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The sleek, sexy body sailed through the air, effortless in its raw intensity to catapult itself across the sun-heated desert at the fleeing form. Muscles defined and rippling spoke of the relentless training and pace kept to maintain readiness. With a thud that knocked the breath from her intended target, Marvel D002 sank her teeth into the arm of her target. That thousand pounds of pressure locked in place, she landed. Skidded around without breaking her hold and snapped that powerful neck in a jerk that pitched the target down.
Sergeant Crew Gatlin sprinted toward the seventy-five-pound Belgian Malinois, noting Marine Corporal Ehretz, weapon tucked to his shoulder and sights trained on the target, skirting up around the front. They’d been on routine patrol when the unfriendlies started firing on them.
Crew reached Marvel, caught her collar and held firmly—though did not instruct her to release.
“Drop the weapon,” Ehretz demanded of the combatant as Mouse and Taco flanked him, weapons trained on the local fighter who’d tried to take potshots at the team that’d been patrolling the area.
Boots dug in, Crew clipped the lead on as he held onto Marvel’s collar, proud the military working dog had done her job with fervor. The target tried to hit Marvel with a rifle, but the Malinois snapped her head, side to side. Dug her paws against the arm, trying to extract a chunk of flesh as punishment.
The man howled and went to his knees. Adrenaline and pain were likely interfering with his ability to make smart choices, but Crew willed him to let go of the weapon.
Blood slid along her jowls and down that powerful corded neck.
Finally, the rifle clattered to the hardpacked earth.
“Marvel, out!” In tandem with the command, Crew drew Marvel’s collar straight up, a move that encouraged her to release the arm by restricting her airflow, a measure that invariably forced her to unlock her jaws.
The man broke free with a yelp and scrambled away, shielding his arm, and trying to put as much distance between himself and the fur-missile.
Crew drew Marvel away, though she resisted, eager for another chance to eliminate a threat. The girl was as hard-hitting as many of the elite operators they’d worked with.
Crack!
Thwat-thwat-thwat!
Pivoting, Crew was about to release Marvel when he registered the scene before him—the target was now deceased. Taco was cursing up a storm as he held his arm. The local must’ve had another weapon, and rather than die of humiliation in an American holding
cell, he chose death by operator. A request granted by Taco and a short burst from his M4.
With no apparent threat present, Crew deployed the tethered KONG and let Marvel snag it from him. He gave a couple of good tugs to let her know she’d done a good job, then produced her black KONG. When he showed it to her, she immediately released the roped one, and he flicked the rubber chew toy into the air. Effortlessly, she launched upward, her muscular, well-toned body violence in motion, and snagged it from the air. She landed, chomped it twice, then trotted to the side and dropped to the ground where she crossed her forelegs, and squeaked her reward. Crew let her, knowing the team would need to call this in.
Ehretz muttered an oath. “Let’s load up and head out.”
Crew frowned. “You mean, let’s call this in—”
“Hassle, man,” Ehretz grumbled. “I just—”
Gaze locked with the corporal, Crew keyed his mic. “Base, this is Charlie Four on patrol with your recon team alpha. Situation now secure, but we came under fire. One enemy target neutralized. We’ll need clean up. Sending location now.”
“Good copy, Charlie Four,” came the reply through comms.
“What was that?” Ehretz demanded, stalking toward Crew. “I said—”
Marvel swiveled into position, head down, lip curled around the snarl that told the Marine to back off.
Hand up in surrender, Ehretz shifted backward with a nervous grunt. “I said we’d leave it—”
“I’m not letting some Marine grunts derail my career because they don’t want to be hassled with protocol.” Crew felt the same curl to his lip that Marvel still held. No wonder the guy was still a corporal ponying his rank around newbs on their first deployment.
“You need to remember you’re assigned to this team. You follow—”
“Don’t.” Crew flatlined his expression. “Don’t go there, or you’ll be eating your stripes for dinner.”
The ruddy-faced kid faltered. Couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Maybe a hundred pounds dripping wet, trying to engage in a manhood battle with an operator who had ten years, multiple deployments, and more kills than he wanted to admit. No way he was going to let a punk like this tank his career because he was too freakin’ lazy to follow protocol.
“Whatever, man,” Ehretz growled. “Load up. We’re checking out the field two klicks north.”
Two klicks . . . Crew
glanced in that direction. A hill blocked his view. “That area’s off limits.” He started back to the mine-resistant ambush protected vehicle to let Marvel enjoy the A/C.
Ehretz rolled his eyes and stomped back to the MRAP with the others.
“Hey,” Taco said as he hung back. “Don’t let him get under your tac vest. He’s just jealous—dude wanted to be a handler like you. Couldn’t get in.”
