Trinity: Military War Dog (18 page)

Farley shot Hogan a nervous look. His face turned red.

Figures. Hogan had attitude that rivaled Cruella de Vil but the looks that went with any homecoming queen. Soldiers would fall all over themselves to talk to her. And Aspen, though reserved, with her white-blond hair and blue eyes, might be mistaken for a new Marilyn Monroe, minus the sex-symbol status. He just couldn’t see Courtland prancing around in a gown, blowing kisses to the camera. Boxing a camera? Definitely.

Heath cleared his throat. That was way more imagery than he needed about Courtland. Or any female.
Except maybe Jia
.

Augh
. He needed someone to smack him upside the head to dislodge the thoughts of the mysterious woman.

“Ready?” Farley climbed into the Humvee, and Heath claimed the seat behind him. “There’s a few teams training nearby.” He looked at Hogan. “Thought y’all might like to check them out.”

“Who’s training?” Zipping his jacket against the cold winds, Jibril asked from the front seat.

“We’ve got a regular menagerie training.” Randy glanced back. “There are a half-dozen dogs out there.” He grinned at Trinity, who sat on the seat beside Heath. “Oh, and SOCOM sent some guys in here late last night, so I think you might see them. But they don’t talk to us grunts. They keep to their own.”

I used to be part of that “own.”

Jibril turned to Heath, his green eyes boring into him. Heath didn’t want to talk about it. He shoved his attention out the window and stroked Trinity’s fur. SOCOM. Special Operations Command. The source of his discharge. Trinity’s classification as “excess.”

They headed off base, and the ride was pretty typical as they passed embassies and schools, homes, shops, and just about everything else, making their way out of the city. Soon the Humvee lumbered over a rise, then the front end dipped and provided a perfect view of the valley below. More of the same, flat terrain for another half hour before they reached Forward Operating Base Robertson, where they’d separated from General Burnett two nights ago.

Heath sighed as they were unloaded at a gate where MPs waited. Two dogs made their circuit around the vehicle, then the MPs waved the vehicle past the checkpoint. Inside, they drove a short distance and exited the established perimeter of the FOB into a cordoned-off area with a dual-rutted path before coming to a stop at a small camo canopy.

Heath climbed out with Trinity and surveyed the land. Familiar, yet not. The same, yet different. Natural and unnatural. Watching the men in training maneuvers, the experience not a part of his life for the last eighteen months. All the same, he could remember it, taste it like the dust in the air.

On her lead, Trinity tugged against the restraint. She wanted to play. Catch the bad guys. So did he. They had a little of the action yesterday, and she seemed still a part of that game. To have purpose and meaning. To matter. At least Trinity did.

What hurt more, bothered him worse, was that he recognized the men leading the training exercise. Watters. He’d seen the fierce warrior heading out at Bagram. What were the chances he’d end up here, too? Watterboy shouted orders to the soldiers. The Green Beret had loved his moniker, despite it sounding trite and demeaning.

“Nah,” Watterboy had said. “It’s a role of support, encouragement, refreshment. Can’t have a better mantra.”

The guy always did have a unique way of seeing things. Like the way he saw the man jogging at his side—James VanAllen, aka Candyman. A guy with a long line of military ancestors, including some elusive connection to a Revolutionary War general named “Mad” Anthony Wayne. Candyman insisted Mad Anthony was misunderstood—he wasn’t crazy in the head. He was crazy in the heart—for his country.

“Just like me,” Candyman had said, grinning within his wiry brown beard and olive skin.

That’s the reason he donated all the candy and goodies from his care packages to hand out to the Afghan children while on patrol. One candy bar went a mile in public relations. To Candyman, he was buying the hearts of the children one chocolate at a time. Behind those Oakleys rested piercing eyes that had melted far too many feminine hearts.

A greedy, icy wind swirled around them, winter clinging on for one last hurrah. Hands slick, Heath stood at the edge of the training field marked with rocks and sand-filled barrels. Anything to demarcate the perimeter. Other handlers worked with their furry partners, clearing buildings, detecting explosive materials, and taking down one heavily padded “bad guy.”

