Trinity: Military War Dog (2 page)

B
ody rigid, ears trained on the sound coming from the dilapidated structure, she waited. Breaths came in staccato pants, the heat of a brutal Afghan summer beating down on her. While the Kevlar vest provided protection, it also created a thermal blanket that amplified the heat. She panted again and strained with resolute focus on the building. This wasn’t her first tour of duty. It wasn’t even her second. She’d completed three tours and outranked the Green Berets huddled behind her on the dusty road. Trinity lowered herself to the ground, waiting.

When she took her next breath, drool plopped onto the gritty sand.

“Easy, girl.” Staff Sergeant Heath “Ghost” Daniels knelt beside his Special Forces-trained military war dog, his M4 aimed at the building where three men had disappeared. This so-called security mission for the sweep team in prep for an HPT convoy had taken a turn toward interesting. So much for intel that said the area was clean.

“Ghost, what’s she got?”

At the sound of team leader Dean “Watterboy” Watters’s voice, Heath assessed his sixty-pound Belgian Malinois again. “Nothing,” he called to the side, noting Trinity’s stance and keen focus.

With the sun at high noon, they would blister out here if they didn’t get this road cleared before the general’s pack came through at thirteen hundred.

Trinity came up off her hindquarters, muscles rippling beneath her dark, silky coat.

Heath’s pulse kicked up a notch as his gaze darted over the nearly monochrome terrain. What had she detected? Sometimes he wished he had the sharp hearing inherent in dogs.

Having taken cover behind a half-blown wall, Heath peered around the peeling plaster and stared down the sights of his weapon. He let the crosshairs of the reticle trace the structure in which the rebels had taken refuge, but he didn’t see anything. No trace of the men who’d scurried away from the sweep team. Men who’d raised the hackles of every member of the team, including Trin.

Snapping and barking, Trinity lunged. For a split second, her paws rose off the ground as she bolted forward. A plume of dust concealed her movement.

In a bound-and-cover movement, Heath and Watterboy hurried after her, making sure they didn’t expose themselves to gunfire or RPGs. As they came up on the house, Heath flattened himself against the sun-heated wall.

A scream hurtled through the now-dusty day.

At the telltale sign of Trinity’s hit, Heath hoofed it around the corner.

Screaming, an Afghan male bent toward the snarling dog who held his arm tight and jerked it back and forth. Five hundred pounds of pressure per square inch guaranteed submission. Trained not to rip the guy to shreds from head to toe, she maintained her lock on the target.

Heath came up on the guy’s right, noting Watterboy on the left. “Down!” he shouted in Pashto. “On your knees.”

More screams, this time mingled with tears as the guy warred with his instinct to fight and the order to kneel. Blood streaming down his arm, he dropped to the ground.

“Out!” Heath gave the release command to his canine partner.

Obediently, Trinity disengaged and trotted to his side as Heath maintained control. “My dog is trained to kill,” he said in the man’s native tongue. “Do not make any sudden moves or she will attack. Do you understand?”

Master Sergeant Tiller nodded his intention to enter the building, and with Sergeant First Class James “Candyman” VanAllen, they led the rest of the team into the structure.

Cradling his arm, the man frantically bobbed his head and whimpered.

Watterboy moved in to search the man while Heath kept watch. Once they cleared the man of dangerous weapons or materials, Heath led Trinity to the shade where he squirted water into her mouth from the CamelBak bite straw. She lapped it up, then turned in a circle.

“Good girl.” He smoothed his hands over her body, assuring himself she hadn’t been injured during the encounter.

As he straightened, the others streamed back out of the house, faces smeared with dirt and sweat—and frustration. No way. “Empty?”

“One hundred percent.”

Their medic hurried, bandaging the rebel’s wound.

Watterboy faced the rebel. “Where’d they go?”

The tearstained face of the rebel rose to the Special Forces unit. He gave a slow nod behind him.

As Heath glanced over his shoulder, his gut knotted.

A new enemy rose, proud and majestic. With his M4 against his chest, Heath gazed up at the forbidding terrain of the Hindu Kush. He’d flown over them dozens of times, each time grateful they didn’t have to comb through the rugged mountain terrain. The sun bathed the rocky slopes in an orange glow.

He removed his sunglasses and swiped his sleeve across his damp face. He wanted to curse, knowing they’d probably lost the Taliban fighters.

“Ghost, what’s Trinity hit on?”

At the sound of Watterboy’s voice, Heath snapped his gaze to his furry partner. Nose to the ground, she sniffed and maneuvered around a pile of rubble. She immediately sat down, ears perked and trained on the wood and cement.

Like a volcanic eruption, wood and cement shot upward and outward. Two men darted across the road.

Trinity streaked after them, her black-and-amber fur rippling beneath her muscular body. He pitied the idiots. Her snapping echoed through the narrow valley that ensconced them.

“Go!” Watterboy shouted.

Heath sprinted after his partner. In fact, she was his superior by one rank. If anything happened to her, it was his head on the platter. But that’s not what had him sprinting in seventy-pound gear across the singed terrain. It was Trinity. His girl. His only girl.

Heath homed in on the sound of her barking that helped them navigate the brutal terrain. Rocks and twigs shifted beneath their thick boots. Trees and shrubs reached over the footpath, as if trying to distract the team with the lure of shade and a slight breeze.

Undeterred, Heath hauled butt up the side of the mountain. As he moved, he glanced up—

There!

Trinity sailed over a crevice and disappeared. A klick up, the path widened. Heath pushed onward, determined to find Trinity. She’d been more loyal and faithful than any friend or girlfriend. She had put her life on the line more times than he could count. He owed it to her to get there and interdict before things went bad.

