Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (39 page)

T
ony, don’t leave me
.”

The voice thickened with panic and fright tugged at his mind. He reached for it with his thoughts, searching for her. For Timbrel.

He opened his eyes and stilled as the setting rushed in at him like an RPG that had acquired its target: The sheets on the bed. The curtain sectioning off half the room. The monitors. The heaviness in his limbs—
I’m drugged
. The Spartan furniture. A hospital. He was in a hospital.

Crap. Not again
. Tony slumped back and stared at the ceiling. Then he let out a laugh. “I’m alive.” He coughed against a dry, parched throat. But hey, he’d beaten whatever tried to take him out.

What was it this time? He searched his memory banks. Timbrel and Beo. He smiled at the slobbery, flatulent beast. A bark, garbled in a warped memory, sailed through his mind.

Tony hesitated.

Images flashed. Snapped. Explo—

“Explosion.” There’d been an explosion. Tony raised a tubed-up hand to his head, trying to remember. He’d figured out what Timbrel screamed about. Threw himself—

Hot. Man, it’d been so hot.

But that … that was all he remembered. The explosion had seared his backside. But … if he was here in the hospital … lying on his backside, he must not’ve been burned. If he’d sustained burns, they’d have him prostrate on the bed.

Okay, so rule out burns
.

The door opened. Tony braced himself. Prepped himself to find out what he was doing laid up in a hospital when his team was out there fighting. He felt fine. A little … fuzzy … but otherwise fine. He lifted his hands. Yep, two hands. Lifting his shoulders off—

Whoa.

His vision went ghostlike.

Hearing hollowed.

Tony dropped against the bed. Okay, so … something whacked his head. He touched his forehead … ran his hand over his skull. Weird. No bandages.

Why else would he nearly pass out if he hadn’t taken a head injury?

Blood loss.

Okay, but he had his fingers. He lifted himself—more slowly this time—and gazed down at his legs.

But … something …

Tony’s brain wouldn’t compute what his neurons relayed to his brain. There was a disconnect. Had to be.

Why…?

“No,” he mouthed, but the air never crossed his voice pipe as he stared, disbelieving.

What on earth?

That wasn’t … that wasn’t possible.

He ordered his toes to wiggle. Both sets—the right and the left. Felt them. Felt the sheet tickle them.

Yet … the sheet didn’t move. In fact …

Tony frowned. “No.”

Closed his eyes. Squeezed them tight.

God … please …

He pinched the bridge of his nose as he propped himself up, feeling a heavy pull on his body to collapse. Leaning on his left forearm, he lowered his other hand. Eyes still closed, he forced himself to accept whatever was there … whatever … He tilted his head. Looked.

Breathing proved impossible.

“No,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

Right leg fully intact. Toes propped up the sheet.

But the left … below his knee … it dropped perilously flat.

Heat flashed through his arms. Chest.

Walls of gray closed in on his vision.

Tony thrust aside the sheet. It defied him. The sides tucked in, it didn’t move the way he demanded. Fisting the cold material in his hand, he yanked hard. Fell back against the mattress. He tried to pull himself back up.

His body refused.

His fingers traced down his leg to the bandage. He couldn’t feel the end. Tony gripped the side bed rail with his right hand, searching farther with his left. Dragged himself up and to the side, his gaze locked on to the place where the sheet lay depressed.

No. It couldn’t be. His leg was there. It had to be.

He groped for purchase on his leg. His shin—

A gentle whoosh proved what his mind wouldn’t believe.

His left leg …
it’s not there
.

“No, no.” He pulled and pulled on the sheet. His nostrils flared. His breathing laboring. “No,” he ground out as the sheet finally came free. Slithered over the bed. Exposed the nightmare.

“No!” he shouted.

Tony dropped back against the bed. “No no no!” He stared at the ceiling, unblinking. “No, God.” He gulped the fear that drowned his ability to breathe. To think. To fight. “Please, no!” He smashed his arm against the rail. “Please!” His hearing hollowed out. “I’ll do anything!” He arched his back. Cried out. “Give me back my leg!”

Sobs wracked him.

Please …

Can’t breathe
.

Can’t see
.

“Jimmy? Oh son, I’m so sorry.” His mother’s voice filtered into his subconscious from somewhere. “Just rest, my sweet boy. I’m here. God’s here.”

Bright white blasted against his corneas.

Tony jerked.
Explosion!

“Good morning, Sergeant VanAllen,” a guy in scrub pants and a T-shirt yanked open the other curtain, sending shocks of sunlight into the dingy room. He turned and Tony wondered if the guy had even hit puberty yet. “So, my name is Corporal Jennings and I’m your physical therapist.”

Tony turned his head toward the door and stilled. “Mom?”

She smiled and stepped closer. “Hey, handsome.”

“What’re you doing here?” He frowned, feeling vulnerable. Crazy. But this was his mom. The woman who had changed his diapers, changed his Band-Aids, and ushered him to the emergency room three times before he hit basic training. She understood him. Understood how he was wired. And if she was here, then that meant they’d notified next of kin. That meant …

The amputation is real
.

