Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (35 page)

Timbrel could die and he’d be responsible.

The thought sucked his brains dry, hollowed out his heart, and left him a shell of himself. Tony shook off the thought and watched through his thermals as Java worked the power grid. He ignored the desire to look at Timbrel, to reassure himself that she’d be okay. But he’d seen her gaze snap to him thirty seconds ago.

Tension rolled and thickened as irritating at the sweat that rubbed the back of his neck and other spots raw.

What if she got in there and didn’t listen?

What if someone had a bead on her and took it?

Those are things I can’t control
.

But it’d eat him alive to watch her die.

A slap against his shoulder jerked him back to the situation. Dean snapped his hand toward the compound, the signal for Tony to get moving.

God, help me. My attention is divided
. He sprinted toward the gate and crouched beside the cement brick wall that had been plastered over. From his pack, he drew out the protective padding so they could scale the wall and crawl over the barbed wire without incident.

Yet even as he worked, his mind slithered back to Timbrel. Man, he hoped she played by the rules. When she got an idea in her head …

No, she’s smart. She knows the dangers.

Set, he turned and nodded to Rocket. The spry guy sprang up over the wall, followed closely by Scrip. A few seconds later, the gate unlatched. Tony pivoted in his crouched position and signaled Dean. Even as he did, Timbrel, Beowulf, and Dean trotted toward them.

He patted Dean and guided him into the yard, Timbrel behind him.

A crack shattered the quiet.

Another.

Tony grabbed Timbrel’s shoulder and jerked her back. She stumbled and they both went down.

Growling erupted.

“Beo, out!” Timbrel hissed. Shot him an apologetic glance.

But Tony moved around her, bringing his M16 to bear as he eased into the yard. On a knee, he peeked around the corner.

“Move,” Dean hissed from the side.

Tony spotted him two yards in, next to the shack—apparently a guard hut. A man lay sprawled in the dirt. Monitoring for muzzle flash, Tony angled back and reached for Timbrel. When he saw the tiny explosive burst, he nudged her toward Dean. “Go!”

He covered her as she and Beowulf sprinted to safety. Tony shoved himself after them, firing in the direction of the shooter. He scuttled up to the structure, throwing himself against the wall.

“Entering now,” Rocket whispered into the coms.

Tony eyed the windows and alleys with his scope, anxious as their men worked to clear the residence. In person, structure B-4 loomed like a demon with a gaping maw.

A series of “clear” came through quickly followed by Java’s report, “All clear, lower level. Moving to second level.”

Tony rolled to the left and scampered around the back of the guard hut. He hustled up along the other side and knelt, scoping the house. Not as tall as the warehouse, but the place had some serious outfitting going on. He eyed the satellite dish and prayed Java had stripped that of its communicating power.

A noise crept up on his six.

Chills tracing his spine, Tony glanced down and to the side. Prepped himself. Then flipped around, staring down his sights at the target. His fingers easing back to the trigger.

A gasp stabbed the air as his mind registered Timbrel’s wide eyes.

Grunting, Tony turned back to watch the windows and exits. “I could’ve killed you.”

“Watters wanted Beo sniffing, said to follow you.” Her pitched words spoke of her fear, her adrenaline rush.

“House clear. Four civvies secured—two women and kids,” Rocket announced quietly through the coms. “They say no one else is here. Bringing them down now.”

“Go!” Dean grunted.

Four?
Only four people for a compound that employed a hundred? That was said to have bunks for that many and more? It didn’t make sense.

As Tony hustled along the perimeter, he wondered that the women were here alone. Timbrel let Beo’s lead out and the giant dog trotted forward, his nose dusting the ground as he moved. Tony had to admit, if he saw that beast coming for him, he’d probably wet his pants.

Beside him, Timbrel kept pace as he moved forward, sweeping side to side as he gained the warehouse entrance, watching shadows. Probing alleys.

“At the door. Clear.” Tony took a knee and stayed alert, noting Dean and Rocket coming his way. The four prisoners knelt in front of the house, and Tony spotted Pops on the rooftop. Beo sniffed in a corner beneath a window. He scratched. Sniffed. Scratched again.

“What’s he doing?” Tony whispered.

“That’s a hit,” she said as the dog sat down.

“Out here?” Tony scowled. That didn’t make sense. They were here to capitalize on intelligence that the warehouse had chemical weapons hidden inside.

“Let me check it.”

Tony slapped out a hand. “No.” He nudged her back. “Not yet.” He nodded to the others who joined them.

“Something seem wrong to you about this place?” Dean asked as he squatted next to him.

So his commander felt it, too. “Yeah.” He indicated to Beowulf. “Dog’s got a hit on something.”

