Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (38 page)

Her gaze skidded around the room. Curtain. Gray-white walls. Stinging antiseptic smells. Someone came toward her room, a white coat over ACUs.

Bleeping accelerated. Snapping Timbrel’s attention to the machine where her BP rushed across the screen. “Khat, what’s going on? Why are you here?”

“Easy,” Khat said, her face wobbling. “You have to relax or you’ll pass out again.”

“Again?” Panic stabbed her. “What happened to me? I was okay, with Beo—” She sucked in a hard breath. “How is he? Did something happen?” She grabbed the sheet and flung it back. “Where is he? Take me to him!”

“Whoa whoa whoa!” The medical staff member rushed into the room. “Easy there, Miss Hogan. I need you back in that bed.”

The floor canted.

Oh wait. That’s me
. Timbrel flopped back down, hand going to her head. “What’s wrong with me?” Her fingers met scratchy material. She traced it, trying to look up at whatever wrapped her head. “What is this? What did you do to me?”

Khaterah had the nerve to laugh. “Timbrel, calm down.” She came to the other side of the bed and bent toward Timbrel’s legs. “Back under the blanket.”

“Not until someone tells me what’s going on. And where is my dog!” And Tony! She gulped back the adrenaline, her gaze skipping around the medical ward where several beds were occupied, separated by curtains.

“You had intracranial bleeding.” The name patch on the doctor’s uniform read: H
OLLISTER
. He had youth on his side—maybe a little too much. Was he even a doctor? “The other members of the team said you were thrown a good fifteen feet by the blast. Yes?”

The blast. Right. Yeah. Timbrel gave a slow nod. “But I was fine. I made it back here, watched Harry fix Beo.”

“It’s a miracle,” the doctor said. “You could’ve died had Captain Watters not rushed you here.”

The words pushed her back. Only remotely aware of Khaterah tucking her into the bed, Timbrel eased against the mattress. “Am I … am I going to be okay?”

He smiled. Again, looking probably like he was maybe fifteen.
Or I am getting old?

“You’re up, talking, lucid—all very good signs. We’ll run some tests over the next twenty-four hours and monitor your recovery. But so far”—he shrugged—“things are looking good. I would suggest you lie on your side until the incision where we drained the fluid has a chance to heal over.”

With a half nod, Timbrel took her first normal breath and readjusted on the bed, which faced her toward Khaterah. “Beowulf—how is he?”

Dr. Hollister began taking her vitals, listening to her heart and so on.

“He is well. Harry said to let him know as soon as you woke up. Apparently, your dog is as bad a patient as you are.”

Timbrel laughed but then frowned at the A Breed Apart vet. “Why are you here?”

Tilting her head, Khat gave a very soft smile. “You listed me as your next of kin, so they contacted me and I flew out immediately.”

“Ah. I forgot about that.” Timbrel worried the blanket as a nurse came in and adjusted a dial. Slid a needle into a tube, wrote something down, muttered to the doctor, then vanished.

“Why would you do that?” Khat shrugged. “Do not take that wrong—I am touched, but—”

“I knew if they had to notify next of kin, whatever happened to me would be bad.” She licked her lips and found them to be parched. “And I needed to make sure Beo was taken care of. I knew you’d do that.”

Khat beamed. “You are right. I got in last night and after checking on you, I went directly to his kennel.” She lifted a jug with iced water and raised it toward Timbrel. “Thirsty?”

“Please.” As Timbrel took the hefty container, something flittered across her mind. “Wait.” She frowned at Khat. “The flight out here is nearly a full day.” She turned her gaze to the doc. “How long have I been out?” “Today makes two days,” Dr. Hollister said as he stood in front of her, clipboard clasped between his hands. “But one of those, we had you sedated.” He gave a mock salute then stepped toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few hours. They’ll be here within the hour to take you down for an MRI and some tests.”

“Great.” Timbrel waited till the door closed then nudged her gaze to Khat. “Sneak me out of here.”

Laughter filled the room. “Not on your life—or mine.”

“You’re too good for your own good.” Timbrel wrinkled her nose. “That sounded better in my head.”

More laughter.

Holding the inside of her lower lip between her teeth, Timbrel let her mind go where she had avoided since waking up. Tony. He had been pretty messed up. Unconscious. Bleeding like crazy.

“Hey.” Khat touched her hand. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Timbrel blinked. She couldn’t just pretend. “No.” But it scared her—what if he’d died? She searched for some feeling, some indication in the intangible air around her that indicated Tony was alive. That he was here. But that was only what happened in romance novels. Or science fiction.

Something squeezed her hand. She flinched. Looked at Khat. “Do you know what happened to the rest of the team I was with?” Oh, why couldn’t she just ask about him?

“Timbrel, do you think you’re ready to talk about these things?”

“If he’s gone, then no. I’m not. But … how can I not? It’s going to hurt either way.”

“He?” Khat angled her head. “Are we talking about Candyman?”

Heat flushed her cheeks.

“I am sad to say that I have no news for you, Timbrel. He was flown out before I got here.”

“Flown out?”

Khat nodded. “To Landstuhl.”

Her heart tripped. “That … that’s where they send the most critical patients.”

