Blind Rage: Team Red, Book 4

by T. Hammond

  “I feel fine, Teresa. Maybe because I’m not trying to mind-speak at the same time,” Red suggested.

  “We’ll let Frost know when you have to shut down, that way we can time how long it’s been. Let me know if you start to get a headache, though. I don’t want you in pain.”

  “You got it, Beautiful. There’s a little pressure, but no pain. We’re getting better at this,” he said proudly.

  “Yes, we are. But I’m sure it’s because you’re awesome,” I praised.

  He had us laughing when, according to Fritz, Red raised his head, ears forward and locked at attention, shifting his hind leg back in a perfect GSD show dog pose, called a stack. Such a ham. Jaspar whipped out his cell phone and snapped a picture, much to my dog’s delight. I could feel waves of happy satisfaction pouring off him… which reminded me. “I should also mention a recent development between us. I am able to pick up on some of Red’s stronger emotions.”

  “That’s going to be fun for you when his hormones start raging,” Fritz chuckled evilly.

  I groaned in exaggerated pain, “Oh, thanks so much for the happy thought.”

  “Able to use it for anythin’ specific?” Frost, ever logical, asked.

  “Not really. I just thought I’d mention it, in the spirit of full disclosure. As observers, you guys may not even notice what I feel coming from him. Empathy is something new and unexplored between us.”

  “Does your empathy link go one-way also?” Russ asked.

  “Yes. Red can’t pick up on my emotions at all, well, nothing beyond a dog’s normal awareness and attention to body language anyway. This skill is different. Red needs to consciously link with me to mind-speak and share sight. The emotional thing I only pick up on when we are near each other, but it doesn’t appear to be something he broadcasts on purpose, or a link he initiates. I should also mention the skills we have now, evolved over time. From the age of seven months, Red could mind-speak. He was almost a year old before we realized we could share vision also. We discovered that skill by accident, and he could only send mind-sight imagery for a few minutes at a time.”

  I told the story of how we were walking in the woods when Red sent me his first image. “Wait a sec,” Russ interrupted. “Are you saying he sent you an image he thought up, not what he was actually looking at?”

  I was flabbergasted. In all this time, I had never appreciated the distinction.

  “Russ is right, Teresa. You originally caught a mental image I had of myself, I wasn’t actually leaping for a drone,” Red reminded. “I’m not sure what I was doing different. It was so long ago.”

  Dogs perceive time differently than humans. It had been approximately three months since we discovered the mind-sight connection. After he accidentally sent the first image, we’d practiced with him showing me what he was actually looking at.

  “I don’t know what that means, as far as your skillsets, but it’s an interesting twist we should consider in more depth,” Russ said thoughtfully—I could practically hear the hamsters spinning in the wheels of his brain.

  “Well, let’s think about all of this in the warmth of the house, shall we? I’m getting cold, and I’m out of coffee,” I griped.

  “What does it feel like when the link disconnects? Does it hurt, or feel strange?” This question from Fritz, his brows knit in concern as he dug out his keys and unlocked the other SUV. The snap of locks opening at my back alerted me Dex had unlocked our vehicle, too.

  “For me, it feels like an absence. It’s as if there’s a piece of me that’s detached. One moment I know he’s there, and the next, he’s… gone. What about you, Red?”

  “Empty. I can’t wait to get back, close enough to link again. I feel like I miss you, even if it’s a short trip to the store with Ken.”

  “Red describes it as an emptiness, and I have to agree.”

  “Teresa, I’m starting to get a headache from the mind-sight. Light’s out?” Red asked.

  “Sure, Red. Lights out. Frost, how long has it been?”

  “Fifty-one minutes. ‘Fore we load up, have an observation to think ‘bout,” Frost said, his hand solicitously cupped around my elbow. “When ‘lights out’ you sometimes start signing when translating. Inconsistent. Sudden shift ‘tween ASL ‘n not, could alert observers—cause ‘em to watch you closer.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed in frustration. It’s a good thing Red and I haven’t been out alone these last few months. With the holidays and the PreClan software deadline, most of our mental communication has been at the house, or in controlled situations where a trusted person was with us, such as Gil. Super Spy, I’m not.

  “You bring up a good point, Frost. David, Bas, Gil and I, use an abbreviated form of American Sign Language to communicate amongst ourselves when we work at the police department. I don’t think to use my hands when I see through Red, but I’ve noticed, also, when I’m in the dark again, there’s a tendency to sign while translating, regardless of where I am. So much learning for me in the next few months. Are you sure you guys want to tackle the Team Red assignment? A lot of bad habits to work out of my system.”

  “Think I speak for all,” there was a pause, as I assumed Frost made eye contact with each of the team to verify their assent. “We’re where we want to be. Where our strengths lie. Challenges jus’ makes it more int’restin’. Keeps us vigilant.”

