Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (34 page)

Tony shook his head. The plan was pretty straightforward.

“Okay, Java, you’ll hit the power and communication lines.” Dean waited for the guy to acknowledge his role. “Rocket, you and Scrip will secure the residences. Pops, I’ll need your eye high. Get set up on the roof, if you can, to cover me, Tony, and the dog team.”

Pops nodded, his gaze studying the maps with his sniper skills roaring, no doubt.

“So again: residences first, then the warehouse.” Dean nodded. “Meet on the tarmac at 0300.”

The minutes that fell off the clock thudded like anvils against Tony’s heart. He stretched out over his unmade bed, crossed his ankles, and folded his hands behind his head. Eyes closed, he trained his mind to quiet. Thought of the verse that said God trained his hands to war.

Even with Timbrel, it seemed.

He roughed a hand over his face. Sick of the fighting, he just wanted to make peace with her. But not if she could so easily throw away what little they already had together. He needed to be able to trust her.

“I didn’t wait till you could be trusted before giving My love.”

Not fair, Lord
.

It was true. He might not have had the bad-boy reputation like Java, but Tony had put his parents through some pretty crazy nights until he surrendered his life to God. Only through that loving draw did he find the courage to be what he could be.

Was it possible that by surrendering his expectations, his fear—yeah, there was that—of her running off, Timbrel would be better able to let go of whatever it was she held on to with Super-Glued fingers?

She doesn’t trust me, though I’ve done everything to win her trust
.

Except surrender these demands
.

Demands on her person pushed her away.

Surrender … Could it draw her in?

The sound of water splattering against something nearby pulled Tony out of his self-talk. He snapped his arm down and pushed up on his bunk, leaning on his forearm.

A dark shadow moved near the foot of his bed.

“Dude!” Java laughed hard. “Beowulf just relieved himself on your bed!”

        Twenty-One        

F
our hours later and after bleaching Tony’s bunk, Timbrel sat on the Black Hawk with shriveled hands that smelled like she’d taken up janitorial duties. In a way she had, thanks to Beowulf. Her guy had a mile-wide stubborn streak and he didn’t like Tony. If only she could clean up the mess
she
had made of their relationship with some bleach and elbow grease.

But that’d be too easy. Though it’d be something she understood—working hard, performing on life’s stage the way her mother had taught her. When she’d messed up before, she found ways to fix things. Make them right. She knew how to the play the game. No, she’d mastered the game.

Then Tony stormed into her life.

Knocked all her skills to the ground. Left her empty-handed. Confused. What did he want?

Risk.

She didn’t do risk. Not like that. Had to know the outcome, weigh the pros and cons.

What cons were there in being with him?

He knows too much … knows
everything
.

Well, no. Not everything. She hadn’t told
anyone everything
. But he sure knew more than most. And with friends like these guys, soldiers so much like Carson …

Forget the cons. Figure out the pros
.

Pros: He made her laugh. He was a warrior, a fighter—in other words, not weak. He had a strong, stable family. Even though his father had some psychological problems thanks to invisible wounds, Tony took care of him. Respected him.

The way he treated his mom. With love and respect.

She’d heard once that a girl could tell the way a man would treat her by the way he treated his mother. In that case, Tony VanAllen was a perfect candidate.

“You’re not willing to make that sacrifice for me, to risk it.”

The scary thing? She was. She totally was willing to risk it. But if she told him now, he’d say the words were empty. Somehow, she had to show him. Prove it to him.

Or maybe I’m too late
.

Augh! What could she do? Desperation plowed through her. She shifted on the seat, rousing Beo, who’d settled his chin on her knee. He looked up at her as if to ask why she’d interrupted his nap. She smoothed a hand over his head and he went back to his nap.
Give him a chance, Beo. I want this … I want to make this thing work
. But if her dog kept peeing on his bed and growling at him …

A paper flickered to her left. She glanced over at the small laminated card Pops held. Her gaze flicked to his moving lips, whether in silent or whispered recitation, she couldn’t tell in the chopper.

Pops must’ve noticed her questioning glance. He rotated his wrist, allowing her to see the card. Her heart quickened as she read the words printed there. Psalm 91 marked the top of the well-used card. A stream of verses followed, reassurances of God’s protection and love.

