Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (55 page)

He couldn’t believe this. Bashir seriously was going to try to wipe out key military personnel. If the guy was angry with the military for his family’s deaths, he’d have more than enough motive to want to deal a lethal blow to the American military command structure.

Tony hurried his steps.

Someone yelped.

He glanced to the side as he moved. Saw a group hurrying toward an exit. His heart jacked into his throat as he registered what he saw: three armed men herding Timbrel through a door.

It took every ounce of training not to shout her name. Not to tip off the men. Tony bolted down the corridor, his mind scrambling to remember what he saw. The men—one man wrangling her out the door as another led the way. She fought them, hands free, flailing.

Wait …

Tony slowed as he came up on the door, pressed his shoulder against the wall, listening. Chaos beyond, but what … what had Timbrel been doing with her hands?

Signal.

That’s … crazy
. What would she be signaling? He’d seen her do that with—Low and ominous, a deep rumble spirited through the dark hall. Tony flung back, his eyes probing the darkness. Shadows shifted and collided. Took shape. Drew closer.

Tony reached for the weapon taped to his leg.

Yellow glinted.

His pulse sped as he watched the darkness birth the massive dog.

Head down, canines exposed as he continued his demonic growl, Beowulf stalked toward him. Mouth flaps quavered as Beo sucked in a breath and instantly resumed his growling. Legs spread, shoulders down, he exposed his spine from the shadows—and his raised hackles that added inches to the already massive beast.

Snapped.

Tony threw himself backward. Debated whether he could get his gun before the dog ripped out his throat.

Beo barked. Lunged a few places. Snarled.

He’s going to eat me alive
.

        Thirty-seven        

A
fter another demonlike bark, Beo paced back and forth. Turned on Tony and snarled again.

“Stupid, piece of …” Tony bit back his curses. He’d given up that life, but this hound of hell had put the fear of God into him in a new way. “We have to get her. Shut up and stand down.”

Beo snapped, his front paws coming off the ground.

Tony flinched back, but then …

Pacing back and forth like a caged lion, Beowulf snarled … paced and snarled …

Tony eyed the door the men had hauled Timbrel through. The handle. Beo. Was he…? “If you take my hand, I’ll shoot you,” Tony hissed. With a breath for courage, he threw himself at the door and slapped the handle.

The door swung open.

With a bark, Beowulf launched through the opening.

Despite having the NYPD SWAT team on standby, Lance knew as the doors thudded shut and armed gunmen took up positions, help would be too late. He made eye contact with Watters, who stood next to Hastings. Casually, so he didn’t tip off the guy lumbering to the stage with an air of determination, Lance shifted his eyes to Straider. The guy stood at the back of the gala in a tux. Something about that guy made Lance suddenly very happy he’d been tapped for this mission. Silently, he telegraphed the message, asking about the device. Had anyone seen it?

Straider gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities,” Bashir Karzai said as he took the microphone. “You will all be here for a very long time, so please—make yourselves comfortable.”

As some began to sit, he laughed.

“You thought I meant in chairs.” Dressed like the imam he’d been elected as, Bashir spoke with a piety he did not possess. “No, no. Your lives of comfort and fattening are over. Please—to the floor.”

Lance moved with the others, sitting around the stack of books. Of the seven men tasked with this assignment, only four were visible to him. Which left him with a boatload of panic. What happened to the others? VanAllen had said he hadn’t decided, but if he showed, it’d be his last mission.
Great. Fine. Just show
.

But that would be too “god in the box” for VanAllen to appear out of nowhere and save the day. No, things never went down that smoothly or cooperatively. No, this would get really ugly. Bashir had too much confidence, which meant things were going as planned.

Which meant, they were in deep kimchi.

Surreptitiously, Lance shifted closer to Watters.

“We do not need heroes to die … yet.”

Lance checked the stage. Sure enough, the guy was looking right at him.

“Please, General Burnett, have a seat.”

Something about the man’s words pulled Lance’s gaze to his hand. To the chair Bashir had planted a hand on.

Mother of God …
The prayer died on his lips as he realized what the man wanted.

“Not interested?” Bashir nodded. “Then you doom another man’s life.” He motioned to one of his men.

The guy slung his weapon over his shoulder and stomped across the room. He hauled a man in military dress uniform upward. A woman cried out as he was shoved toward the front of the room.

Lieutenant Colonel Bradley Abrams.

Lance wanted to curse. This was it—this was the man Bashir had come to kill. How he knew, Lance didn’t know. There was just a fierce fury coursing through the black eyes in the pits of that man’s face.

Abrams took the seat. And in his face, Lance saw the same determination resonating through his own chest.

“Tell us, Colonel, where you were in April 2003.”

Surprise danced across the sun-bronzed face of the colonel. “I … I was in Baghdad.” He braved a glance to their captor.

“What was your role there, Colonel?”

What is this?
The mutterings of the crowd rose, echoing the question plaguing Lance’s mind.

“I was a tank driver.”

Oh no.

Crack!

The simultaneous explosion of the weapon and Lance’s word pounded against his conscience as Abrams tumbled from the chair with a thud.

Merciful God!
They had to stop this. He rammed his gaze into Straider. Then Watters. Archer and Russo sat near the back in waitstaff getup. Lance pummeled meaning into his expression. And they returned the fury.

And the desperate frustration. If they intervened, they would show their hands. They didn’t know the location of the device. Which meant
everyone
could die. Not just one. Or two. It’d be three hundred if his men didn’t make up some ground
now
.

        Thirty-eight