  “Frost is right, Teresa,” Fritz added. “This gives us tasks to work on, and issues to focus on. Keeps our brains active to find solutions to your unusual circumstances. I’m looking forward to finding ways to help you and Red maintain your secret while still providing services to help Uncle Sam, as well as the community.”

  “I’m thinking I should sit in on the ASL lessons, too,” said one of the guys, Eddie, I think. “Are you learning visually, through Red?”

  “No, I’m learning without Red’s help. We’ve found he gets a headache from the intense staring needed to watch TV and videos, but he’s been attending our lessons. He’s getting pretty good at it, and has started correcting Ken, on occasion. Gil is fluent, as his dad is deaf. Bas and David’s unit learned in the military as an experimental form of communication while they were on missions. Now with Ken and Janey back from vacation, we will probably resume our informal classes a few times per week. David and Bastian also work with me daily to reinforce the lessons, as well as train me on the abbreviated format we use when working.”

  “If this is the form of communication Team Red has been using, then we need the whole detail watching the videos and attending the daily lessons with David or Bas.” Russ sounded distracted, and I imagined he was writing himself a note on the iPad he carried with him everywhere.

  “I’m going back with Fritz,” Red announced. “The seats are already folded down on one side so I can have a window.”

  “Okay Red. See you at the house. It appears Red is deserting me in favor of a window seat,” I told the guys as we slid into our vehicle.

  “More likely, it’s the bag of beef jerky Fritz carries in his coat pocket,” Jaspar tattled.

  I had to grin. I’ve been deserted for stringy, dry meat and a better view.

  “Come on, Top Dog. Load up,” Russ directed.

  Before the last door of the other SUV closed, I heard Fritz’ puzzled, “Where the hell did I leave my coffee? Coulda sworn it was right here…” The remainder of the sentence was cut off with a slam of the car door.

  “I smell a conspiracy,” Red snickered in my mind. Undoubtedly, he caught Frost’s scent in the wrong vehicle and made the correct assumption—the cup had been pilfered. A chuckle to my right suggested Frost had heard Fritz also. Yep, he’s definitely my favorite guard.

  Chapter Five

  Red was quick to jump from his vehicle, intending to circle around to see who was patrolling. With a quick, “Bye, Teresa. I’ll let Tank out if he’s not already in the yard playing with one of the guys.”

  Frost was nice enough to escort me into the house, considering my service
dog was otherwise occupied, leaving me at the kitchen counter where, of course, I refilled my mug to a chorus of, “Kirsch,” “Byte,” and “Henry,” as the men performed the habitual roll call to let me know who was in the room. “Frost leaving,” “Eddie out,” and “Jazz gone,” let me know some of my detail left the room after refilling their coffee mugs.

  In addition to my Team Red detail, twelve men had been brought in for the first wave of PreClan surveillance and security training. It was Bastian’s idea that each of the Horses would forgo the usual “Hello” or “Good-bye” acknowledgement, in favor of an audible census, so I could know who was present when in a crowd, or herd, as I mentally referred to them. Daily greetings included “Kirsch, here” or “Lieb, leaving,” as the teams cycled through the house. On the rare occasions I entered the Cave, it was agreed, unless I requested specifically, there was no verbal roster. It was taking a little practice, but it was working for us.

  “Don’t. Even. Think about it,” a growly, female voice, accompanied by the sharp tap of heeled shoes, threatened. My hand stilled halfway to my mouth. I could smell the coffee. So close, and yet so far. The kitchen was unnaturally silent; apparently, I wasn’t the only one frozen in place by Gwyn’s warning tone. “Kirsch, step back from the cookies. The note stating ‘hands off’ applies to you.” I could feel the other men relax with me, as we all realized we weren’t the target of Gwyn’s ire. I took an experimental sniff. Mmm, peanut butter cookies; my favorite. I’d been so focused on refilling my cup, I hadn’t paid attention to the lingering aroma of baked goods.

  “Missed you, doll,” Russ greeted his wife, followed by lovey-dovey smoochy noises. Yeah, I was jealous.

  Heavy footsteps in the pantry preceded Bastian’s, “Hey, Babe.” I was enveloped in strong arms and his mouth took my breath away. Okay, maybe not so jealous anymore. A hint of peanut butter on his tongue attested to his stealth skills—I’m betting the plate was at least one cookie short. “Snagged one for you, too. It’s on the end table in your bedroom,” he whispered in my ear, under the guise of nibbling my neck. The man was a mind-reader. I pulled his mouth back to mine to give him a proper “thank-you.”

  “Geez, you guys, get a room,” someone said from behind me.

  I’m not sure if he was addressing us, or Russ and Gwyn, but Gwyn replied, “What was that, