Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (54 page)

Timbrel stilled. Wait. Her gaze flipped back to the man. Captain Watters. And Brie Hastings!

Brie’s eyes widened at Timbrel. Then dropped to Beo.

Timbrel glanced at her dog.

He sat. Right next to the books.
A hit
.

        Thirty-five        

T
he girl and the dog must die. Now, before the rest of the plan became mutilated because of their interference.

Bashir slid his phone from his pocket and sent a text to Sajjan, who sat across the table with his arm around his American fiancée. A tidy and effective ruse that gave Sajjan the access and explanation for his whereabouts, movements, and requests. Nobody had even batted an eye at the sudden arrival of the books.

T
HE GIRL IS A PROBLEM THAT NEEDS TO BE ELIMINATED
. T
HE DOG TOO
. Now.

Bashir smiled. Even though the girl and her dog had detected the chemical, they would not be able to stop what was happening. They were too late. She had been too slow. She’d nearly toppled his plan eight months ago, but now she would pay for her meddling. With her life.

Laughter filtered through the crowd at something Miss Khouri said. It was a shame. To waste such a beautiful woman, a woman with Arab blood. But her allegiances were in question, and therefore of no consequence to him.

Sajjan reached into his breast pocket. A subtle blue glow on his face betrayed the text he read. The actress glanced over her shoulder and at his phone. She said something. Sajjan shook his head and whispered in her ear. Then he kissed her cheek, rose, and swept past Bashir without a glance as the first speech ended. Music saturated the glitz and glamour. Suits and uniforms mingled, danced.

It was easy, really. Incredibly and stupidly easy.

Enjoying their drinks, their slow dancing, their debauchery, a momentary respite from their politicking. Oh, he knew the high-ranking officials in this room would rebuff the notion that there were politics in what they did. But how could one remove the spine and still have a whole, functioning body? The motive and still have the mission?

He moved through the crowds, insignificant—to them. A step on a ladder in which they climbed to the top. But soon there would be no top to attain. The rungs would be removed. Their
ascent
would become
descent
.

Laughter billowed out from the corner. American military officers laughed, crystal snifters in hand, as they paraded their latest trophy wife, girlfriend, or indulgence.

So easily the mighty fall.

They would drive them out of the country, out of the Middle East.

        Thirty-six        

N
othing like last minute.

Tony grabbed his bow tie and slid from the truck. He paused, and it took a second for him to realize he’d hesitated to allow Rika to follow him out of the cab. But she wasn’t with him tonight. She was
dad-sitting
for him. Weird that he already missed the seventy-five pound German shepherd. Missed her presence. Missed her confidence.

Tony tossed the keys to the valet, took the ticket, and hurried into the hotel, hooking the tie around the back of his neck. He wrangled it into a knot as he rushed toward the ballrooms. Crap. Knot wasn’t right. He tried again. The left side poked into the soft part under his chin. He yanked it off. Caught the arm of a waiter. “Restrooms?”

The guy pointed toward the far end of the dimly lit corridor. “Down there, to the left. At the end of that hall.”

“Great.” Tony stormed that way, savoring the fact that so far tonight nobody had even given him a second glance. No questioning looks about the slight limp that betrayed his prosthesis. The more he got used to it, the more he walked better. People accepted him more wholly. And speaking of more wholly, Timbrel had given him whatnot at the ranch. She hadn’t backed down to protect his feelings.

Man, he missed her. Missed that mouth and snark. The attitude willing to face down any demon.

After the briefing, he’d had no peace. Only a very empty sense of failure. Failing the team. Failing Timbrel. If there was a real-and-present danger, he could not sit on his backside by the fire, petting his dog and sipping cider.

He’d fought it. Fought the urge to rush into this night and face whatever was coming. He’d faced it once. Lost a leg. Timbrel had been right—he was hiding from this. It wasn’t about her. Wasn’t about the military. It was about Tony VanAllen and the grudge he’d allowed into his heart. Bitterness had come in small, lethal injections till he took that fatal dose. Convinced himself he didn’t need her or her pity. Really, he was terrified of that. Didn’t want her to start treating him the way his mother did his father. Not when what they had had been so strong, so powerful.

Through that briefing, ODA452 went dark, covert—to walk the halls here as waiters, security guards, and Dean should be seated in the gala as a guest with Brie Hastings. The Aussie should be here as an attaché to the Australian SAS commander inside.

And Tony was supposed to be on-site, too, but he’d bailed. Sat at home, mulling the mission, the probability that Bashir Karzai would be stupid enough to attempt an attack against some of the highest-ranking military officers in the U.S. Armed Forces.

Okay, okay. He was pouting. Feeling sorry for himself. Until his conscience caught up with him and threw him out the door and into his truck.

Tony shouldered his way into the bathroom. Stomped to the mirror. Tied the bow. He wanted to see Timbrel. Wanted to know she was okay.

Tell her he was sorry.

Hauling in a breath, Tony eyed himself in the mirror. Let out the breath. Oh the irony. She’d walked out on him in Arkansas, and he’d basically returned the favor by not signing on to the mission at the get-go. When he’d realized that, he grabbed his tux and sped down Route 7.

Desperation bolted through his veins. He recognized it and closed his eyes.
God, please … help me. Give me a chance to talk to her. And protect us if Bashir is here to unleash some evil
. Tony couldn’t help grin.
And if he is, help me send him back to his master in hell
.

Tony gave himself one last appraisal then left the bathroom. Double-checked the weapon he’d strapped to the lower portion of his prosthesis. When he set off the sensors, he’d tap his leg and expose enough for them to let him pass without a pat-down. Tugging his cuffs, he rounded the corner and headed to the ballroom. He strode toward the music and chatter that drifted out of the large room. A dense crowd.
Bigger body count
.