Jealousy? Seriously? What was this, middle school?
Minutes later, they were packed like sardines in the MRAP and he sat with his legs V’d and Marvel between them. Her fur radiated the heat of the Afghan summer as she panted heavily. He’d need to water her and make sure she got some A/C time. Maybe do that while Ehretz and the team broke protocol yet again by scouting the off-limits area.
What am I doing here, man?
He’d transitioned to handling a K-9 within Special Forces teams, but he’d been pulled in for yearly qualifications again. To keep Marvel fresh and vary her experience, he’d requested a couple of routine patrol opportunities. But it sucked being stuck with a corporal who had a thirst for power. He missed the teams, his buddies.
Missed Havoc. He grinned, patting Marvel. While the dog at his feet was pure violence and raw power, she’d been bred for that. Malinois were little more than psycho and all business. But Havoc on the other hand . . .
Years ago, rumor told of a stray hanging around the base that had been mated by an MWD. Breedings weren’t allowed outside the strict military confines of the DOD breeding program, but the SEALs handling the sire thought it funny. Made lewd comments. The dam delivered six pups . . . Havoc being one of them.
At least, that was the story. Crew met the thick-chested, goober of a dog when the Malinois was about two years old. Assigned to Bagram, he saw the dog all the time. Even off base. Knew better than to befriend a stray, but the dog wouldn’t leave him alone.
One day, Crew noticed
possible blood and realized the dog had been shot. He’d put his field vet training to work and operated on the eighty-something pound dog. Took care of him. Fattened him up—well, really, just got him less-scrawny. And that dog turned into one of the most beautiful working dogs he’d ever encountered. On medical hold with a torn meniscus, Crew spent his downtime with Havoc. Fed him. Trained him. The dog was lethal-loyal. Military refused to let Crew run him through certifications though. Told him to focus on the dog assigned to him—Marvel. Sexy girl that she was.
Crew smoothed a hand over her sleek skull, and she lifted her jaw straight up, to look at him . . . upside down. “Psycho.”
At the affectionate misnomer, she thudded her tail hard against the steel deck.
The MRAP lumbered offroad and angled down. Through the narrow slats-for-windows, the terrain made itself known. Hard to tell for sure in an armored personnel carrier, but it seemed this was a bowl, a valley. The thought made his gut churn. Not a great position for them since they were apparently on the floor of said valley.
Crew had a bad feeling about this. “Ehretz,” he shouted toward the front where the leader sat right, front. “I need to get Marvel back. She’s overheating.” It was a partial truth. She was hot—most MWDs were in the Afghan heat.
“After this,” Ehretz barked back. “Everyone out.”
This guy was looking to get killed. “This isn’t smart—”
“What’s not smart is disobeying my orders.”
“Despite your ego, Ehretz, I do not answer to you. I’m tasked to this patrol, but I will not do anything that puts my super”—he nodded to Marvel, who was one rank higher than him as rules stipulated—“in danger.”
“Then stay here, you whining pansy.”
Don’t. Don’t do it. Killing a corporal wasn’t a good way to end your career.
Maybe, but it’d feel good.
“Do you need some crayons to find your way back?” Crew regretted saying it as soon as the words escaped his lips. He wouldn’t get in trouble—much—but it wouldn’t help the situation here.
In response, Ehretz cut the engine on the MRAP. Which meant Crew had to bail with Marvel or they’d get baked alive waiting for the team to return. “Your funeral,” Crew muttered. “Marvel outranks everyone here, and you’ll get dereliction of duty for letting a superior die when you could’ve prevented it.”
“If you’re so worried about how your career ends, then I suggest you not be found
guilty.”
I’m going to kill him.
Instead, Crew took a moment to let Marvel get some water, rustled the thick fur along her neck, and sighed. “You can rip out his throat any time you want. Okay, girl?”
Marvel stood, tail wagging her whole back end. If Havoc were here, he’d have gone for the kill.
“Guess you hate him as much as I do.” He caught her ear, gave a firm squeeze, and drew his hand up, rubbing it in the way that nearly drew a groan from her that he took as her agreement. “Knew you were a clever girl.”
They climbed out and he slung his weapon to the front, holding firmly to Marvel’s lead. Climbing out the back, he found the team standing at the edge of a flattened area. Hills rose on three sides, and to his two o’clock a crevasse cut through the hillside, winding hard to the right and disappearing. But between here and there? Flat open ‘kill me’ space.
“Look.” Taco pointed across toward the crevasse. “It’s one of ours.”
Frowning, Crew couldn’t see what the guy referenced. He angled aside and that’s when he saw the tail end of a military Jeep. What in the world was it doing out here?
Mouse drew out his nocs and peered across the distance. Cursed. “I think there’s someone in it—I see blood. I think.”