Man. It’d been … forever since he’d hung out with these guys. It’d also been all too near since they stood over him at the hospital after the ambush. Beside him, he could feel the questioning, waiting gazes of Jibril, Aspen, and Hogan. Let them wait. He wasn’t going out there till the acid in his stomach turned from a puddle of anxiety to a solid mass of courage.

Then again, at this rate, that’d be the day after never.

Trinity nosed his hand.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He rubbed her ears. “Don’t get pushy.” But his girl always knew best. The scars on his hand reminded him to listen to her.

Bolstered by her anxiousness to get to work, he stalked onto the field. Steps crunched behind him, assuring him that the other A Breed Apart team members had his back. He was grateful they hadn’t pressed him, urged him onward. Especially Hogan. Her emotional magazine was loaded with aggression and very little patience to temper that fight-now instinct.

As the four of them crossed the field with Trinity trotting ahead, sniffing, and tail wagging, Heath noted Watterboy hesitate as he spotted them.

With a laugh that carried the fifty feet, Watterboy clapped his hands. “Knew they couldn’t keep you away for long, Ghost.” When they met, Watters gave him a one-armed hug, back-pat greeting. “Sorry I couldn’t stop and talk at Bagram.”

Heath shook his head. “Man’s got work to do.”

A half-dozen feet away, attention focused on the grunts, Candyman spun. “Ghost?” He locked gazes with him. “Speak of the devil …” Two long strides carried him close enough for a strong-armed hug.

Heath’s chest squeezed at the welcome. “How’s it going?”

The two men lowered their hands for Trinity’s assessment. Her nose twitched, then she turned and scoped out the action on the field.

Both men eyed the others with Heath. “Who’s your posse?” Candyman asked.

“Oh, sorry.” He’d so expected a scowl-faced greeting, their acceptance rattled his cage. Heath turned to A Breed Apart’s owner. “This is Jibril Khouri—”

“Yeah, sure.” Watterboy shook Jibril’s hand. “I remember working an op with you three years back. Helmand Province?”

“Kandahar.” Jibril smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Never forget a face.” Watters held out his hand to Aspen. “Dean Watters.”

“Aspen Courtland, and this is Timbrel Hogan.” She freed her hand and motioned to Hogan. Was the heat getting to Courtland, or was she blushing?

“A pleasure, ma’am.” Watterboy smiled down at her.

“What’s the holdup?” Someone shouted as they drew closer.

Trinity lunged into a protective position, snarling.

“Trinity, out.” Heath eyed the black-haired guy who wore the same patch Watterboy and Candyman sported.

Watterboy gripped the man’s shoulder. “Rocket, meet one of our own—Heath Daniels.”

“One of our own?” The guy appraised him, distrust stiffening his posture.

Candyman elbowed him. “Dude—it’s Heath Daniels. You know,
Ghost.”

Rocket’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

Grinning, Candyman nodded. “We talk about you and that mission all the time.”

“Mission?”

“The one that ‘bout took us all out.”

Rocket offered a hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Warmth not related to the sun soaked Heath. Hearing their approval, knowing they’d talked about him to newbs and that they still called him one of their own …

Man it was good to be back.

“So, what brings you to this godforsaken desert?” Candyman asked.

Truth or dare. He knew this time was coming, so on the plane over, he’d practiced the most casual answer he could muster. “Brass thought you grunts could use a motivational speech.”

Rocket shouldered between Heath and Candyman, who held out a hand to Hogan. “Thanks for coming all this way to inspire us, Miss …”

Hogan’s expression remained impassive. She gave no response.

Rocket slapped Candyman. “Knucklehead. Ghost’s the speaker.”

“I know.”

A frown tugged at Hogan’s lips. “Then why’d you thank me?”

“A face like yours would inspire any man to get home alive.”

