“Goddammit all to hell!”
Harold Tice tossed the Waterford crystal sniffer of Tennessee whiskey at his fireplace, where it shattered into a hundred tiny prisms. Luckily, his wife was away visiting her sister in Bentonville and wouldn’t be home until morning. By then the maid would have cleaned up. Meanwhile, he was going to have to do some cleaning up of his own. For Luke’s sake.
He should have followed his instinct when he’d first learned that Battise was looking into his military records. He’d had all the pieces. Wounded jobless veteran. Angry and antisocial. Suffering PTSD. Easy enough to stage something. People would have done no more than wag their heads and say What a waste. But now Battise had gone and made himself a front-page news hero right in Tice Industries’ backyard.
Worse still, he’d joined up with Jori Garrison.
“What the hell is going on?” Harold looked about to reassure himself that he was, really, alone. The maid might have heard that crash and come running. No one.
He subsided into his favorite wingback chair, but there was no peace of mind to be had tonight from staring at the mounted twelve-point buck he’d killed at age sixteen.
Becker’s phone call a few days earlier had caused him to look into what Jori Garrison was up to. What he’d learned had soothed his concerns. She was now a service dog trainer at Warriors Wolf Pack. That’s where Battise had gone to get a service dog to help him deal with his PTSD. Pure coincidence the two should meet. But nothing to worry about, until now.
Harold looked around for the whiskey he’d poured. Right. Smashed. He sighed, too preoccupied to pour another.
Maybe Jori had convinced Battise to look into her case. But that had nothing to do with Brody’s death. Or had he missed something?
Harold thought about Becker. Becker hadn’t been on his private payroll for four years out of charity. The dickwad had extorted enough money from him. It was time he earned his keep.
A man couldn’t control every eventuality. But he could prepare to avoid disaster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sam didn’t pay any attention to the sights and sounds until she heard Alpha moan. She turned to him. He was suddenly awash in hormones. His heart rate was accelerating. His breath coming in short staccato rhythm. His fear flowed into her, stunning her with its intensity. This was bad.
She realigned her big body in front of Alpha’s, whimpering and shaking as she balanced her paws against his hips and butted his chest with her big head, trying to draw his attention. This was her job, what she was trained for. Pull her Alpha out of his nightmare. Make the fear and anxiety stop.
On autopilot, Law reached out to stroke his dog as he had every other dog in his life who had done a good job. “Gute Hund. So ist Brav, Scud. Gute Hund. We’re going to make it this time.”
Getting no response, Sam jumped up with paws against Alpha’s chest, making soft nasal sounds as she pushed her muzzle forward, her nose taking in short quick sniffs of his scent. He didn’t smell right. There were odors of fear and the rank sweat of a body pushed to its limits. She could smell in his sweat traces of blood from his scrapes, a hint of pus, and the white blood cells making scabs to heal over the raw places. Even the bruises inside the metal and plastic leg he wore had a ripe flavor. He was sick, very sick.
Her Alpha’s body jerked. More sweat poured from him, vinegary with a cocktail of full panic.
She pushed in closer, leaning her warmth against him, and nuzzled his neck. She’d been taught to be pushy, force her body and presence on her Alpha until he focused on her. It wasn’t working this time.
Sam pressed on, licking his face in long hard strokes that insisted he give her even more of his attention. Happy Alpha. Happy pack. Alpha needed to be okay. She would make Alpha okay. Then she would be okay.
Law stroked his canine partner, the automatic physical motion somehow soothing as he struggled with the vivid sights and sounds and smells overlaying his reality.
After a few seconds, the attack ceased. There were voices now, shouts and cries. And pain. Always pain.
It didn’t matter.
Law wrapped his arms around his K-9 and breathed deep. Scud was alive! Everything was going to be all right.
The room came into focus. Not any room Law had seen before. It was dark but for a fire blazing from the hearth in front of him. Someone was sitting beside him. Talking. A woman’s voice. Talking about … blueberry muffins. How to make them.
“Two cups of all-purpose flour. I never sift. Aunt Suze says you should but I don’t…”
He blinked against the dimness, as if there were a shade over his eyes. A living room appeared with a two-story bank of windows open to the night. He could just make out the pale planks of a deck beyond. He sat on a small sofa that he shared with—he turned his head toward the voice—Jori.