What? How did that . . .? There weren’t any reports of missing vehicles or men.
Guess they could’ve come out here after Crew and the Marines left base. But wouldn’t they see tire tracks out to the truck?
Something wasn’t right.
Only then did Crew realize Marvel was shifting, sniffing—in that deep-throated way of hers when she was really hauling in scents—and turning. Had she caught wind of something?
She made several circles, then lowered her back end and piled a deposit in the dirt.
Right behind—
“Okay, fan out,” Ehretz said, sounding tough and official. “Eyes out. Gatlin, you’re with me.”
“Neg—”
Ehretz stepped back. Right into the smelly brown excrement. Cursed. Slipped.
Boom!
Boom!
Even as he secured Marvel and struggled to understand where the threat was coming from, Crew felt the soft thud of dirt and rocks hitting his shoulders. Dust and screams filled the air. That hadn’t been weapons’ fire but explosions. Was someone launching RPGs at them? Grenades?
Weapon up, Crew scanned the chaos. “Marvel, heel. On me.” He patted his leg. Saw a plume of dust that slowly settled into a mound of dirt. Then his mind began to assemble what he was really seeing. It wasn’t rocks . . . it was chunks . . . arms . . . fingers.
Son of a . . .
Mouse. Mouse was gone.
Howling came from Crew’s four—Taco was there, his face shredded and bloodied.
Crew took a step forward, and somehow, amid the tight panting of Marvel, the shouts of Ehretz demanding to know where the shooting was coming from—panicked idiot—heard the all-too-quiet click of a pressure plate. Freezing in place, he cursed.
Marvel started forward.
“Stay!” he shouted, which he knew better than to do. Emotion travels down-lead. “Marvel, stay. Down.” He lifted his gaze to the others. “Nobody move—it’s a minefield.” His thoughts were catching up, racing his heartbeat. “This whole thing is a trap.”
A private lay curled on the ground, holding his arm that was now handless. To Crew’s five, Ehretz was whimpering as he held his gut where a large piece of shrapnel stuck out. His face was peppered with small holes. Likely nails. It was a crude, cruel method that was all the same effective.
“Base, this is Charlie Four. We are in need of medevac and ordnance retrieval. Team is trapped in a minefield and have one fatality and multiple injuries.” Crew swallowed and forced himself to think quick around the adrenaline. “I’m on a pressure plate.” He flicked his gaze to Marvel. Had she taken any shrapnel? She’d been close to Ehretz. Even as he wondered, he saw the blood glistening on her coat. And neck. No! “MWD has taken shrapnel as well.”
“Charlie Four, this is Command. Situation understood. We are deploying QRF and medevac. ETA in twenty mikes.”
Twenty minutes? Were
they freakin’ kidding?
He eyed his girl. Recalled how she’d been acting weird, going in circles. She’d smelled the ordnance. All around her. No doubt it’d confused her.
She slumped onto the ground, her pink tongue dangling far out as she panted rapidly, making him worry that she had more wounds he couldn’t see. Internal wounds.
“Guess you don’t have to worry about your career ending . . .” Ehretz’s lame attempt at a joke was sick.
His life ending wasn’t in his plans for the day. “Not what I meant.”
Ehretz shifted. “I’m . . . I think I’m clear. Going to get the medkit.”
“No!”
The corporal took a step.
Boom!
The blast was close—too close.
Crew had a second to brace. To tell himself to keep his leg in place. Even as the concussive wave punched his chest. He felt himself falling back. Angled. Contorted to keep his boot on the plate.
He landed hard. Teeth jarring. Dirt and dust rained down as he waited for the blast that would take him off the map. It didn’t come—instead, he felt blood trickling down his temple and neck. His gaze landed on—Oh no. The gruesome sight made his gut roil. Half a leg and boot lay nearby, severed from a body.
Who lost their leg?
Only then did he feel it—the heaviness that said something was terribly wrong. That the boot was his boot. He was now a solid ten feet from the pressure plate—the one that had blown. Separated him from his boot and the lower half of his leg. Holy . . .! Dropping back into the dirt, hearing hollowing out, Crew knew the countdown to Death’s arrival had begun. Scrambling, he snatched the Combat Application Tourniquet from his tac vest. Struggled to slip it below his knee where blood gushed. Fingers slick, he pulled the band over and secured it. Twisted the rod—it slipped, but he caught it. Groaned and tightened it.
He growled, gritting his teeth. Feeling his gut heave.
Tighter. Tighter. Tighter.
It hurt like a mother, but if he didn’t cut off the blood flow . . .
His vision blurred.
Strength fled his body.