Watterboy groaned. “Down boy. Back to the fight.” He shoved Candyman toward the training field and chuckled. “You’ll have to pardon him. He’s wiry—”

Hogan crossed her arms. “More like needs his mouth wired shut.”

Another shout from the field drew Candyman round. He jogged a few steps then spun, walking backward. “How long you here for?”

“A week.”

Candyman nodded. “I’ll try to catch you later.”

“Sounds good.” Heath watched, envious, and remembered the day when he’d been in charge of training, in the thick of combat-training maneuvers. He missed it. Missed being part of something bigger than himself. Missed being strong. A hero. The highs.

What he didn’t miss were the lows. Hard to miss something you experienced every day. And the emptiness that gripped his throat right now at
not
being a part of that team. Of not being one of the guys running down there and barking orders.

“Want to look around?”

Heath grinned. “It’d be nice, but I won’t beg.”

“Never would,” Watters said with a laugh. “C’mon. I’ll take you around.”

Parwan Province, Afghanistan

Fire lit through Darci’s shoulder.

A guttural sound escaped her lips as she stumbled forward. Her fingers scraped the ground, but she pushed on. The little one clinging to her cried out.

“Shh, shh.” Darci ignored the wet warmth sliding down her arm and raced into the anonymity of the mountain. Over one crest—

Rock blasted her face.

She ducked and hurried around a boulder, zigzagged upward. Slipping into a narrow crevice, she used it as a shield to protect them from more shots. But it also forced her to walk sideways, shuffling—slower. If it would just give them a barrier to get high enough that they could lose anyone following …

Maybe the Chinese would think she was a settlement survivor, that she wasn’t worth pursuing.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that
.

In the darkness, she scrambled onward. Slipped. Her foot dropped. Her weight shoved it into a gouged area—stuck! She grunted and jerked her leg, trying to free it.

Shouts below grew louder. Nearer.

“Hurry,” the little one said with a sniffle.

Rock cut into her palms as Darci jerked and yanked to free her foot. Still no good. She pulled hard—flopped backward.

Out into the open.

Thwat! Thunk!

Shattered rock pelted her cheek, stinging. Darci rolled, arching her back as she went over the little one strapped inside her jacket, and pushed to her feet. She found a trail and used it to gain distance and speed. Couldn’t stay on it much longer or she’d lead them to the camp. Her legs grew leaden. She stumbled but did not stop. Stopping would get them killed.

And to think—she’d thought getting out of the valley would be the hard part. Finding a safe passage with a three- or four-year-old child up through the mountain …

Remind me to never do this again
. Heath would probably take care of that for her. The thought pried a smile out of her weary soul. Not at him calling her on it, but just … him.

Clattering through the darkness, she pressed on. Ten minutes later, she moved off the hard-packed path and climbed upward, over rocky ledges, and around bushes. Anything to conceal their movement and direction.

After heading north for several minutes, she eyed a ledge about four feet straight up. She’d never be able to get up there with the child. But maybe … With their options down to zero, Darci had to try. Kneeling to the side, she unzipped the jacket—and froze. Where was the phone?

Frantic, she scanned the area. No sight of it. Shouts and the bobbing light beam told her she didn’t have time to search for it. But without the phone, how would she get out of here, warn Burnett? Save the team?

The girl’s whimper pulled her sanity back together. The girl tensed, her muscles constricting around Darci.

“What is your name?” Darci asked in Pashto and a soft whisper as she helped her climb out of the warmth and onto the ground.

“Badria.” Moonlight reflected off the girl’s large, dark eyes. She shifted back and glanced down at her clothes. Dark spots splattered her tunic.

Darci peeled back the shoulder of her jacket and inspected her wound. “See? Not bad. Just a small scratch.” Though to this little one, it probably looked like more. But now was not the time to distress her. “Badria, you’ve been so brave. We must climb up there. I’ll help you. Ready?”

The girl shook her head.

“I know you’re scared, but it’s okay. I am, too.” Only as the words left her lips did she realize how very true they were. A deep, heavy fear had settled over her since … well, since when? Since starting this mission? No. It was more recent.