Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (6 page)

Eight Years Ago

With heaving breaths he stepped around the body and moved to the window. A lone, shabby curtain guarded the interior from an invasion of sunlight and hope.

There was no hope. Not for those who would set themselves against the will of Allah. As the infidels would die, so would those too weak to defend Islam. Those who bent their knees to Americans. They might believe they had good cause. They might be deluded and brainwashed by the Americans into believing the Western allies were occupying the country for the benefit of all people. But it was a lie.
A lie!

He gulped, forcing his pulse to steady. His breathing to return to normal.

Closed his eyes. Quietly he recited the Qur’an, “ ‘Allah has borne witness that there is no God but Him—and the angels, and those with knowledge also witness this. He is always standing firm on justice. There is no God but Him, the Mighty, the Wise.’ ” He bowed his head. Then lifted his chin and spoke to the officers behind him. “It is good to be the sword of Allah.”

Shouts erupted down the street.

He nudged aside the curtain and peered out. Directly in front of the dilapidated home that held him in quiet repose, a half-dozen ISAF soldiers waited. NATO forces helping with security here in Afghanistan. Though they held their weapons down, tension poured off them. The gazes of his men focused on the end of the street.

Craning to the side, he saw the cross street. Saw the American bulletproof, mine-resistant vehicle lumber across, heading north. Back to the base, no doubt. Children raced alongside, some begging candy and money.

But one lone boy pelted the vehicle with rocks.

Infused with pride over the youth’s behavior, he smiled. He’d find that boy. Make sure he had a home, training. Allah had given the boy a warrior’s spirit.
I will hone it
.

He let the curtain drop back into place, a dark smudge bright against the dingy white curtain. He glanced at his hand. Light poked through the curtain and glinted against the steel. As he rotated his wrist, examining the singular beauty of the sword, the glint vanished. Reappeared.

Smiling, he watched the life force glide along the silver surface. Two forces still competing. Steel and blood. One had surrendered a life as it chased the length of the blade.

Just as he would chase the Great Satan. Two forces competing. Islam and America.

They did not belong here. They did not belong in the lands of his fathers. They’d come under the ruse of peace and protecting freedom. But they’d brought death and destruction. Taken wives, mothers, fathers … children.

And one who had betrayed his people and breathed more death upon his own people would now never draw another breath.

“Sir,” Irfael said quietly as he came to a stop at the door. “Americans coming this way.”

“Good.” They would find their spy—dead and unable to give them any more ammunition against the people of Islam. “Let’s go.” A tickle along the fleshy part of his hand drew his attention. A rivulet of blood slid down the side and vanished beneath the cuff of his sleeve.

Wiping it on his pant leg, he turned. Stepped over the body.

A sound resonated through the city. Call to prayer.

He paused. “My rug.”

“Sir?”

He flashed a glare at his second. “My rug!”

The man gave a quick nod and bolted from the room. Within a minute, Irfael returned with the mat.

Peace. He needed peace within. Peace without. And if he had to bring all of hell to the world to do it, he would. Determining his position to the sun, he spread the mat on the floor. Watched as the threads greedily consumed the blood and drew the dark stain farther into itself.
As I will for you, Allah. I am your servant
.

And he knelt.

        Four        

W
hat in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking?” Lance paced, feeling the thump of his blood pressure in his temple. Straining against his neck. “This is the mother of all screwups, gentlemen.”

He shoved his hand through his short wavy hair, wanting to scream. Wanting to throttle each and every one of them. “That shop, the one where you killed a man and destroyed the wall, and therefore ruined the integrity of the entire building?”

Man, he needed a Dr Pepper.

Scratch that. A glycerin tablet.

“That building belongs to a family connected to our industrious humanitarian and who is a colonel in the ISAF!”

A curse split the tension.

Lance spun. “That’s right. Curse, because that’s exactly what you turned me into!” He stomped back to his desk. “How am I supposed to explain this to General Phillips?”

Watters lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. “Permission to speak, sir?”

Lance huffed. “Fine. Speak. Tell me something that I can pass to my superiors that will convince them not to discharge my sorry carcass. And if that happens, if they do, you can kiss your careers good-bye, because by golly, I will take you down, too.”

