Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (51 page)

D
ripping with sweat and exhaustion, Tony walked a lap around the track. Hands on his hips, he gulped the air his lungs could barely take in before squeezing shut. Sweat had also dripped down his prosthesis and made the sock sweaty, rubbing him raw. But he didn’t care. He wanted—
needed
—to know he could do this. Could pass the physical fitness test.

The push-ups and sit-ups were a breeze. As soon as he’d been able to sit up without passing out after the amputation, he’d started working out the parts of his body that hadn’t been severely traumatized. In fact, his chest and bicep measurements were larger than before.

A black vehicle pulled to a stop just a few feet from the track.

Tony ignored the car. Didn’t surprise him he’d come. Didn’t want to talk to the man. Didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

“Candyman.”

Tony closed his eyes. No, he didn’t want to engage in conversation. But he also knew he couldn’t ignore them. He made one last circuit, glad when Rika lifted herself from the grass and joined him.

Decked out in his ACUs, Dean Watters offered a hand. “Sharp leg.”

“Thanks.” The man had been like a brother to him. They’d worked together for years. So, why were things so weird now?

“You passed the PFT.” General Burnett sidled up next to him.

“I passed phase one,” Tony said with a nod.

“That’s all I need to see to want you back in the game.”

Tony shook his head. “Not sure I’m ready for that.” He had to voice his thoughts. Had to let them know what to expect. “I’m not sure I want to go back, sirs. I mean, I love being a soldier. It’s an honor to serve, but … something about that last mission just really … changed me.”

“It altered your physical appearance, but you’re still the same die-hard soldier I put in the field.” Burnett wasn’t softening.

“No, sir. I’m not convinced I am that soldier anymore.” Tony held up his hands. “Look, don’t ask for a firm answer right now, because if you do—it’s no. I’m not going back.”

“Will you come listen to what’s happening?” Dean asked. “Something’s going down, but honestly, Tony? I don’t want to face this one without your know-how.”

“Will you come have a look-see?” Burnett started backing toward the car.

Dean gave Burnett a wave-off. “Can I ride with you, Tony?”

“I can’t be pushed into this, Dean.”

“No pushing. Just talking. You’ve been isolated for a while. Thought maybe we could talk it out.” Dean stood before him, his solid ways and personality firm. Impenetrable. “Tony, just hear us out. Listen to the mission brief. If you decide you can’t do it, then …” His buddy nodded. “As much as I won’t like it, I’ll back you.”

Only then did Tony notice he was rubbing Rika’s ear. “All right. I’ll listen. Let me shower up first.”

A half hour later, they headed to the truck and he beeped the key fob. “Gotta warn you, Rika’s a window hog.”

Dean eyeballed him. “That mean I’m about to get drooled on?”

“Nah, that’d be Timbrel’s hound.” He laughed as he climbed into the cab. With the quad cab, Rika hopped in the back, and he let down the rear passenger pane so she could window surf as they headed toward Joint Base Myer-Henderson Hall.

“Has Hogan met her yet?” Dean looked over his shoulder at Rika.

“Yeah.” Tony snorted. “Would you believe Rika sent Beowulf running, tail between his legs?”

Dean laughed. “I think I would’ve paid money to see that.”

“It was pretty awesome.” Tony rubbed Rika’s withers.

“Is she helping you sort things?”

“Yeah. Even when I don’t realize it.” Tony didn’t want this dialogue to go this way, but he knew Dean needed information on him. Knew this was as much a personal briefing as it was old friends catching up.

“Saw you do the run.” Dean shook his head, not in disgust but in awe. “I’m impressed, Tony. You shot back from a place I don’t know I could’ve come back from.”

“Sure you could’ve. You’ve got the same mettle.”

“Burnett mentioned having you talk to the troops, encourage them.”

“Not happening.” Tony already had that conversation with himself.

“Why?”

“I worked too hard to become a good soldier. A Green Beret. An amputee with a story is not how I want to be remembered.” He stopped at the gate and showed his ID, as did Dean. Granted access, he drove through the secure checkpoint. “Look, I need to be straight with you. I can’t see myself going back, ya know? I just … It’s not working for me.”

“Well, make it work for you, Tony.”

“Not that easy.” He stared out the window. “That moment, the explosion that sheared off my leg—it’s right there at the front of my mind. I got out easy this time, only missing a leg, but next time …” He shook his head. “Timbrel came at me with a lot of the attitude you’re throwing at me, too. I get it. You want me to rally. But that’s just it—I’m rallied. Just toward another cause.”

“What’s that?”

Tony snorted. “Haven’t figured it out. It’s just not this.” He waved his hand around the base, the soldiers.

“Never thought you’d say that. You are the guy who nothing affects. You let it roll off your shoulders and keep going.”

“Yeah, well, the rolling just fell off a cliff, I guess.”

“What about Hogan?”

“Don’t go there.”

“How’d you mess that up?”

Tony glared at him. “I didn’t want her pity.”

Dean laughed. “Pity? That woman? I don’t think she has it in her. She’s too hard-driving. I’d have thought she would’ve been all over your lazy butt with drills and demands.”

Yeah, that was Timbrel. One hundred percent. “She tried.” Tony swallowed and looked out of the truck, away from Dean and his all-too-accurate arrows. “I told her to get out.”
And I’ve regretted it ever since
.

Needed to change this dialogue now. He cleared his throat and reached for Rika, who panted over his shoulder. “So, you know what this is about? Or am I new-meat status now?”

“Not at all.” Dean shifted in the seat as they headed toward a white two-story structure. “Look, I just have to say, this … this is unlike anything we’ve seen or faced before. It’s one of the slickest, stealthiest terrorists. Come in. Listen and then give us your answer. But one thing I know you’ll like …”

Timbrel? Was she going to be there? “What?”

“It’s full black.”

Oh. Right. Not Timbrel. Full black—so far off the grid, only those involved would know about it.

“And here.”

Tony jerked at the words. “Here? As in…?”

“U.S. soil.”

They were some of the best of the best. Warriors at heart. Soldiers. They’d been through numerous missions. Many of which wouldn’t ever have ears outside their gathering. And if they could just do this mission, if they could prove their mettle here, Lance had a prime gig waiting on the sidelines for the members of ODA452.

As the men filtered into the room, Lance mentally shifted his attention and annoyance from the man who stood to his left in silence. Then Staff Sergeant Todd “Pops” Archer lumbered in, his expression drawn. He’d spent the last two weeks with his wife, supporting her through chemo treatments. The journey was taking its toll.

“General.” Archer stuffed his hand in Lance’s.

“You sure you—?”

“All the way, sir.” Resolute to the end.

Archer settled into a chair at the far end as Sergeant First Class Salvatore “Rocket” Russo made his way in. He clapped his hand on Archer’s shoulder and took the seat next to him. Laughter preceded Brian “Java” Bledsoe, who entered and started a constant stream of dialogue that never ended until Watters and VanAllen arrived.

“Dude.” Bledsoe punched to his feet. “Glad you’re back.”

“I’m here,” VanAllen clarified.

“So, who’s the new guy?” Bledsoe threw his chin toward the man who’d removed himself to the corner window and sat against the ledge.

Lance would address that question when the time came. “Okay, let’s get this under way. We are short on time and long on expectations.”

The team fell into a quiet, firm focus as Lance closed the door and flipped the lock. “Don’t need any unexpected visitors.” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “As you know, we’ve been tracking Bashir Karzai for the last umpteen months, and DIA, CIA, DOD have had their eyes on him for a lot longer.”

“The dude’s an imam, right?” Bledsoe asked.

“He is. But not always,” Lance said. “His name was once Ahmad Bijan.” He held up a photograph of a younger version of their target. “He was there in 2003 when Baghdad fell. And we’ve recently discovered that his wife and son were killed as our troops routed Saddam loyalists. We believe these deaths have fueled his fury against us.”

“You mean Americans.” Bledsoe bounced his leg as he sat cockeyed in the seat.

“No.” Lance drew in a breath. “I mean American
troops
. We have a source close to the target who says the vengeance Bashir Karzai wants to extract is with the blood of American soldiers. And that’s why we believe he’ll attempt something at the gala in New York.”

VanAllen sat a little straighter. “A Breed Apart’s fund-raiser.”

“Yes.” Lance removed his hat and smoothed his hair.

“Why them?”

“The guest list,” Watters muttered.

Over his readers, Burnett eyed Dean and pointed. “Watters hit it on the head. ABA has unwittingly invited the very man in charge of operations that led to the death of Karzai’s family. In addition, this thing has blown into a full-scale-brass shindig. Not only will our top officials and handlers be there, but so will foreign teams.”

“But … why?” VanAllen asked. “What are they planning?”

“This whole thing with Karzai hasn’t made a lick of sense,” Russo said, elbow on the table as he rubbed his chin. “We’ve chased this guy up and down Afghanistan.”

“He killed Scrip and nearly took out Tony.” Watters sat forward, his forearms resting on his knees as he straddled the chair off to the side. “I want to bring a very swift justice to this man.”

“Which is what we’re going to do,” Lance said. “To do that, you’ll be joined by Straider.” He eyed the man leaning back against the windowsill. Six two, a wall of muscle and power, the Australian SAS soldier could pass as an American any day of the year—until he opened his mouth.

“Who’s he again?” The dark scowl that smeared over Bledsoe’s brow pretty much hit the face of every man in this room.

“My name’s Eamon Straider—”

“Whoa. Wait.” Bledsoe slowly rose to his feet. “Hold up. First off, is it A-man or—”

“Java.”

“No, seriously. And what’s with the accent? Is that British?”

Black hair cropped close, Straider held his ground. No smile. No irritation, which was exactly what Bledsoe had tried to yank out of him with the comment.

“Australian SAS,” Russo said as he sat back. “This is dangerous.” He tossed a pen on the table. “Bringing an unknown element into the team right before a mission.” He shook his head and looked around at the others. “I don’t like this or him.”

“Your job is not to like me.” Straider joined Lance at the head of the conference table. “I’ll insert with you. My purpose here is one part tactical, one part technological.”

“Why you?” Archer asked, his expression unreadable. “Why not any other SAS flunkie?”

Jaw stretching, Straider took his time answering. “There is a company out of Sydney that is working with leading scientists around the world in developing a new technology.” He bent forward, his large hand splayed and his upper body supported by the tips of his fingers on the table. “This technology will superheat anything in its vicinity. Normally, an accelerant takes a solid through the phases: solid, liquid, gas. This technology bypasses the liquid phase.” His eyes bored into the gazes of the men.

“Basically, what a microwave does,” Archer said, chair sideways, arm resting across the table.

“Precisely like that.” Straider straightened. “Two weeks ago, one of these devices went missing from the lab. It is our belief that Bashir Karzai then bought it.”

“Again,” Bledsoe said, arms out wide, “I’m not getting the part where you’re important.”

“One of the dignitaries,” Lance said as he rejoined the conversation, “is General Donaldson.”

“My boss,” Straider said.