Mission to Protect

by Terri Reed

  “I should call my uncle,” she said, her voice tight. “See if we can stay there tonight.”

  “Right.” It was the right call. Her uncle was family. They would both be more comfortable there than taking shifts on the cot. “Let’s go to the training center and take care of the tablet, then you can call him.”

  They walked back, Dakota trotting beside them. Westley wanted to ask her if she was okay, but that seemed like a dumb question considering all that had transpired. Of course she wasn’t all right. She had to be stressed and scared, and was putting up a brave front. No, not a front. She was brave. And kind and so much stronger in spirit than he’d given her credit for in the beginning.

  He admired and respected Felicity. Enough to know that he had to keep his emotions in check so as not to ruin her career or her life.

  At the training center, they tucked the tablet into the small safe located in the desk cabinet. Then Felicity called her uncle.

  “Thanks, Uncle Patrick, we’ll see you soon,” she said as she hung up. Then she looked up at Westley. “He’s happy to be of help.”

  “I hope he won’t mind Dakota staying with us,” Westley said.

  Felicity pulled a face. “Uncle Patrick isn’t fond of dogs.”

  “So I noticed,” Westley said. “But he’ll have to deal with it.”

  Felicity scratched Dakota behind the ears. “Uncle Patrick just has to get to know you. He’ll see not all dogs are scary.”

  She grabbed her bag from the cot room and followed Dakota and Westley outside to the parking lot. Westley had the keys to the vehicle used by Caleb Streeter because Westley’s SUV was now in the custody of Security Forces.

  They drove to the set of apartments at the north end of the base, where her uncle had a unit on the fifth floor. They took the elevator up and knocked on her Uncle Patrick’s door. He opened it immediately. He stood in the open doorway in his socks, regulation sweatpants and a T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders.

  Dakota emitted a low growl. Westley glanced at Dakota. The hair along his back raised in a ridge. His tail was up, his ears stiff. What was that about?

  Patrick’s gaze bounced from Felicity to Westley and then landed on Dakota. “Oh, no. He’s not staying.”

  “Only way Felicity and I stay is if Dakota does,” Westley stated firmly. He wasn’t going to trust anyone, not even himself, with Felicity’s safety without extra protection.

  A deep scowl created lines along Patrick’s forehead. “I don’t like dogs.”

  As if he understood the words, Dakota bared his teeth in a snarl and lunged at Patrick, sending him stumbling backward with horror on his face.

  TWELVE

  “Dakota, no!” Felicity’s heart slammed against her chest. What was going on? She’d never seen the dog go into attack mode without provocation. The only times she’d witnessed Dakota’s true fierceness was in demonstrations where Westley or one of the other trainers wore a padded bite suit. She hurried across the room to stand in front of her uncle. She held a hand to Dakota. “Stop!”

  Westley reeled in Dakota and grabbed his collar, holding back the snapping and snarling dog.

  “Stand off! Heel!” Westley commanded in a loud tone that reverberated through the apartment.

  Dakota slowly complied and sat, but his intense focus was trained on Patrick. His teeth were still bared but he’d quieted down to a low, ominous growl.

  “Put that away!” Westley said, his gaze on something over Felicity’s shoulder.

  She whirled to find her uncle holding his service weapon in shaky hands. Thankfully the barrel was aimed at the floor.

  “Get that beast out of here or I’ll shoot it!” Uncle Patrick yelled. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

  “Whoa.” Felicity held up both hands, now needing to protect Dakota. “Uncle Patrick, lower the weapon. Westley will take Dakota back to his kennel.”

  Uncle Patrick didn’t seem to hear her. His fear-filled gaze was on Dakota.

  Afraid the situation would careen even further out of control, Felicity faced Westley. “Take him back to the center.”

  “Felicity—” Westley warned, even as he tugged on Dakota’s leash, forcing the dog to retreat into the hallway. Felicity hurried to the door. She closed it to a crack, her gaze on Westley. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I shouldn’t be leaving you.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. He’s my uncle, after all.”

  “I’ll check on you after I get Dakota settled.” He shook his head. “I don’t get what got him so riled up.”

  “He must sense Uncle Patrick’s animosity toward dogs,” she said. Why else would Dakota go into full attack mode?

  Westley nodded but he was clearly perplexed and upset by the situation. So was she. They trained for these variables. They couldn’t have an unpredictable dog in the program. She only hoped this was an anomaly and not a new pattern of behavior for the German shepherd.

  She shut the door and leaned against it. Her pulse galloped along her veins. She took several calming breaths, glad to see her uncle had set the gun on the dining-room table. He crossed to the bar and poured himself a tumbler of amber liquid. He held up the glass. “Want a drink?”

  She shook her head. “No. Thank you.” She blew out a breath. “I’m not sure what got into Dakota. He’s not like that normally.”

  “Mongrel beast should be put down,” Uncle Patrick growled.

  “No!” The thought of Dakota being euthanized because he’d thought he’d been protecting her nearly made her knees buckle.

  Patrick downed his drink in one long swallow then poured himself another and moved to sit on the couch. “I hate dogs.”