“Sir,” Watters began, his voice firm and calm, “Hogan and her dog found that scent.”

“No kidding.”

“It was a false positive, but through that we found the room.”

“That’s right. After you killed Colonel Karzai’s right hand. After you blew up the wall of his shop.”

“Sir,” VanAllen interjected, “may I?”

Lance threw his hands up. “Why not? Watters sure isn’t helping.”

“Sir, the man I hit took a shot at me first. You authorized use of deadly force—”

“Don’t you dare,” Lance barked. “Don’t throw this back in my face, VanAllen.”

“Not my intention in the least, sir. My point is that this man had hostile intentions. If the wall and the printing press weren’t a problem, then why attack us? Why hide the entrance?”

Lance couldn’t fight it. The man had a point. It didn’t make sense—none of it made sense. But it didn’t matter. Karzai would grind him and the team up like hamburger.

“I’d like to make a request, sir,” Russo said.

Lance glared at him. “Go on.”

“I think Hogan is trouble. She and this dog—”

“Don’t,” VanAllen snapped, his face red beneath that sandy blond beard. “Do not blame her on this.”

“That dog—”

“Did what he was trained to do. Cyanide is used in both printing and in WMDs. He’s trained to find it and he did. He can’t read the signs on the doors.”

“No,” Lance growled. “But you sure can.”

VanAllen closed his mouth. His eyes screamed his fury.

Though Lance couldn’t see the man’s lips, he was sure they were thin and pulled tight. “VanAllen, trim up that rat’s nest you call a beard.” He grabbed a cold can from the fridge. “I want your after-action reports on my desk at 0800. Dismissed.”

Tony stepped from the general’s office in the subbase command center and got hit with a blast of hot, unrelenting Afghanistan heat.

A weight plowed into his shoulder from behind.

He stumbled and looked back.

Rocket stormed past him.

Tony grabbed the guy by the drag straps. Hauled him up against the building. Pressed his forearm into his throat. “I don’t care if you are pissed off at me, I am still your superior officer.”

Dark icy eyes hit his. “Noted. Sir.”

“Hey.” Dean came up beside them. “Let’s ratchet it down. The whole mission was messed up. Placing blame doesn’t do any good.”

Taking in a breath, Tony released Rocket. Patted his shoulders. “I understand your anger.”

“Don’t do me any favors. I still think tasking our team with her is a mistake.”

“Noted.” Tony held the man’s gaze.

“Russo,” Dean said, moving in on Rocket, “you can check your attitude or your discharge papers.”

Rocket’s eyes widened.

“It’s one thing to have a problem with something. It’s another to let it get in the way.” Dean looked to the side as if weighing his words. “We all need to put this behind us. The dog did what he was trained to do. And if we all think about it, though we can’t prove a thing, there is something wrong with that shop. The hidden press. The guy who tried to off Candyman.”

Dean’s hazel eyes met the rest of the team. “Burnett’s going to take some serious heat, but we need to be ready to go back and dig some more.”

Java stepped forward. “Seriously? You think—?”

“Just be ready.” Dean walked off.

Tony forced himself to turn and remove himself from the potential of a fight with Rocket. Tony went in, filled out his AAR, and submitted it. In the showers, he had to remind himself that he had feelings for Timbrel, so his actions were primed to protect her. To defend her. Not good. Team first. Had to be.

She didn’t do anything wrong though.

Didn’t matter. The team would come under a microscope. That could be messy. But again, they hadn’t done anything wrong.

In the steamed-up mirror, he considered the general’s warning to clean up his beard.

Trim. That’s all. Not a full shave. With a groan, he trimmed it up. Wondered what Timbrel would think.

“I don’t do beards.”

The first cut was the hardest. Cleaning it up and making sure the sides were even proved challenging. In the end, he appraised his work. Not bad. She couldn’t object now. Right? Even David Beckham sported a beard now and then.

Toiletries packed up, he returned to his bunk. Stored the gear and headed to the chow hall. He stepped in and a bevy of odors assaulted him. Was that spaghetti or Alfredo? Or both? The scents nearly nauseated.