Trinity: Military War Dog (6 page)

That worked in Darci’s favor. She needed to report in, gather her thoughts, and figure out a contingency plan. That odd striation in the rock plucked at her conscience again. If she could get to the path—
it has to be a path
!—she was certain she’d find a gold mine. She needed to collect samples while she collected information. But Toque was on her back 24/7.

Which meant when they returned, she’d have to ditch the shadow.

A Breed Apart Ranch
Texas Hill Country

Swaying as if urging Heath onward, the branches shook their limbs at him, void of leaves and weight in the cold February morning. Heath hit the trail that snaked through the trees. The path coiled up and around A Breed Apart’s beautiful, expansive setting. Jogging cleared his mind and strengthened his body—and Trinity’s. She kept pace without a hint of complaint.

A month. They’d been at this a month, running and training, pushing as he pressed toward the goal of shedding his weakness, headaches, blackouts. The Army had severed his career with the Green Berets because headaches and subsequent blackouts, which occurred when the exercise became too strenuous, left him unreliable. A danger. To himself. To his buddies.

But thirty-two days of fresh outdoor exercise and stress-free workouts in the hills had brought about a significant difference in his stamina and nudged his body toward health. His mind toward all he had to be thankful for these days.

With each foot he planted, Heath felt closer to victory, to “normal.”

As he ran the trail, going higher and longer each time, he couldn’t escape the irony. First, he and Trinity had been paired up, put through the dog-handler program at Lackland Air Force Base. Nearly five months of training spent there in San Antonio with brutal, suffocating heat, then further training for Special Operations Command. All so they were there that day to save Jibril, who came home—alive. Started A Breed Apart, which gave Heath hope that he hadn’t reached the end of his usefulness.

Who was saving whom?

Because of his PTSD and TBI diagnoses, he wouldn’t be cleared to return to his Special Forces unit, but maybe he and Trinity could provide some benefit if the chaplaincy fell through. That was his first goal—make chaplain so they’d send him back to the action. To the adrenaline. Serve with the guys. Be one of them again.

At the summit, Heath stood on a ledge that protruded from the cliff, noting the throb at the base of his skull. In recent days, the effects were much reduced.

Lowering himself to the rocky lip brought Trinity to his side. He wrapped his arm around her, the sun glistening across her tan hues, making the amber color richer. Around her broad chest, shoulders, and hindquarters, it looked as if an artist had shaded her coat with charcoal. But what made him fall in love with the Belgian Malinois was her almost completely black mask. At times, when the sun set just right on her coat, it almost seemed as if her black mask were the burned sections, indicative of the fire brimming beneath. And man, was there ever fire in this dog’s belly that streamed out through her amber eyes.

“Hey, beautiful,” he mumbled as her keen gaze locked on the wilderness. Legs dangling over the ledge, Heath tugged the bite valve from the CamelBak and took three long drags from it. As the cool water swirled around his mouth, he aimed the valve at Trinity and squirted her.

Her head snapped around, and she lap-licked at the water. Sated, she shook out her fur.

“Hey.” He shielded himself as water sprayed him. “Payback, huh?”

She nudged the paper sticking out of his waistband.

“Can’t ignore the inevitable, huh?” Heath plucked the white envelope and stared at it. The U.S. Army logo stamped in the left-hand corner. Inside, words that formed his future. They had to let him in. It made sense, having been a Green Beret, to get assigned to SOCOM as a chaplain. It was his dream. His yearning.

What if they rejected him? He should’ve had his new stats sent to them. That would have given him his clear shot. They didn’t know, though, how much better he was doing. How improved he was.

Trinity sniffed the envelope.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled as he shoved his finger between the flap and the envelope, ripping it open. The wind tapped against the paper, crinkling it in his hand. Heart in his throat, Heath scanned the words, his courage slipping, pebble by pebble like the dirt on the ledge.

“We regret to inform you …” Lips moving with no sound, Heath shook his head. “Augh!” He balled up the letter. What? Even God was rejecting him? Telling him he wasn’t even good enough for the chaplaincy program?