  Trying to understand the virulence in Patrick’s voice, she moved to sit across from him. “Mom told me you had a horrible experience with a dog once. What happened?”

  Patrick leaned his head back against the couch and stared off as if remembering. “When we were kids, your mom and I would get off the school bus in the neighborhood before ours because it was quicker to walk home across the Moselys’ field than wait a half an hour for the bus to circle around to our house. Mr. Mosely kept the field mowed but that spring he’d died and the field became overgrown. Still, we made a path through the tall grass and weeds.” He sipped from his drink.

  “One day a large mutt charged through the grass, barking and snarling.” He shuddered and took another drink. “He belonged to Mr. Mosely’s adult son.”

  “How old were you?”

  He glanced at her. “Ten. Your mom was eight. She was a couple feet ahead of me on the path. I yelled for her to run but she froze.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I still can see her standing there. The look of terror on her face. That dog closing in on her. I reacted. I pushed her out of the way in the nick of time.” He lifted his pant leg to reveal his calf muscle. “They’re faint now, but I carry the scars of that dog’s teeth.”

  She winced. No wonder her uncle had freaked out at Dakota’s behavior. Felicity’s heart hurt for her uncle and her mother. She could imagine the horror the two children experienced. “You saved Mom. You were a hero.”

  Patrick snorted. “Yeah. That’s what everyone said. It didn’t make the pain or the fear or the nightmares go away.”

  She could relate to lingering fear and nightmares. “I’m sorry. If I had known, we wouldn’t have brought Dakota over.”

  He swirled the last of his drink before gulping it down. “Just keep the beast away from me.”

  “I will.” She stood and picked up her bags by the front door. She needed to freshen up and have a moment alone. “Where shall I put my things?”

  He waved toward a short hallway. “You can take the bedroom. On the right. Bath to the left. I’ll sleep out here on the couch. And the master sergeant can use a bedroll when he returns.”

  She carried her bag to th
e bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed. Propping her elbows on her knees, she dropped her head into her hands. Life had become a roller coaster. She was ready to jump off and be on even ground.

  Her cell phone rang. She fished it from her pocket.

  “Hey, you okay?” Westley’s deep voice filled her head.

  Relaxing back on to the bed, she replied, “Yes. Boy, oh, boy. What a day.” She told him about the dog attack her uncle had suffered as a child.

  “That explains your uncle’s reaction, but not Dakota’s. I’ve asked Dr. Roark to take a look at him when he has a free moment to make sure there’s nothing medically wrong.”

  She sat up. “Oh, I hope that’s not it.” Or maybe she did hope so because then they could treat him. “Is Dakota calm now?”

  “Not really. He hasn’t been aggressive at all but he can’t seem to focus and he keeps pacing back and forth in his kennel. Frankly I’m afraid to leave him until Dr. Roark can take a look at him. He did not want to leave your uncle’s apartment complex. I practically had to drag him to the vehicle and then had to pick him up and put him in because he wouldn’t jump in himself.”

  “That’s so weird. There’s no need for you to return here tonight. Stay with Dakota.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m safe here.”

  “Before I forget to tell you, Rusty found Riff and brought him in.”

  Her heart lifted. “That’s good news.”

  A photo album on the bottom shelf of the bedside table caught her attention. She took it from the shelf and set it on the bed.

  “On another note, I have a security company coming tomorrow morning to arm your house. Once they have the system in place you can return home.”

  “That’s good.” She flipped open the photo album. She wouldn’t have pegged Uncle Patrick as the sentimental type to keep pictures in an album. The first page was of a bald-headed baby lying on a blanket. Uncle Patrick, she assumed. He was a cute baby. “I’m sure Uncle Patrick will be more than happy to have his bedroom back after he spends the night on his lumpy-looking couch.”

  Westley chuckled. “Couldn’t be much worse than the cot at the center.”

  “Or the barracks,” she countered. She flipped through the pages, smiling at the baby pictures of her uncle.

  “True. I don’t miss those bunks.”

  She ran a finger over the image of her mother as a baby. “Do you ever think about giving up your studio apartment for a house?”

  “Someday.”

  When he had a wife and family? The thought snuck up on her. She wondered what it would take to make this man settle down. Did she have what it took to be the one he settled down with? Did she want that? A quiver of nerves ran through her as she realized there was a part of her that very much wanted a future with Westley. But how could she and still hope to work with the dogs?

  “I should let you get some rest,” he said. “I’m staying at the center a little longer. With Dakota behaving the way he is, I think I’d better keep an eye on him until he’s less agitated. If you need anything, call me and I’ll be right there.”

  “I will. I promise.” She hung up and scooted to the head of the bed to lean against the wall. She continued to look through the photo album. There were many pictures of her uncle and mother as they grew up together. It was fun to see her mother going from a gap-toothed child, to a girl, to a teen, and finally to a young woman. The last few pages of the album held photos similar to the ones on the tablet.

  One image held her attention. It was the same picture of her father and Uncle Patrick that was on the tablet, but in this one, they were sitting on motorcycles. Two black bikes. And both men were dressed in black leather and holding black helmets.