Garbled noises reached him. He opened eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed. Saw a haze . . . blurs . . . a small black form blurring toward him. He cringed. When a slobbery tongue swiped his face, Crew tried to laugh. “Hav . . .” He felt violent, jerking tugs . . . backward . . . back . . . and surrendered himself to Death’s embrace.
Smelly, tender liver extended to the snarling dog, Crew shifted on his legs, feeling the pinch of his prosthesis as he crouched before the wiry-haired mutt. Though mostly gray and appropriately named “Phantom” by the shelter staff, the dog stared at Crew as if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Of Crew’s life.
But Crew had met Death. And told him where he could stuff it. So he wasn’t afraid of a smelly, ill-tempered mutt. “We have a lot in common,” Crew said, tossing one of the treats halfway between him and the newest pick-up. “So you can trust me.”
Phantom fastened his brown eyes on Crew and inched forward. Lowered his head to the treat, eyes doing a quick once-over of the smelly morsel. He hesitated, then swooped the thing up with his speckled tongue and swirled back to the corner, where he planted his rear and refused to look at the human invading his space.
Crew straightened to his full height. Maybe this one wasn’t right. Slightly food motivated, and while he wasn’t showing fear of humans, he really wasn’t fond of them either. I can relate. “Bet you put your life in someone’s hands and they let you down, huh?”
Phantom lowered himself to the concrete and rested his snout on his outstretched paws.
Bored, huh? Crew pocketed the smelly treats that normally worked and pulled out a bright green tennis ball.
The mutt lifted his snout. Did a full-on head tilt.
“That’s more like it.” Crew bounced the ball so hard it smacked the concrete loudly.
Ears perked, Phantom came to attention.
“Now that I have your interest . . .” Crew bounced the ball to the mutt, who snagged it before it could hit twice and vanished out the small door to his exterior run.
Crew smirked. “Now we’re talking.”
Within an hour, Crew had Phantom doing a recall and release with the ball. He had some bad manners—snatched the ball as Crew reached for it a couple of times—but that was on Crew. By reaching for the ball, he placed a high value on it. Which Phantom challenged him for.
“What do you think?” asked Kera, the shelter manager, as she found them in the open yard.
Crew nodded. “Has potential, but I’m not convinced he’s working-dog material.” He ordered Phantom to sit, and the dog complied, so he rewarded him with a treat. Then down. And he did. But heel . . . yeah, the mutt wasn’t quite so eager.
“At least he knows some basic obedience now,” Kera said. “That’ll help him get adopted.”
Yeah, but sure doesn’t help me. “Think this guy will go fast.” Ghost expected him to procure dogs, and while they did purchase from breeders both stateside and abroad, Crew still came to the shelter once a week. Looking for the dog.
He returned Phantom to the kennel. “Good luck, buddy. Don’t blame you for taking
the couch life over operations. That’s more we have in common.” He rustled the dog’s head, trying not to think how much this boy reminded him of another . . . “Find a hot girl and settle down, ’kay?”
Since being separated from his leg and the military, Crew had gotten back in shape, more for his mental state than for any other reason. He sure wasn’t one of those guys who fought to get back out there so they could blow off the other leg. He liked being attached to his limbs. Had no idea what to do with his life, but then Ghost offered him a job procuring dogs for the ranch. Kept him busy, his mind off the pile of dung life had handed him.
He headed up the hall to the front lobby and aimed for the door. Considered heading over to the private shelter. His heart just wasn’t in it, though.
“Want to get some dinner tonight?” Kera’s voice held nerves and a coy flirtation.
He chuckled. “Same answer as always.” She was cute, but she was also at least ten years his junior. He might feel desperate for company these days, but he wasn’t a cradle robber. “Have a good one.”
She shrugged and winked. “Can’t blame a girl for trying. Maybe someday you’ll say yes.”
Unlikely. “Next time,” he said, lifting a hand as he pushed open the door.
Smacked by the unseasonably humid weather this year, he sucked in a breath. It so easily pitched him back to that minefield. The grit and smoke. The acrid taste of explosives. The smell of his own blood pouring into the dirt. In his Raptor, he cranked the engine, A/C, and radio. Sat there, gripping the wheel tight. Gritting his teeth. Remembering Marvel’s pained whimper . . . that arrogant Ehretz getting nearly everyone killed. The cocky, son of a gun might not have killed the entire team but had ruined every life to a one.
Crew pounded his fist on the console. Now, he couldn’t find the right dog for the ranch. He huffed. Knew sitting in the heat of his own putrid mood would only make things worse, so he buckled up and headed down the road. Not ready to face Ghost with his failure again, he whipped into his favorite coffee joint. Parked, bypassing the drive-thru. His sister had been a barista and always ranted about the drive-thru and the toll it took on the store. ...
