The hair on Law’s neck rose as his fist tightened around the phone. “You found out something.”
“I don’t have the full intel yet. These days snail mail is safer than the Internet. By the time you’ve done your ten-day training, I’ll have it.”
“Right.” Law punched the END button and lobbed his phone onto the mattress. If Yard knew him, he knew her, too. She wouldn’t have called unless she already had something. He didn’t need to ask how she’d gotten the information. Yardley Summers had connections that would make a CIA spook jealous.
Staring off into space, Law flexed his hands to pump off a little of his anger as a familiar resentment swelled in him. He hated asking for help. Even from Yardley. Had never in his life asked for it, or accepted it. Even now he hadn’t reached out to members of his former unit because instinct or stubbornness—or paranoia—told him not to.
But his life had turned to shit after the explosion in Afghanistan four years earlier. He needed answers, about what had happened to him, and to his military police K-9 partner, Scud.
During his last tour of active military police duty he’d been paired with an Alpha-male Belgian Malinois named Scud who could control crowds, take down a sniper, and locate IEDs all in the same day.
Scud was loyal but he wasn’t always friendly. Most handlers wouldn’t take him on. Yet Law had seen in the tough loner a reflection of himself. They weren’t buddies, yet they became a team, moving and working as one, anticipating the needs of the other in daily life-and-death situations.
Law rubbed hard at one of the scars hidden beneath the bush of beard along his left jaw. The explosion he never saw coming had strafed his body and shredded his left leg, and killed Scud outright. He knew what to counsel himself. It wasn’t my fault. But the thing about that was, if it wasn’t his fault, whose was it?
Pain squeezed Law’s heart but he fought the emotion. If tortured, he would have lied about his feelings for Scud with his final breath. Never again would he allow himself to be that vulnerable.
His guilt over Scud had strengthened during the last year. Before that, he’d been too busy trying to heal and restore what was left of his mangled body. It wasn’t until nine months ago, as he was trying to reclaim his life as a state trooper, that symptoms of PTSD kicked in hard, taking a turn at wrecking his psyche. Was his subconscious, finally, trying to tease out the answers to what had happened that day? Or was he now just a messed-up loser who needed a dog to keep him from freaking out in public?
“Screw it.” He could handle this on his own. Alone.
He stood up. And hit the floor with a thud.
“Shit!” It had been a long time since he’d forgotten to compensate the distribution of his body weight for one leg. The delusion of having two legs must have been the leftover result of his running dream.
He swung out a hand for his prosthesis lying on a nearby chair. It was out of reach. Before he could scoot closer, Samantha moved quickly to pick up the artificial leg with her mouth. She brought it over and placed it gently in his lap without being asked.
“Good dog, Sam—dog.” He felt silly calling her by that long-ass Samantha name.
Law hoisted himself back up on the mattress and reached for the pouch of doggy treats WWP had given him to reward his companion for her work. Half a service dog’s daily food supply was handed out in the form of rewards. He held out a few small nuggets, which she gobbled up. He dug into the bag again, figuring he owed her.
“So here’s the deal. I’m calling you Sam until I turn you back in. You good with that, Sam?”
She gazed up at him with calm adoration and tongue-lolling satisfaction.
Crap. Sam even had a nice smile.
Okay, so the dog was getting to him. She was more than a pampered pet. She was everything the WWP promised: attentive, smart, intuitive, and helpful. The perfect service companion … for someone else. He didn’t deserve this dog’s help or loyalty. He’d lost that right when Scud died. He couldn’t be responsible for another companion’s life. Ever again.
Law turned to inspect his injured limb to make certain his fall hadn’t caused any damage. Some pain, more or less, was always with him. There were better things to think about. For instance, the attractive dog trainer Jori—something. He hadn’t caught her full name.