  Her hand went to the chain around her neck. Did the key belong to a motorcycle her father had once owned?

  She scrambled off the bed, taking the photo album with her. In the kitchen she found Uncle Patrick drinking a beer and eating smoked salmon.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked as she entered.

  Taking a seat at the counter, she answered, “A little, actually.” She laid the photo album open on the granite top. “I didn’t know you and Dad rode motorcycles.”

  Patrick flicked a glance at the album. “Yep. Those were the good old days.”

  “Whatever happened to my dad’s bike?” She’d never seen him on one.

  “Colleen didn’t like it, so he sold it.”

  She studied the motorbike in the photo. Remembering Linc’s certainty of the type of bike the key on her gold chain fit, she asked, “Was Dad’s motorcycle a BMW 2 series?”

  Patrick’s shoulders visibly stiffened. He slowly turned toward her. “Why would you ask about that specific bike?”

  The coldness in his tone sent a chill sliding down her spine. Her mind scrambled to see why her question would upset him. Should she tell him about the key? She couldn’t see what harm it would be to show him what she’d found. She tugged the chain out from beneath her uniform top and held up the key. “I found this in Dad’s desk.”

  Patrick took a long swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the bottle on the counter and closing the distance between them to stare at the key. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “No. Your father rode a Ducati.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure what to make of Uncle Patrick’s strange reaction to the key. Her gaze strayed back to the picture. The two bikes did look a bit different. She lifted her gaze. “Was your motorcycle the BMW?”

  “It was.”

  Her heart beat a bit faster in her chest. “Where’s the bike now?”

  “Scrap yard.”

  “A long time ago, right?” She hoped, because the thought forming in her mind was causing distress to strangle her from the inside out. Uncle Patrick couldn’t be the rider of the motorcycle that had struck the pedestrian and left him paralyzed, could he?

  “Where’s your father’s tablet, Felicity?”

  Her breath hitched. She strove to keep her cool as panic flared in her gut and lit a hot path to her brain. Oh, no. No, no, no. Uncle Patrick couldn’t be her father’s murderer. He couldn’t be the one who’d tried to poison her. The one who had shot at Westley.

  Oh! Lungs tight from lack of air, the world tilted as the realization slid home. Dakota had snapped at the man who’d shot him.

  “Where is it?” Patrick demanded again.

  Sliding from the stool, Felicity faced her uncle. “You killed my father.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “He fell off the ladder.”

  Anger infused her. “Did he? Or did you stage it to look that way?”

  Lips thinning, Patrick stepped closer. “Don’t mess with me.”

  Refusing to be intimidated, she stood her ground. “You were the one riding the motorcycle that hit the young man and then rode away.”

  “He stepped out from between two cars,” Patrick said, his words an admission and an excuse.

  “Then why didn’t you stop and help him?”

  “That’s exactly what your father asked.”

  “It’s a valid question.” Her gaze went to the beer bottle then back to him. “You were drinking.”

  “I’d had a few. I didn’t see the guy. It wasn’t my fault. But your father demanded I turn myself in.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Like that was going to happen.”

  “So you killed him?” Her heart bled with grief over the senselessness of it all. If Patrick had just owned up to his crime, her dad would still be alive.

  “Graham wouldn’t listen.” Patrick moved toward her. “I want that tablet, Felicity. And any copies you made.”

  She narrowed her gaze. Copies? “You’re the one who planted the bomb in Westley’s vehicle and called me. I knew I recognized the voice.” And Dakota had recognized his scent on the expl
osives.

  His face twisted. “I should have just blown you all up.”

  “Why did you leave the note and rose?” She let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, I know, to pin your crime on the Red Rose Killer.”

  “I’m still going to pin my crimes on that maniac.”

  Her stomach knotted at the implication in her uncle’s words. “I’m leaving.”

  He grabbed her arm. “No. You’re going to give me that tablet.”

  “I don’t have it.” She jerked her arm from him and backed away. Her gaze landed on the dining room table a few feet from her, where her uncle’s service weapon still sat. If she could get to it... She edged toward the table.

  Patrick lunged forward, knocking her to the side and pouncing on his gun. She regained her balance, but he swung the barrel toward her.

  She stilled, her hands up. Her heart plummeted. Fear turned her blood to ice, making her ache with dread. “Don’t do anything rash.”

  “Where’s the tablet?” He advanced on her.

  “At the training center where all those beasts are.” She had the satisfaction of seeing her uncle blanch.

  She sent up a silent plea to God that somehow, someway, Westley would be able to disarm her uncle before he killed her or anyone else.

  * * *

  “There’s nothing medically wrong with this dog,” Dr. Roark told Westley. “His wound is healing nicely. His heart rate is normal and so is his temperature.”

  Motioning for a much calmer Dakota to jump off the exam table, Westley said, “That’s good to know but it doesn’t explain his strange aggression toward Felicity’s uncle.”

  Dr. Roark pumped hand sanitizer on his palm and rubbed his hands together. “Had he and Dakota ever met?”

  Westley thought about that. “Yes.” Patrick had shown up at Felicity’s house. “But Dakota hadn’t reacted at all then.”