“Check it,” Dean said. “We’re going in.”

Pushing to his feet, Tony noticed Timbrel moved without him handing out instructions. They stalked the fifteen feet to where Beowulf sat. With that old-man pout and soulful brown eyes beneath the moon, Beo looked up at Timbrel, the whites of his eyes thin slivers.

“Good boy,” she said as she went to one knee.

“Careful,” Tony’s heart pitched into his throat. “You’re not EOD.”

Timbrel bent and assessed the spot. Her fingers gently probed the area. On both knees, she leaned into the spot.

Tony swallowed hard—he’d seen enough to anticipate the worst. Like her head getting blown off. “Okay, get—”

After a deep intake, she blew on the spot.

Tony wanted to curse. He couldn’t take this.

“What the…?” Timbrel dusted something. Then lifted a piece of paper from the ground. She held it up. Looked at him. “I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I.” He wagged his hand at her. “Get up. Something’s wrong.” His gaze probed the darkness. The silence. No … no … He keyed his mic. “Watterboy, something’s not right.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean muttered. “This place is empty!”

Tony turned a slow circle.
God, what’s going on here?

“Tony.” Timbrel’s voice held warning.

He shifted toward her. Four people. In a compound with WMDs—supposedly. No men. No trucks. No … trash… “Pops, you got eyes on any people in here? Thermals show anything?”

“Negative.”

“In the warehouse?”

A brief pause ensued as Tony imagined Pops scanning the interior with his thermal scope. “Negative.”

“What about outside the fence? Anywhere?” His heart thundered as he stalked to the other side of the warehouse where a large garage-style door forbade entrance.

“Tony!”

He pivoted.

Timbrel’s eyes were wide. She stabbed a finger toward him.

“What?”

“Behind you!”

He jerked around, expecting a combatant. Instead he saw Beowulf, sitting, staring at the door.

Tony spun around.

Fire pierced his shoulder. Threw him back. He hit the garage door. Heard
thunks
and
tinks
against the metal.

Gunfire!

“Pops, find that shooter!” Dean shouted through the coms. “Candyman, get out of there!”

Tony threw himself forward.

Felt the world
whoosh
. His hearing went.

A scream shrieked through his mind. Something slammed him forward. White hot fury exploded!

        Twenty-two        

M
assive and powerful, a concussive fist punched her backward. Airborne. Her back arched, vertebrae popping. Her neck snapped forward then backward. Flipped her over.

Her head hit the ground.

Teeth jarred. Something popped. Pain flashed through her neck and spine. But nothing like the frenetic pace of her heart. Tony! Beo! She rolled onto all fours, her entire being devoured in pain. Aches. She tasted blood. Timbrel spit, dirt grinding into her palms as she pushed to her feet. Whirling around, she tripped. Went to a knee.

The world spun.

Vision blurred, she blinked. Where … where was he and—? “Beo!” She pushed herself back onto her feet. Stumbled. Coughed against the smoke snaking down her throat and into her lungs. Covering her mouth with the crook of her elbow, she coughed again.

And saw him! Both of them.

Horror movies had nothing on the way her brain slowed down. Adrenaline exploded through her system. Racing, surging through her veins, drenching her in an eerie chill. Screaming that what her eyes told her was there couldn’t be real.

Beowulf barked at her, standing guard. Over Tony, laid out on his back. Face bloodied and charred. The left sleeve of his ACU burned off. His leg bloodied.

Beo barked again. As if to say, “Get it together!”

Tears wormed through her body, pulling a wracking sob out of her. The sound shoved her toward them. She stumbled forward and dropped at Tony’s side. She looked up at her loyal guardian. “Good boy,” she said—and noticed the wounds on his back legs. She sucked in a breath. She traced his body visually. His hind legs were scratched up. A sizeable cut and some burns. Hurt, but he’d be okay.

But Tony’s injuries screamed critical. As Beo slumped onto the ground with a moan, she turned her attention to Tony. His face covered in dirt and blood. Her stomach heaved as she saw the mangled mess the explosion had made of Tony’s leg. The sickeningly sweet scent of blood doused the wind and mingled with the smoke and ash, forcing another cough. Trembling hands didn’t know where to place … His leg.

Oh, sweet Jesus, his leg!
The lower half was so mangled and gushing blood.

He’ll bleed out! Do something!

Tourniquet. He needed a tourniquet. But she couldn’t take her hands off the injury without freeing him to bleed out.

She clamped her hand just above his knee. “Help!” she screamed, looking around for the others. Her gaze roamed the compound. Searched for help.

At the spot where the entrance once stood, hulking metal and steel hunkered over three of the team. Watters pumped someone’s chest. Java drove a needle into the arm.