The armored SUV lumbered through the narrow alleys of the village. The heat baked through the inadequate insulation and left Lance feeling like a sardine. Another turn and they aimed for an archway with a colorful rug hanging from its arc. Despite the graceful architecture, the structure’s plaster had been pocked and streaked from years of the owner’s lack of care. Run-down, dilapidated … perfect cover for the asset.

“Nice and easy,” Lance muttered as Watters guided the vehicle straight toward it, then slowed to ensure it didn’t snag on something and rip the fabric off.

The tapestry thrummed its tattered fingers along the hood … along the windshield.

Light winked out.

Watters eased the Jeep into the anemic space, his gaze tracing the roof, the upper windows, the doors, and lower windows that surrounded them. “Perfect for an ambush,” Watters said as he cut the engine.

Lance climbed out and shut the door. Hands on his belt, he let his gaze make the same trek Watters’s had.

A figure appeared, wreathed in shadows and secrecy. “General Burnett, it is good of you to meet me here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I called this meeting.” He wouldn’t give this guy an inch. Not after what happened. “I’ve got one man dead, another laid up and with a missing leg, and another soldier”—no need to mention that one had four legs—“with bad burns.”

The man came forward. Variable had always been an impressive and forbidding character in settings like this, but Lance wasn’t going to show any fear.

“There are few people I trust and am willing to take information from. At one time you rated high on that list.”

“But no longer.”

“Not so much,” Lance said, ignoring the way his heartbeat thudded against his temples. He could feel that blood pressure rising. “See, I tend to have a problem when someone poses as an ally, giving and receiving key intelligence facts, then goes and throws my people under the bus—or in front of a bomb.”

“That would be a problem.”

“You betrayed my team. Betrayed their location and plans.”

“No.” Variable took a step forward, fingertips together and held down.

In his periphery, Lance noted Watters stiffening, his elbows drawn back and hands poised.

“What happened was necessary.”

“Want to explain ‘necessary’?” Watters’s shoulders were straight, squared.

“You’re tracking a very sneaky sand spider. And because of certain impetuous and arrogant moves made by members of your team”—unyielding, he held Watters’s gaze—“that spider has been alerted to your presence, your intention.”

Lance peered at ODA452’s commander. Raw intensity and power rolled off the guy’s shoulders as he stared back, unyielding. “So, you’re saying it’s our fault.”

With a shrug and pursed lips, the asset turned to rest against a window ledge. “What is the purpose of placing blame except to extract vengeance?” Arms folded over his tan tunic, Variable eyed them both. “Surely, that is not why you are here.”

“No.” Lance felt Watters jerk his gaze toward him. “I need to know you’re not compromised, that from this point forward, I can trust what you say.”

The asset raised his hands up and out with a smile. “And how am I to reassure you of that?”

“Say it.”

Laughing, the man pushed off the wall. “I cannot do that because for me”—he planted a large hand over his heart—“my word is of greater value than your politics.”

Watters took a step forward, his hand on his holstered weapon. “My team got ambushed. Your word means
nothing
to me now.”

“For your losses, I am sorry. But to this accusation that because your team sustained injuries and a fatality I am untrustworthy, what proof have you?” He pointed to Lance. “I could just as easily say this man is to blame for not better securing a volatile area, or for even sending you in there.”

“We went in there because you said they’d be there, the proof we needed would be there.”

“It is troubling, yes.” Variable shook his head. “You never can tell who your enemies are.”

“Are you saying you’re our enemy now?” Lance wanted to yank out his Glock and—

“Let’s settle this, friend.” The asset’s expression had never shifted or reflected the anger Lance and Watters were struggling to contain. “Did I tell you to go to the warehouse? Yes, I did. Did I know you would find trouble there?”

Lance held his breath.

“Yes, I did.”

Watters lunged.

The asset produced a silenced weapon and held it toward Watters. “Be slow to anger, Captain. It will keep you alive longer.”

Trembling with fury, Watters stood frozen.

“Captain, stand down,” Lance said as he moved forward. “You’re talking in circles.”

Variable lowered the weapon as Watters backed up several paces. “So I am.” Another smile. “What you must understand is that we have the same goal, Lance. This game … it is deadly, and there is no way around that. Bashir is aware you are trying to stop him, to bring him down. So this is not a case of who will get one up on the other, but who will do it first.”

The man should be a politician. Nobody would know his position and yet they’d follow him like lost puppies.
Just like Watters and me
.

“If I lose more men, you’d better start looking over your shoulder.” Lance’s pulse thumped against his temples. “Because if I find out you betrayed us and are playing us, I will out you so fast to every network, you won’t have time to smirk.”

The asset seemed to grow several inches. Stood a good five or six inches taller than Lance. “Do not mistake me for some nobody begging for scraps from your table!” The man’s voice rang across the hood of the SUV and bounced back. Fierce eyes blazed at Lance. “I have more connections than your little war-fogged brain.”

That was better. At least the guy could get riled. “We understand each other.”

He smirked again. “If only you truly understood.” Variable shook his head. “I would be on guard, General.”

“Against what?”

Walking back into the shadows, he said, “We would not want America to go to the dogs.”

        Twenty-five