intense emotional to tense mission mode felt like stepping from an ice box into a hot tub.

He looked between her and his mom cautiously then nodded. “Now. Burnett moved up the AHOD.” Tony kissed his mother on the cheek then stalked down the hall.

Timbrel whispered her good-bye and hurried after him. “Look, we should talk before we do this.”

“Do what?” In his room, he grabbed his rucksack from the closet. No doubt he cleaned and prepped the bag and its contents first thing each time he returned from deployment.

“Talk, Tony.”

He rounded on her. “I tried that. You left me standing in the rain.”

“I’ve already apologized.”

“Yes, you did.”

What did she do with that? How could she respond?

“What?” He frowned. “Just because you spout pretty words, that makes everything go away?”

“No.” Timbrel’s chest constricted. “And I never implied that. But you’re a Christian. So am I—you’re probably a better one, so you should know that if you forgive someone, you let go.”

“I do let go. But then there’s the old saying, Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times—it’s over.”

Hurt and surprise mingled in a toxic potion. “I think that’s a rather modern version.”

“Yeah, written by James Anthony VanAllen about twenty seconds ago.” He rubbed his temples. “Listen, I’m not saying it’s over. I’m saying we need time, especially you.”

“What for? I already told you I want this to go away. I want to go back to where we were.”

“That’s just it!” Lips taut, jaw jutted, he flexed his biceps and flashed his hands. “We can’t go there, Timbrel. And I don’t want to. What we have, what we go through—defines us. Makes us. Changes us, whether for better or worse, it crafts who we are.” He inched forward. “You and I, we have history. That night in Arkansas is a part of who we are. And right now, I have to figure out how far I’m willing to go, how much of your self-imposed isolation and protective barbs I can take.”

Timbrel widened her eyes to ward off the tears. She swallowed, hard.

“Look.” His shoulders drooped. “I’d tilt the world upside down if I thought it would convince you to take a chance with me. I’d do anything—
anything
for you.” He shrugged into his ruck. “But you’re not willing to make that sacrifice for me, to risk it.”

He stalked to the door, where Beo stood guard and gave a low growl. “Maybe that right there is my answer.”

Qur’an: 8:39 “Fight them until all opposition ends and all submit to Allah.”

Early morning light flooded the office and swept away the slumber of night as Bashir and his twenty elite guards surrendered their wills once more to Allah. Facing Mecca, they offered the Fajr prayers, two rakats. All seeking nearness to God in obedience to Him.

After the prayers were offered, Bashir left the hall quietly with the others. He’d been taught the prayers would give him peace, that he’d have a clearer mind once he surrendered and obeyed. Yet as he walked the hall to his private quarters, anger devoured him.

The others dissipated in various directions, and he could not help but notice Dehqan slip quietly through a side door that led to his quarters. What of the girl? Had he molded a submissive spirit in her yet?

Insufferable Americans. They’d demolished his shop. Destroyed countless weeks of laborious care put into the work. It must stop.

Two of his elite slipped into place on either side of the double doors that led to his private quarters. As Bashir approached, the two immediately snapped a salute. Yes, they should show their respect.

One opened the door, allowing Bashir to enter uninhibited. He strode across the marble floors in the large room. Yellow curtains hung between the windows that flanked the entire eastern wall. Just as the prayer hall did. Always facing Mecca. Always seeking inspiration.

But why … why had Allah allowed these infidels to thwart him? To gain a foothold? He would not let them win. He would not fail in chasing them from the land, the hills, the mountains, the waters.

He went to the massive mahogany cabinet on the northern wall. Carved with a fig tree, the cabinet offered his choice of drinks. Bashir opened the twin doors and stared at the crystal decanters.

Even now he could taste the fruity warmth against his tongue.

“No.” He slammed it closed. Held the knobs. Gripped them tight. “Indeed, he succeeds who purifies his soul, and indeed, he fails who corrupts his soul.”

Bashir spun away from the temptation. Away from the dark forces that sought to disrupt his mission. “I will not fail.”

“Very good.”

He jerked to the side. Anger barreled out of him as he found Imam Abdul Razaaq. It would not do him good to throw the imam out of his quarters. Or to shoot him for invading his privacy. “Imam.” He gave a conciliatory nod, the barest recognition of his authority and position. “I was not aware you had arrived.”

“I joined you for prayers, brother.”