It wasn’t a dream.

Of course not. That’d be too easy.

No, it’s a freakin’ nightmare
.

Something akin to a heavy blanket dropped over him.

“So,” the corporal said as he lowered the security rail on the side of the bed. “You ready to get out of this bed?”

Tony eyeballed the all-too-chipper kid.

“Ah, strong silent type, huh?” Hair buzzed but enough there to see the dark color, Jennings grinned. “ ’S’okay. I’m used to it. And I promise—you’ll hate my guts. And if you don’t, then I’m doing something wrong.”

Tony pressed his lips together. Stared down at the bed. Could not believe rather than two whole legs he had one-point-five. His breathing chugged.

“Okay,” Jennings said as he extended his arm, hand poised to accept Tony’s.

What did the kid want?

“Your only job for the next twelve hours is to sit up till you pass out.”

Tony frowned.

“What? Is that too hard for you?”

Tony stretched his jaw. His mom was here. She’d smack him if he said what he was thinking.

“C’mon, big guy.” Jennings bounced his hand.

Tony closed his eyes. He did not want to mess with this kid. He didn’t want to face this sick joke of a future God had slapped him with. Couldn’t even give him time to accept what happened and this punk shows up acting like nothing happened, nothing was wrong.

“What? Don’t think you can do it?”

“I’m tired.” Tony rolled his gaze to his mom. “How—?”

“Hey, I get it. You don’t want to face the music, but ya know,” Jennings said, “it’s gone. Your leg is gone.” He shrugged. “You can’t change that. Deal with it.”

Tony grabbed the kid’s collar. Hauled him to his face. “Say that to my face!”

“It’s gone.” Placid blue eyes held his. A hollow sound rapped to the side. “Just like mine.”

Tony slanted a look.

The kid shrugged up his pant leg, showed the prosthesis attached to a nub just below his right hip.

“Hey,” Tony said, his throat raw, “I’m—”

“Don’t.” Jennings slid the pant leg back down. “Don’t apologize, dude.” His face went hard. “Just promise me you won’t become a bitter, old, sorry son-of-a-gun. Promise me, you’ll honor that.” He pointed to Tony’s right bicep.

His unit patch tattoo.

“And that.” Jennings wrinkled his nose as he eyed the pectoral inkwork. “Whatever that is.”

“A family crest, of sorts,” Tony said as he eyed his mom.

God. Country. Family. He and God would have to sort out later why He’d let this happen. His country … where there was the bugger of it all. He couldn’t do anything laid up in this bed. And family … he was
not
going to be a burden like his father. He was not going to put his family in that position.

He was letting down all three with his attitude. Losing a leg … not even a whole leg. He’d seen worse. The last time their unit returned, there sitting under the shade of a sycamore was Sergeant Major Winthrop, a quadriplegic. That was the closest Tony had come to seeing someone he knew survived like that.

With a sidelong glance to the corporal, Tony stuck out his hand.

One Week Later
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center
Bethesda, Maryland

“Headache again?”

Timbrel straightened as the doctor eased the door to the hospital room closed, which pulled Beowulf to his feet. And started his growling. Though his hind paws were still wrapped in gauze that needed daily changing, he was on his feet and ready for action. Starting with a piece of the doctor, apparently. They’d been shipped Stateside two days ago and delivered to Walter Reed for observation and evaluation. Khaterah had secured a hotel room until the doctors released Timbrel from their care.

She’d been reunited with Beo. But she hadn’t heard anything about Tony. How was it possible that nobody knew where he was or what his condition was?

“Beo, out.” Timbrel winced beneath the weight of pain that pinched her shoulders into a knot, making the pounding worse. “A small one.” She’d battled them, small and large, since landing back in DC two days ago.

He went to a screen and stuffed up some black-and-white film then flipped a switch on the side. The negative images sprang to life. As he eyed them, Timbrel shifted on the edge of the bed.
C’mon already. Discharge me. I gotta find Tony
.

“Mm,” he muttered and traced his finger over the blackish lines of her brain. “There’s no more bleeding, but it will take time for your head to recover from all the trauma, for all of the swelling to go down.”

Timbrel nodded. Good. Right. “Then I’m cleared for duty?” On her feet, she stood ready to grab her bag, change, and get to Burnett’s office. Stinker hadn’t shown his face since they shipped her over here. And she knew he came back because Khat verified that information.

The doctor snorted. “No.”

With a groan, Timbrel whirled around and slumped back onto the bed. “Are you serious?”

Despite the sympathetic smile, the doctor wasn’t giving in. It was clear by the way he lowered himself onto the wheeled stool and almost couldn’t bring himself to look at her. “That’s not going to happen for at least a couple of weeks, if not
months
.”

Timbrel gaped. “Months?”

He held up a placating hand. “Your scans are clear but the headaches are a concern, especially the frequency you indicated on your chart.” He tapped the file with his pen then started writing. “Brain injuries are very delicate, and we want to make sure there is no further aggravation to the affected areas.”