Timbrel nodded, unsure of what to say. She hadn’t really pegged Pops as a Christian. But it made sense, she guessed. She hadn’t had a mentor or anything, but the idea of a Jesus who loved children appealed to Timbrel’s bruised soul. She’d been raised by her mother to attend mass and take communion, and she loved the formality, the safe haven of the sanctuary. How Timbrel had managed to keep her head on straight—for the most part—she couldn’t explain. Still, what Pops had seemed a little deeper. He always seemed calm. In control.

Unlike me
.

Just like Tony
.

She’d really made him angry with the whole “go back to the beginning” idea. It wasn’t what she meant, at least not consciously, but maybe she did.

“I’d do anything for you.”

She wanted to say those words to him, but something held her back.

A touch against her hand snapped her attention back to Pops. He slid the card into her hand, closed her fingers around it, then patted her hand. He leaned toward her, their helmets bumping as he shouted, “I’ve got it memorized!”

Would God watch out for her? She’d like to think He would … that somebody would.

Watters gave a signal and the team prepped for their arrival at the compound. Pulse ramping, Timbrel tucked the card into her leg pocket and secured it. Beo lifted his head and sniffed the air. He pushed to his feet, crammed between everyone’s legs.

Timbrel ran her hand along his back, detecting the tension. “Easy boy,” she said, not sure if he’d hear her over the roar of the wind. His ears twitched, so maybe he had.

They set down a mile outside of the remote village, and the team scurried for cover. Timbrel kept pace with Tony, sensing safety in his presence. She always had. Even when he’d been cocky and playful.

Man, she missed that. Missed him.

Put it away. Focus on the mission
.

A vehemence gripped her. Fine. She could do that. But just like he said—they’d figure “us” out after the mission. She’d make sure it ended right. Together.

Tucked into a ditch with ODA452, Timbrel struggled for her bearings as the din of the helo faded. Dirt crunched beneath her as she shifted against the dirt and rocks. A shrub thrust up defiantly from the rocks and reached toward the clear half moon hanging in the blanket of twinkling stars. So clear and beautiful.

“Let’s go,” Watters rasped. As the team filed out of the hiding position, Timbrel caught his arm and motioned to Beowulf, asking to take point.

Watters hesitated, shot a visual check to Tony.

Timbrel’s heart stumbled. What if he held their fight against her, wouldn’t let them—?

No. Tony wasn’t vengeful that way. Timbrel strangled the doubt that once again exerted itself and tried to stamp out her belief in Tony. Her belief that he was a good man, that he had her best interests at heart.

Tony nodded.

She breathed a smile. Yeah, Tony believed in her. She believed in him. She’d never met anyone like him. Like that. Everyone in her life had befriended her for a reason. Her first taste of real friendship came from Aspen. But that was different. She was a girlfriend. Tony was a guy, and he wanted to be her boyfriend.

The revelation spun her compass, and for once, she felt like he was her true north.

Stalking through the early morning, heat already stifling and mean, Timbrel kept Beowulf on a long lead so he could alert them to trouble and not give away the rest of the team. Heat pushed sweat beads down her neck and back, tickling and slick. Her shirt stuck to her chest beneath the heavy protective vest. She cradled the M4 with her right hand, the lead with her left. Darkness rushed in, taunting.

Timbrel glanced up, watching as a lone cloud sneaked in front of the moon. She slowed, feeling … off. Looking around, she tried to figure out what had unseated her confidence.

“Keep moving,” Watters mumbled. “Almost there.”

A building seemed to leap out of nowhere as they traced the road to the village. A hand caught her arm. “Hold up.” Tony’s voice was tense and had shifted into command mode.

He had the experience.

Timbrel plucked the sonic whistle from around her neck and gave the signal to Beo to heel. Seconds later, he trotted toward her, his tongue wagging.

Java and Rocket rushed the building and covered as the rest of the team hurried past it. Down the road on the left, the iron and wood gate barred the compound. Two floodlights, one at the gate and one inside the compound, glared through the darkness.

As they squatted amid a grove of fig trees, Timbrel watched Java, Rocket, and Scrip hurry to the compound. Heart climbing into her throat, she found herself whispering a prayer that Java would quickly disable the power and communications lines. The faster he did that, the sooner they could slip inside and not be exposed.

Then again, once inside those gates, all bets were off regarding safety.

Beowulf could die.

I could die
.

Tony …