“Whoa. Hold up,” Watterboy mumbled.

Heath hesitated, one boot higher than the other as he glanced at his friend.

Watterboy’s face glistened beneath the stifling heat. “I don’t like it.”

“I second the motion.” Candyman took a knee, surveying.

For a split second, Heath took in the terrain he’d vaulted up. Like a sharp V, two sides dropped toward the team. An avalanche would bury them alive. The outcroppings were perfect for snipers.

“SOCOM suspects this area is crawling with Taliban,” Tiller announced as he joined them. “Eyes out.”

Which meant the real possibility of an ambush. Or an IED. Or both. But Heath knew one thing—due to their extreme effectiveness, military war dogs were high-priority targets with obscene bounties. He wasn’t letting anyone get a bounty on Trinity.

Barking reverberated through the canyon. A shot rang out, followed by a yelp. Then … silence.

Heath burst into a run. His foot slipped on the rocky incline. The thin air pressed on him. Heavy. He felt heavy. But he wasn’t stopping. Not till he found Trinity.

As he came up over a rise, a pebble-strewn path stretched out and around a crest in the rugged mountains. And two dozen yards away—Trinity. Pacing, her right back leg dragging. She’d broken behavior.

Something was wrong.

Thinking past the drumming of his pulse, he eased closer, his nerves prickling with anticipation of an attack. He darted a glance around without moving his head and advanced. “Trinity, down.”

She turned, her gold eyes boring into him. Started to sit but rose and paced again, this time slower.

“Trin—” That’s when he saw the dark streaks on her hindquarters.
She’s shot!

Instinct shoved him into a crouch, gauging the steep slopes towering over them, knowing the enemy had shot her from some hiding spot. He keyed his mic. “They’ve hit her—wounded her. She’s broken behavior, not responding.”

He inched along the crevice, fixing his gaze on Trinity. Her leg. Hopefully they hadn’t done permanent damage. If he could get an IV in her, she’d have a chance.

A quick check to his six showed him the team, weapons trained as they slunk through the rocky edifice. Fluid, stealthy, the best—pride infused him. Confidence that they’d cover his six enabled him to turn back to his partner. He crouch-ran the last few feet to Trinity. Dropped to his knees.

That’s when he noticed her vest. It lay a dozen feet away. How on earth did that happen? He pushed to his feet and started for it. Trinity moved in front of him, snarling.

He’d seen the damage those teeth could deliver. “Easy, girl. It’s okay.” After rubbing her tall ears, he moved around her.

She lunged. Snapped. And again, snarled.

Heart in his throat, Heath stilled and drew back. Swallowed against his desert-dry mouth. He noticed the foam at the corners of her mouth. From his CamelBak he loosened the bite grip and squirted some liquid refreshment down to her.

Stance rigid, she stood off with him.

Concerned, he stroked her head. “It’s okay, girl. We’ve got it.” Again, he tried to retrieve her vest.

She lunged. Trapped his hand between her jaws. Five hundred pounds of pressure per square inch clamped through his flesh. Shock insulated the pain—at first.
What’re you doing …?

Blood slid down across his thumb. This should hurt. Bad.
Real
bad. Thoughts became reality. White-hot fire tore through his muscles and veins, shoving him to his knees. His pulse pounded in his temples. He growled the command, “Out!”

With a whimper, she released him.

Agony pulsed as he cradled his hand. “Down,” he growled.

“What’s happening?” Tiller shouted as he came up on Heath’s nine.

“Her vest is off,” Heath hissed.

“Think that wound they gave her is messing with her mind?” Watterboy asked as he caught up.

With his uninjured hand on her, Heath held up his other to stem the flow of blood. “Nah …” That wasn’t like her. It took a lot to wig her out.

“Let’s get her vest and clear out. This place is ambush central.” Tiller jogged around them.

A growl rumbled through Trinity’s belly. Her upper lip curled into a snarl—

“No!”

BooOOOom!

Wicked and thick, a concoction of haziness and pain pinned him down. His eyes wouldn’t obey his command to open. He felt heavier than the time he leapt from that bridge and blacked out as a kid. He’d come to as a friend hauled him, unconscious, to the surface. That same feeling, heavy but weightless …

A voice … sweet and soft.

Heath stilled his mind and followed the voice from the void. What … she—it was a woman, right? He hadn’t lost that much touch with reality, had he?—what was she saying?

As if his ears broke the water’s lip, her voice became clear.

“… all anxiety or pain you might be feeling. Finally, I pray you’d be uplifted by His grace and feel yourself enfolded in the peace of His embrace.”

Peace … drifting … away … so quiet.

Wait. No. Trinity! Where was she? His arms resisted the plea to lift. Fire lit down the side of his neck. He moaned.

At least, he thought he moaned. Maybe his voice wasn’t working—

A gasp nearby.

Still, Heath couldn’t move or respond.

“What are you doing here?” Male, older, gruffer. Who …?

“Shh,” she said. “You’ll wake him.”

“This”—warbling in Heath’s head garbled the words—“bring him back.”

“This isn’t about
him
,” she hissed. “And he won’t remember I’m here.”

“What if he does? That’s a problem—”

“He won’t!”

Heath’s hearing closed up, his mind drowned in the words that struggled to find purchase against the pain and emptiness devouring him. He struggled. Tried to focus on her voice. That sweet, soft, angelic voice.

Please … God, don’t let me forget
.

Quiet descended and pushed him back into the depths.