Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (56 page)

R
iddle me this, Batman: Why’s the dog running full speed at a steel door?

And how many more doors or turns would they make? How could the terrorists get this far with Timbrel?

“Beowulf,” Tony hissed as he hurried after the dog on the hunt.

The bullmastiff threw himself at the door.

Thud
.

Beo yelped but spun around and paced. Started snarling.

Not winning, not saving his girl, put Beowulf in a seriously bad mood.

I can relate
. Tony kicked the door. It flung open. Before it could snap back, Beowulf shot through it. Skidded on the cement floor. His back end swung around as he headed in the opposite direction.

Tony paused. Worked to get his bearings. If he followed the dog, wouldn’t they end up heading back to the ballroom? Or had he miscalculated the turns? Probably.

Back in motion, he caught up with Beowulf as he scratched at a door. Sniffed. Whimpered.

Sidling up by the door, Tony still had the fear of dog in him. Beo, if caught off guard, could easily take a chunk out of Tony’s flesh. But they were both working toward the same goal—saving Timbrel. He’d just have to trust this beast. Tony thumped a boot against the wall.

Beo shifted his gaze for a second then went back to digging out the scent.

Tony tried the handle. Locked. Weird.

He looked around. A little wider than the halls, the area seemed a juncture between four possible routes. Yet Beowulf chose this door. Could he be wrong?

With Timbrel’s life in the balance, Tony couldn’t imagine that.

A noise ricocheted through the cement and steel corridors, working its way toward them. The first thought was a slamming door. But at the exact same moment Beo went into overdrive trying to dig through the cement—and the dog would probably wear his paws bloody trying—Tony knew it was the report of a weapon.

Timbrel!

He spun in front of the door. Drove his heel just above the handle.

Pain jarred his leg. Threw him off balance. He grunted as he swung wildly, trying to catch himself. Hit hard. Pain exploded up his back and spine, radiating from his hip. Tony jerked back up, ignoring the pain. Ignoring the way his nerves vibrated. He shot his foot into the door again.

It surrendered.

Beowulf barked and barreled onward.

Tony gave chase, only remotely aware of the pain shooting darts up his back and shoulders. He didn’t care about discomfort. Timbrel was in danger!

Beo skidded around the corner, clawing for purchase on the cement floor. He caught and hauled tail out of sight. Tony did a bouncing slow down to keep from colliding with the opposite wall. He slapped the wall and pushed himself on.

Slipping and sliding around another bend, Beo struggled. Then vanished.

Tony sprinted after him, his heart in his throat. This stupid place felt worse than a labyrinth. Exhaustion gripped him but he couldn’t stop. Had to find her. He stumbled and slowed as he realized Beo hadn’t rounded a corner. He’d entered a room.

Tony drew up his weapon and hugged the wall. He whipped around the corner, weapon pieing out—

Beo stood beside Timbrel, who lay in the middle of the floor. Bloodied. Unconscious. Beo nudged her face and whimpered.

Tony threw himself toward them. “Timbrel!” On his knees, he reached for her.

Beo snarled and snapped at him.

Tony snapped back, “Out!”

Without warning, Beo’s face punched at Tony. He tensed a second too late. Wet slobber swiped his face. A pathetic, high-pitched whimper issued from Beo’s chest. With his snout, he bumped Timbrel’s face again. His brown eyes bounced to Tony as if to say, “Fix her.”

Blood streaked her face and neck.

How do I fix dead?

        Thirty-nine        

T
imbrel!”
The garbled voice reached down into the depth of the black hole that had swallowed her.

A jolt against her face.

She groaned.

“Timbrel, c’mon, baby. Show me those brown eyes.”

She swallowed hard. Groaned.

Warm snot blasted her face.

With a half laugh at Beo’s slick insistence she wake up, she pried open her eyes. And found the most gorgeous green orbs staring back. “Tony?”

“Hey, beautiful.”

She dragged herself upright and wrapped an arm around Beo, who pushed into her lap. “What…?”

“I was hoping you could tell us. Beo was about to rip this place apart to find you.”

She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him tight. “That’s my boy.”

“What happened?”

Rubbing her shoulder, she shook her head. “It was … weird. I was screaming and yelling at Sajjan, kicking and screaming—”

“So you went along easy, huh?”

She glared at him. “They were going to kill me. I wasn’t going to make it easy.” Timbrel pushed to her feet. “The other guy started arguing with Sajjan, and he led me in here. He held me against his chest, aimed the gun at the guy, then all at once there’s this explosion, a bright flash, a”—she clapped a hand over a spot on her neck—“he pinched me or something. Then you’re over me crying like a baby.”

Tony stepped closer. “Baby, I’ll do a lot more than cry if someone hurts you again.”

Her features went crazy soft. Tender. “You almost sound like you care.”

The cadence of his heart in his chest rivaled the ramming speed of a warship’s drums. “I would love to show you how much, but right now … Are you injured? There’s blood all over your neck.”

Her hand went to her throat. She touched it. “It’s slick—not like blood.”

“Fake blood?” Tony’s mind knotted. “Why would he fake your death?”

“I … I don’t know. He’s as guilty as Bashir.”

Tony nodded. “Speaking of, the team’s here because Bashir has some device that is supposed to superheat something or the other.”

“Wow, that’s some impressive military intelligence.”

He arched his eyebrow. “We all know he has chemical weapons and intends to use them to hurt Americans, we just don’t know—”

“The books.”

“What books?”

“Khaterah set up these books in the middle of the ballroom. Said they were a donation from one of Sajjan’s friends—I’d bet my life it was Bashir. He sent the books over.” Fingers to her forehead, she paced. “That’s it … that’s gotta be it. That’s why Beowulf got a hit on Khaterah earlier—she handled the books so she had trace elements of the chemicals.”

“Who, slow down, chief. I’m not tracking.”

“Earlier, I met Khat in the elevator. Beo got a hit on her, but there was nothing that was dangerous. Then when I went to the gala, there’s this stack of books in the middle of the room. Khat said she set them up, but when I took Beo over there—”

“Another hit.”

Timbrel nodded. “The books must have a chemical in them or something.”

“Wait—the books are in the middle of the room?”

“I just said that. And it’s so weird—they’re not Arabic books or Afghan. They looked American. Like a novel or something. I thought it was so strange.”

“He’s going to use that device to superheat them. Burn the books—very poetic. Burn those books and it releases whatever chemical is in them.”

“If he does that, that room will turn into a gas chamber. Nobody will have a prayer.”

tabarri min a’daa Allah
—Turning Away from the Enemies of Allah