Bashir stopped. Considered the man. The graying splotches in the man’s beard belied his forty-something age. But there was an ancient hatred that boiled in the man’s eyes. Hatred for the infidels. Hatred for Americans and the ways of the West. “I am very busy, Razaaq. Could we meet another time? I will have Dehqan—”

Shouts from the hall pulled him around. What could be—? The door swung open and in rushed Irfael. “Sir.” He snapped a salute but did not enter any farther.

Ah, a man who knew his place. Finally. But by Razaaq’s rigid stance and furrowed brow, this wasn’t the time to demand piety or the respect owed to him or the failed recognition of those by the man who stood before him in the kufi.

Grinding his teeth, Bashir gave a curt nod, allowing his second in command access to him. “What is happening?”

“Sir, the Americans entered the city.”

Bashir flung himself around. Stormed to the windows. Placed a hand on the glass. Allah, please … No, no more prayers. He’d said enough. “The shop?”

“They’ve left.”

“The supplies?”

“Nothing can be directly traced back to you, sir.”

“But it is.” Bashir felt as if all the fires of hell raged in his being. “If it were not, they would not be there. They would not be performing these so-called inspections. They are looking for evidence.”

“Will they find it?”

Bashir flared his nostrils at the imam’s question.

“No,” Irfael spoke. “But we must stop them. If they keep digging—”

“I will call a friend. He is closely connected.”

“If he is connected,” Razaaq joined him at the windows, “can he be trusted?” Bashir must bury this contempt. It was too early to lose the backing of the imams. Eventually he would control them. Push them. Drive them. But for now …

“As much as any of us can be trusted.” He must follow up with Maahir. Whether the man was an assassin, a spy, or what, nobody knew for sure. Just that he could get jobs done. Make connections where none existed. And his allegiance was not to a faith or a religion but to the Arab lands of his fathers.

“Brother,” Razaaq said, the edge in his voice hardening, “do not mistake my favor of you for weakness. We chose you, Bashir.”

Had he flames in his hands, Bashir would’ve singed the kufi right off the man’s face and let his body burn with it. But Bashir swallowed back the demon within. “Of course. And I am grateful.” He pushed his gaze to the window. Stared out over the compound. The green, green grass cultivated by the gardener he’d hired to provide a piece of Paradise on this side of heaven. And all of it, the grass, the plaster, the elite—all in jeopardy because the Americans invaded his country. Killed his people.

Razaaq gripped the top of Bashir’s shoulder. He shook him then clamped a hand on Bashir’s other side. “My brother.” Pride mingled with a ferocity Bashir had not before noticed. “It is time, do you not think, to funnel that outrage at the infidels?”

“Beyond time.”

Laughter snapped his attention to the corner.

Dehqan strode beneath the veranda onto the grass with the girl, who wore a veil. But not a burka. Why was she not concealed? Why was she not covered so the men would not be tempted? She should burn!

“Your protégé seems smitten.” The rumble of the imam’s voice unseated Bashir’s control.

“I let him keep her.”

“Then they are married?” The imam’s question held both accusation and contempt. “Was she not from that Christian sect? And you allowed her to marry your adopted son?”

“Never.” Bashir fisted his hands. “I would not allow him to take such a whore as his bride.” Bashir stared down from on high at the two. “He will use her, take his pleasure as he sees fit, then I will kill her.”

        Twenty        

Y
ou’re on the next jet out of here.” Lance Burnett peered over the top of his readers at the manifest Lieutenant Hastings handed him as he headed to meeting with ODA452. “There’s a C-17 Globemaster waiting for you at Andrews.”

Dean Watters stood beside him. “Sir, what changed?”

Lance frowned.

“No disrespect, sir, but you told us to bury our mistake out there a month ago and forget it happened. Now, we’re going back?”

“That’s right.” Lance eyeballed Timbrel Hogan. “I said to bury it, but for someone in this room, that didn’t happen.”

“I’m sorry,” Timbrel said. “I thought we were looking for chemical or biological weapons, not sticking our butts in the air and our heads in the sand. If there’s something there—”

“Your problem—”

“I don’t need your analysis, Rocket.”

“Too bad because this is my team and you’re screwing with it.”

“If you want to talk—”

“Hogan,” VanAllen barked as he turned to her. “Stand down.”

“The last thing I’m doing is taking orders from you.”

“Dang, Candyman,” Java said. “What’d you do to piss her off?”

Hogan whirled on the Green Beret. “This has nothing to do with him!”

And if Lance believed that, he was a hairy monkey’s uncle. “Hogan, VanAllen. In my office.” And by office, he meant the dank closet of a space that held a single desk, a phone, and some other paraphernalia in the warehouse. Metal desk, metal chair—everything standard government issue, right along with the moldy smell.