Beowulf: Explosives Detection Dog (9 page)

C
owards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once
.“

Resting her head against the portal-style window, Timbrel ran her thumb along Beowulf’s head as he stretched over the two seats beside her. She was a coward. Running and running. Even Candyman had seen that. Called her on it. He was the valiant Shakespeare had spoken of … she the coward. And how many times had she died inside?

She closed her eyes and let herself relive that moment when Candyman had stepped in, taken her heart hostage, and stolen that kiss. Was it her blind attraction to his well-muscled torso in the light of the evening? The tattoo that bordered on spectacular and inked his entire well-toned pec?

No, though she could appreciate the beauty of his body, she’d seen way too many men who were big on talk and muscles and small on brains and heart.

That was the difference with Candyman. He had heart. Somehow, they’d connected in the months they’d spent together on missions. Djibouti tilted her perception of him. Until then, he’d just been a hairy grunt with a lot of gear and personality.

Since then, Candyman had braved her storms. Met them with undeterred charm. Made her smile, laugh. Saw through her defenses. Made her want to lower them.

And therein lay the problem.

She’d opened up to a man once before. “Biggest mistake of my life.”

Beowulf lifted his head and looked at her as if to say, “I’m the only guy you need.”

She ruffled his head. “Right you are.” She looked out the portal window. “And you won’t let me down, will you?”

With a huff, he stretched across her lap again.

Timbrel dug through her pack and fished out two ibuprofen p.m. tablets. After swallowing them with some water, she leaned the seat back and let herself drift into the numbing blackness of a drug-induced sleep. Mom used to do that.

She readjusted and stretched her neck.

Zero seven hundred came early on most mornings.

But on this one, it had to be dragged from the cover of darkness by the sands of time. At least, that’s how it felt since he hadn’t been able to sleep. Tony pried himself off the bed, headed to the showers, took care of business, then strolled into the mess hall. After filling his tray with runny grits, burned sausage, and RPG-quality biscuits, he folded himself into a chair at a table. Each tick of his watch counting down the seconds felt like years slipping by.

She’s not coming
.

No, no. He’d give her the benefit of the doubt.

She gave you the royal kiss-off
.

That kiss. It wasn’t passionate. It’d taken every ounce of self-control to hold back, to be aware of her tendency toward flight. True, he didn’t back off at the first hint of trouble. It’d been too good. But he’d been gentle. And still she bolted.

He rubbed his beard as soldiers streamed in and out.

A clock-check added a kink to his knotted muscles: 0730.

Grinding his teeth, he shifted on the metal chair.
Don’t do this to me, Timbrel. Give me a chance
. But the whole thing wasn’t about him. It was about her. She was scared. Afraid of feeling. The girl operated in “self-preservation” mode 24/7. Tony balled his fist and brought it to his mouth as he watched female soldiers make their way through the line.

What could he have done differently? Gone a little slower?

The guys here might think he’d been too fast, but they didn’t know he’d spent a full month in Djibouti at her side. And while that might be fast back home—in a world where the biggest worry was the number of “likes” or friends on Facebook one had—in combat, a month measured as a lifetime.

Besides, going slower did nothing but give Timbrel more power. Power to say no. Power to control the not-happening romance.

No, he could’ve weighed anchor in the harbor of her soul and never gotten to shore.

The beard.

Right. She’d used that as an excuse, but he knew better.

Timbrel Hogan was like a frightened doe by a highway. He’d have to trap her to save her.

He shoved to his feet, eyed the clock once more—0800—and stomped out of the chow hall. He crossed the base and headed to her tent. Ducking beneath the cover, he already knew the answer. Just had to see it for himself.

Stripped of bedding, her designated bunk sat empty. He walked over to it, ignoring the others inside, and flipped open her locker. Empty. Tony punched it and cursed.

And that made him mad. He’d cursed more since she showed up a week ago than he had in a year. He just didn’t talk that way, but that woman brought out the worst in him.

“Her flight left at four.”

Shoulders tight, hands balled, Tony acknowledged the woman’s voice with a curt nod and stomped out of the tent.

He’d wanted to be there for her. Wanted to protect her. Make a difference in her life. But she was so bullheaded and bent on protecting herself that she isolated herself. Cut herself off from anyone and everyone who got too close.

“Hey, Candyman!”

Teeth grinding, he shook his head. “Not in the mood, Java.”

“I think you’ll be in the mood for this.” Java jogged up to him and thrust a paper in front of him. “What do you think?”

Repulsion that nearly made him want to vomit hit him as he stared at the photo. It was taken the night Nina Laurens had come. She manipulated him and Java into posing with her. She practically pressed herself against him. He hadn’t had his skin crawl like that since sixth grade when he fell into a pit with a dead deer oozing maggots.

He slapped it back at Java. “Told you—”

“So you recognize her.”

Tony grabbed Java’s shirt by the collar. “Java—”

“Hold up, Sergeant.” He shoved away. “Look. Just look at this.”

Whoa! Get a grip
. He patted his teammate. “Sorry.”

“No worries. I know you’re probably ticked she bailed.” Java tapped the paper. “Taken ten years ago at the Oscars.”

He pushed his gaze to the photo. In a leopard-print dress, Nina Laurens stood in the limelight, a leg curved out and exposing a lot of flesh and cleavage. Blond hair short and spiky, she exuded sensuality.

She’s old enough to be my mother!
Tony grunted. “So?” He held it out.

“No, no.” Java shifted and stood beside him. “Look next to her.”

