Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (5 page)

H
auling tail after Timbrel, Tony prayed this was it. For her sake. For the team’s sake. They needed good news.

Timbrel slowed and cupped the dog’s face. “Good seek! Good boy!” She showed him a ball with more praise. She considered the building. “What is it?”

Tony checked the script on the small sign. “Bookshop.”

A small frown flicked across her face, but then she met his gaze with a short nod. “Ready.”

What was that? “Sure?”

“Yep.”

Dean joined them and pressed his shoulder to the wall next to the door. “Same routine. Once we clear, you search.”

Another nod.

Be still my beating heart
. He loved the way she found that inner courage to warrior on. He clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder, indicating his readiness.

Watterboy flung open the door.

“U.S. military! Hands in the air.” Tony shouted in Dari, then Farsi as he threw himself into the open, cheek to his weapon as he stepped inside. Movement to the left. “Hands, hands!” He shouted as he swung that way.

A woman wearing a hijab yelped as she flashed her palms.

“Out, out!” He waved her out of the shop, knowing she could take anything with her under that garb, but relations were already delicate. Any of their men manhandling a woman would ignite things.

Two men appeared in the door.

“On your knees, on your knees,” he ordered.

Scrip and Java cuffed them then led them out.

Tony checked the small office the men had been in. “Clear.”

He came around. Dean and Rocket were clearing out the other rooms.

The process of rousting the workers, cuffing them, guiding them into the open road, and turning them over to the EOD guys, who were already logging and detailing information, proved tedious.

Inside, Tony cleared the second level that contained two offices and a small apartment with a torn and stained mattress pressed into the corner. A table and chair sat by a window guarded by a thin, holey sheet. He leaned out the window and eyed what was left of the wood stairs and landing. The walled-in backyard held a truck with the name of the shop and two other vehicles loaded with boxes.

Sighting down the scope, he trained his weapon on the vehicles. Two men were back there, loading more boxes. He’d need to get down there and secure them. But the stairs wouldn’t hold his weight. Tony keyed his mic. “Java, two males in the back courtyard with a truck.”

“On it,” Java replied.

Tony kept a line of sight on the two till Java jogged into the back, shouting for the men to get their hands up. Wouldn’t leave Java exposed and alone. Once the men were secured and escorted out, Tony trotted back into the shop. As he hustled down the steps, he called, “Clear.”

“Clear.” Rocket met him at the foot of the steps and thrust his chin toward a small hall where Dean stood. “Anything?” “A big storeroom.” Light hit his face as he stepped back into the open.

“Sent Java after two men out back.”

“We’ve got at least twenty out front.”

Tony’s gaze swept the small shop. Something felt … off. Six or seven shelves lined the rear wall and two more flanked the desk. He considered the building. The rooms. Two small offices down here, a bathroom, a hall with a storeroom, and … twenty men? Must’ve been cramped working conditions.

“Bring her in,” Dean said.

The nagging wouldn’t let him alone, but he couldn’t finger the problem. He backtracked to the door and signaled to Timbrel. “Showtime.”

Rocket, Scrip, and Dean stood out of the way as Timbrel walked Beowulf through the motions. Incredible animal. Large and butt-ugly, but the dog had a presence about him. The comments Timbrel made about Beowulf being the only guy for her and her constant referrals to the beast … What did she see in him?

At a wall of cabinets in the office, Beowulf reared up on his hind legs, sniffing the drawers. Timbrel pointed to the cracks, the crevices, the corners, leading and encouraging him.

He dropped onto all fours, turned, and trotted out. Considered Tony. A deep but quiet growl pushed Tony’s breath into the back of his throat as pink gums trembled.

Tony cocked his head at the dog.
Feeling’s mutual
. Holding his breath gave him little assurance the dog wouldn’t try to snap his head off. Thing of it was, Beowulf somehow reminded him of an old, distinguished English professor. He had this stuffy, noble look to him.

Until he bared those fangs. Then it was all Beowulf, Hound of Hell.

Tony shifted his gaze to Dean and Rocket who had a mixture of amusement and concern on their faces. Smart guys, not to try to stare down that dog. Though he wasn’t looking at the bullmastiff, Tony kept track of him in his periphery.

Challenge issued, Beowulf trotted down the hall. Sniffing. He scratched at a door.

“Storage room,” Dean said.

Timbrel kept pace with her dog, and when she went into the narrow space, Tony followed. Behind him, he heard the boots of Rocket and Dean.

Timbrel opened the door and flipped on the light. A ten-by-ten room bore metal shelving and reams of paper.

“This is it?” Tony muttered as he peeked behind the door. “How did they fit twenty guys and a woman in here?”

“Good question.”

Timbrel shifted to the side and watched, holding her hand out to them.

Beowulf sniffed the corner, then ran like a locomotive with his nose against where the floor and wall met. Switchback. Corner again. Two paces left. Crouched and sniffed. Waited. Sniffed again. He returned to the corner. Same thing.

Finally, he trotted back to the left. Sniffed. Then sat. Turned to Timbrel and wagged his tail.

She frowned. “He’s got something.”

Tony moved forward.

Beowulf snarled.

He shoved back and scowled at Timbrel.

“Beo,
out
,” she said with an apologetic shrug, though not much of one. “Beo, heel.”

Tony went to his knees and felt along the floor. No discernible difference in temperature. No breeze.

“Air?”

“Can’t feel anything.” Tony pressed his face against the dirt. “And no light.” His gut churned. He believed in Timbrel and Beo. But there was nothing here. “No breeze, no light.” On his knees, he checked with his commander.