How could that be? He grew up Baptist. Knew scripture—he’d won every Bible drill in youth group! Faithful and Christian. How could he get denied?

Just like everything else. Shut off. Cut off. Closed off.

He punched to his feet, paced. What type of person got rejected from the chaplaincy? With a growl, he kicked the dirt off the ledge. Trinity stared at him, ears perked. He ran a hand over his face and the back of his neck. “Unbelievable!”

A few minutes later he returned to Trinity’s side and they sat in quiet solitude. It brought back so many memories of doing the same—in combat. Sitting for hours on end, watching a settlement. Waiting for a target. Climbing into heavy air as they tracked down Taliban rebels in the brutal hills and mountains, where the fighters had the advantage over the team but not over Trinity, who’d seized many a bad guy.

Expelling a long breath, Heath stared out over the land. Those days were long gone but maybe not as much as he’d feared. The chaplaincy …

But isn’t it hard to preach what you don’t believe?

Heath shook off the thought. “Why are You doing this to me, God? You keep closing doors….”

A sparkle snagged Trinity’s attention. She craned her neck forward, watching the sun glint off a windshield. Digging his fingers into her coat, Heath watched Jibril’s SUV lumber up the drive to the house. He’d worked with the guy for less than a year, but even then, Heath figured out Jibril was made of steel inside. Now, with this ranch, Heath knew he’d been right. Now that he didn’t have the chaplaincy, this ranch, these gigs, were his only chance to feel like he had a purpose.

Heath patted Trinity’s side. “C’mon, girl. Let’s see how he’s doing.” The jog down was no less treacherous, but it was less arduous. They cleared the trees and made their way to the fenced-off arena.

Jibril stood at the gate waiting. “Morning!”

Panting and mouth dry, Heath nodded as he let Trinity inside. “You’re here early.”

Trinity trotted to a small trough, where he lifted a hose and provided the water. She lapped as he sipped from his bite valve.

“You must like the ranch,” Jibril said. “You’ve been here every day for the last four weeks.”

Heath eyed his friend.

Jibril shrugged. “The security logs show you accessed the gate every morning at the same time—except on Sundays, when you come earlier.”

Retrieving Trinity’s ball, Heath tried not to read into Jibril’s happiness—or nosiness. What was the guy doing tracking his movements? His buddy was a dichotomy at best. On the phone or through e-mail, you’d never guess he’d grown up in a home with an Iranian father. Or that his first language was Farsi. And you’d never pick him out of a lineup as a terrorist with those green eyes and light brown hair, unlike his sister who had most of their father’s features with black hair, brown eyes, and an exotic look. Heath had to admit she was a beauty.

The anger over the rejection needled him. He was stuck here. With them. As a nobody. He whipped the ball down the arena.

“Are you well?”

Trinity bolted, her body streamlined as she tore up the ground getting to it.

Heath jerked a glance toward Jibril. “No. Not really. They refused me for the chaplaincy. Said my last eval rated too low.” Tail wagging, pleasure squinting her amber eyes, Trinity trotted back to him. “Trinity, out.”

After a few more chomps on the ball, her teeth squeaking over the rubberized toy, she deposited it at his feet.

“Good girl,” he said, rubbing her ear. He shifted in front of her and held out a hand to her. “Trinity, stay.” He backed up several paces, then shifted and flung the ball down the grassy stretch. “Trinity, seek.”

Again, she launched after it, her gait firm and purposeful.

Heath let her get about halfway, then called, “Trinity, down.”

She went down, her nails clicking on the pebbles as she flattened against the ground. It seemed her body trembled with the broken anticipation of retrieving her toy. But her attention never wavered from her target that lay so close yet out of reach.

“Good girl.” He waited and let a few seconds fall off the clock. “Trinity, seek.”

She lunged into the air and closed the distance, seizing her toy.

“Trinity, heel!”

At his side within seconds, she kept the ball.