Tony eyeballed the picture again. “What? I don’t …” His words faded as he took in the brunette beside Nina. And he fell into the time warp that encapsulated the images before his eyes. “No way.” His gaze dropped to the words at the bottom.

Nina Laurens and Audrey Laurens
.

His mouth went dry as he took in the familiar face, a sultry, gorgeous one surrounded by curls from her pinned-up hair and sparkling diamond earrings and necklace. Timbrel—Audrey?—was drop-dead gorgeous. Curves … He’d never seen this side of her. He was a guy. A soldier in the desert. He could appreciate those curves. Though she didn’t flash flesh the way Nina did, Timbrel Hogan exuded a sensuality all her own.

She gave the camera a look that could kill. He saw it, but did the paparazzi? Did they realize she was ticked off, even on the red carpet?

“It’s her—Hogan.” Java grinned like a schoolboy. Then peered at the page again. “I mean, it looks like her. A lot like her. Just as I said in the MRAP. She’s the image of Nina Laurens. The article said she’s her daughter.” He slapped Tony’s chest. “Dude, you have the hots for a Hollywood socialite!”

“Bug off, man.” Tony pushed past him, clenching the page in his hand.

“Hey, can I have that back?”

Ignoring him, Tony stormed toward the SOCOM offices. He stepped in and removed his ball cap, nodded to the admin. “Hey, is—?”

Burnett’s door opened and he emerged.

“Sir.” Tony resisted the urge to toss the paper at the general’s chest. Getting busted a rank or two wasn’t worth the anger spiraling through him.

“VanAllen.” Burnett considered him. “You look like you need to talk.”

He took a heavy breath. “Yessir.”

Already backing into his office, Burnett waved him in.

Inside, Tony eased the door shut. “Sir,” he said as he turned and handed off the paper. “Did you know?”

One quick look. “Yep.”

Tony felt so … stupid. “Why weren’t we told?”

“Her relation to the actress is of no consequence to what we’re doing here, that’s why.”

“No, sir. I guess not, but …”

“Look, you got yourself tangled up romantically with her. She bailed. Now you find out you didn’t even know her. Get over it, and her!”

Tony studied the carpet, his teeth grinding.

“Timbrel Hogan is a darn good handler, but that’s about where her ‘plusses’ stop.”

“No, sir.” Tony felt his pulse hammer against his ribs. “I have to disagree with that statement. She’s tough, intelligent, funny …”

“If you want the trouble of pursuing her, do it later. Here, you’re mine. And I need your mind here. Am I clear?”

Stiff, Tony hesitated. “Sir, has something happened?”

“Yes.” Burnett stilled then shook his head. “No. Nothing I can mention. Not yet. Just …” Lips tight, he shook a meaty finger at him. “In fact, you know what—I’m sending the team home for some R & R.”

Tony straightened. “Sir? That’s two weeks early. I thought you just said you needed my head in the game.”

“Consider it a gift of my generosity.”

“I would, sir.” Something wasn’t right. “If you had any.”

Burnett laughed. “Smart man.”

Going home early wasn’t a gift. It was a time to prepare, to get themselves together. But for what? “Sir, what’s going on?”

“Don’t ask.”

“We’ll need time to prep.”

“Don’t tell me what you’ll need. I know what you need!” Burnett’s snarl slithered through the room. “And if I say you’re going home, you’re going home. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“What are we going to owe you later? Our lives?”

“I already got that—you signed on the dotted line years ago, VanAllen.” He grunted. “Don’t think about it. Just go home, get some downtime, but be ready for that call, Sergeant.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

“And Sergeant?”

Tony hesitated by the door, looking over his shoulder to the general.

“I’m not sure Timbrel Hogan is a fire you want to play with.”

Straightening, he eyed the older man. Gray hair softened the face that lined blue eyes with age. “Is that an order, sir?”

Burnett gave him a “you’re an idiot” smile. “Call it a suggestion. For your own good.” The smile vanished. “Dismissed.”

Pounding the dirt beneath his feet, Tony made his way back to his bunk. He could take a lot of heat, he could handle anger, but telling him what to do and with whom he could do it—that ticked him off. Especially since it related to Timbrel.

From his locker, he grabbed his duffel. Slammed his gear inside it.

“What’s up?” Java asked from his bunk two over.

“Heading home.”

“Says who? And why’d you get to go early?”

“Burnett.” Tony tossed in his Bible, stared at it, then lifted it back out. “We’re all going back.” He peeked at the inscription from Exodus 14 his mother had added:
“The L
ORD
will fight for you; you need only to be still.”

That was just it. Sitting still defied his nature. Action. Taking the proverbial bull by the horns, that was his way.

“What’d he say?” Dean asked as he sat across from him on Rocket’s bunk.

Fanning the super-thin pages, Tony looked up through his brow. “Nothing.” He tucked the Bible in his bag and the rest of what little he’d brought over. “Said we’re heading home and we’re to rest up. But I could tell something was bothering him. He’s working on something.”

“Bet it’s those WMDs.” Dean rubbed his knuckles. “I have a feeling this will get ugly before it ends.”

Seven Years Ago

Screams echoed through the village. The shout of injustice meeting the sword of Allah. The shriek of evil dying. The howl of penitence.

The voices fell on the deaf ears of a colonel who sought to right the way of his people, to restore to Allah the people who had once served him wholly. War and violence were the way of his people. Especially when injustice propagated itself in the hearts and minds of Allah’s children.