“You’re not looking hard enough,” Timbrel said, going to her knees as well. “If Beo sniffed it, then it’s there.”

“It’s not. Check for yourself.”

Tony watched as the hardheaded woman did just that. He looked at Dean and shook his head.

Frustration darkened Dean’s expression. “You’re sure?”

“Certain.” This wasn’t his first rodeo, but Tony checked the floor again. “Yeah.” His eyes traced the ninety-degree angle … saw the way the dirt seemed lined up. A well, of sorts. “Wait.” He traced a finger along the spine. Felt the dirt give beneath his finger. “There’s a groove or something here. Dirt’s built up.”

“It has to be a hidden room or something,” Timbrel said. “It has to be there, whether behind or under us—Beo can smell something buried eight to ten feet.”

“Java, get the owner in here,” Dean ordered.

“Roger!”

Tony pushed onto his haunches and stood, then started rummaging through the stacks of paper, searching for an access panel or something.

“Rocket, look around for a switch or lever.” Turning in a circle, Dean aimed his SureFire into the corners. Bright light scattered the shadows.

“Anything?” Dean asked.

“Nothing.”

“Same here,” Tony said with a huff. “Let me check something.” He mentally tracked the distance from the wall to the corner then left the room. Eyed the opposite corner, traced it to the back door, then stepped into the rear courtyard. He measured it, felt along the wall, estimating.

“Candyman!” Timbrel shouted.

As Tony pulled the door closed, he spotted someone in the hall. With a weapon. Taking a bead on the storeroom.

Tony drew his Glock for close quarters. “Stop! Drop the weapon. Right. Now!”

The man swung the weapon at him.

Easing back the trigger, Tony fired. Ducked. Fired again. Fire lit down his forearm. He hissed through the pain but eyed it and figured the graze wouldn’t even leave a scar. The man crumpled. Beyond him, Tony saw Java groaning and coming up.

Rocket rushed into the open and helped Java. “You okay?”

“Stupid guy head butted me.”

“Yeah, well he shot me,” Tony said.

“That tiny graze?” Java asked, the knot red and large on his forehead.

Tony grinned as he patted him on the shoulder but saw Timbrel watching him, her face … what was that look? “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

It almost seemed like she cared.
Right, keep dreaming
. “Never better.”

“Did you get both men?”

“Both? There was only one.”

She frowned but nodded.

He pointed into the storage room. “There’s definitely more building there.”

“Well, nobody’s talking,” Java said. “I had to practically drag him in here. And that’s when things went haywire.”

Stroking his beard, Tony grinned. “Sounds like they don’t want us to find something.”

Hands on his belt, Dean flashed a smile. “Then, let’s take it down.”

“Hooah.”

Since the threat of WMDs existed, ODA452 couldn’t blow it. Timbrel hung back as Tony and Rocket scooted the shelves out of the way. They brought in X-ray scanners to determine where they could cut and went to work dismantling the wall. Dust and tiny cement particles choked the air as the hole grew. Coughing, Timbrel struggled to see through the gray-filled air.

Candyman folded himself into the void they’d created. “There’s a room!” he called from the other side. “Hands, hands!”

His shout from the other side sent Captain Watters and Java rushing through the narrow opening. Rocket stood guard on this side with her.

“Hands up, hands up!” Candyman ordered something in Dari and Farsi, his tone commanding and warning.

She waited in the corner, arms around Beo’s chest. Watching. Anticipating the call.

A figure loomed in the dissipating fog. Then two more men. Cuffed. Escorted by Java.

Timbrel straightened to her full height, ready to enter the cleared room. As the two escorted nationals came toward her, she held Beo’s collar. “Good boy.”

Her shoulder jarred.

The Afghan man muttered something to her.

“Sorry.” She frowned.
Wait. That wasn’t my mistake
. The man had moved into her path. She glanced back, catching only his profile in the dusty and filmy air.

“Timbrel.”

Right. Candyman, who didn’t sound happy. “Let’s go, Beo.” She led him through the hole and straightened as she eyed the large space. Nearly the size of a warehouse, but not quite as high ceilings or as large in square footage. But not much smaller either.

Candyman, M4 cradled in one hand, keyed his mic and met her gaze as he spoke quietly into the mic. His words didn’t come through her coms. Who was he talking to? Blond eyebrows pulled toward his nose. Not a happy camper.

What am I missing?

Candyman was at her side, caught her arm. “Tell me there’s something here. Tell me Beowulf has a hit. A real hit.”

The way he said that … Timbrel frowned, already feeling guilty. Or like a failure. But for what? She tugged out of his grip, stifling the adrenaline his words spiked. Gaze tracking the room, she hit the captain. Scowling until he dropped his gaze, which was filled with disappointment. Rocket … no disappointment there. Just outrage. Anger.

Another frown and she said, “Beowulf, seek.” Her words didn’t have the force she wanted them to have.

As Beo trotted around the room, their frustration, their anger coalesced into the big picture. Oh no …

She saw the printing press. The barrels of paper. The supplies of ink. Stacks of books on a conveyor. The little food in her stomach soured. Beowulf moved around the room, whimpering. Sniffing. Back and forth until he stopped at a far wall and sat. He looked at her as if to say, “Right here.”

But right here wasn’t WMDs. Right here, he’d found hydrogen cyanide.

A chemical used in the production of some books. Java and Scrip came in.

Curses flew through the air.