“She’s magnificent,” Jibril said.

Heath ate up the praise. He loved his dog and knew she was an impressive animal. She made him proud.

“Will you take her through the course?”

“Yep. You wanna put the bite suit on?”

Jibril’s eyes widened. He swallowed. “Uh, sure.” A fake smile. “She won’t hurt me, will she?”

“You just said she’s magnificent.”

Arm held out, Jibril rotated it. “So is my arm! I’d like to keep this limb.”

Heath’s intestines cinched.
Smooth move, ex-lax
. “Aw, man. I’m sorry.” The guy already lost his leg and Heath wanted to put him in a bite suit so Trinity could attack him? “I didn’t—”

“No,” Jibril said with a stern expression, gaze darkening. “We’re friends. Don’t do this. I’m very grateful for my life.” The light returned to his eyes. “I just make it with one skin-and-bone leg and one microprocessor-and-noble-anthracite leg.”

“Microprocessor?” Okay, it sounded space-age just saying it. Something like the movie
I, Robot
.

“It senses my full body movement and compensates.”

“No kidding?”

“Nope.” Jibril crossed the yard and retrieved the padded bite suit that made him look like a trimmed-down Michelin Man. “Just remember—”

“Ya know, this may not be a good idea, you getting in that suit. You’ll have to run, and she’ll chase you.”

Jibril laughed. “I know how to run.” He stepped into the thick suit.

Something seemed inherently wrong with this. Heath had been trained to protect guys like Jibril, who might think they knew what they were doing but really had no idea what they were getting into. “Okay, listen, just hold your arm out—she’s trained to go for the part that’s sticking out the farthest. We won’t have her chase you.”

“Are we doing this or not?”

“Trinity, heel.” Heath waited as she sat beside him. Eyebrows bobbing as she peeked at Heath, then back to Jibril, she seemed to ask, “Now? Can I? He’s getting too far away … you’d better hurry or he’ll get away.”

Anticipation rippled through her coat as she awaited the command.

Jibril held out his arm and nodded to Heath.

“Trinity, seek!”

With a bark, she burst into action, straight for the would-be attacker. Sailed through the air with a grace and elegance that belied her purpose.

Her jaws clamped on the suited arm.

Jibril grunted but pulled away, making sure she had a good bite. He turned a circle, Trinity tugging and growling. Whipping her head side to side.

Heath jogged over to them. “Trinity, out!”

After another test bite, she released and unhooked her teeth from the material and returned to her handler.

“Good girl, Trinity. Good girl. Heel.” On the other side, he rewarded her by tossing her ball. She sprinted after it, tackling the thing, then chomped it before returning.

Jibril laughed as he shed the extra heat. “She’s amazing. You both are. I’ve always admired how well you work together.”

Heath grinned, an arm hooked over a training window. “She’s my girl.”

After Jibril returned the suit to a hook, he joined Heath, all seriousness and business. “I was contacted about you and Trinity.”

Stilled by the news, Heath waited. More bad news? Did someone else say he wasn’t good enough?

“The PAO would like you to go over and speak to the troops. Show them what Trinity can do. Tell them your story.”

Public Affairs Office. Great. They wanted his story—a sob story. “I don’t know …” He’d hated the people who came over acting like they knew all about military life, knew what it was like to be soldiers in combat. In some of them, he saw the judgment. The thinly veiled belief that he was a killer. In most, he saw fear mixed with awe.

“They know you, Heath. You’ve been there, done that. You got hurt but came back stronger.”

“Stronger?” Heath snorted, hands planted on his belt, gaze on the field, on the emptiness before him. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s true. They need to see that if something happens, if they lose something—a piece of their heart, mind, or”—Jibril tapped his prosthesis—“body, it’s not over.”

Yeah, you’d have to believe that to dish it out
.

“Will you go?”

It’d all be a sick reminder that he could never be the man he wanted to be. But he couldn’t say that to Jibril.
Especially
not Jibril. Mr. MicroKnee.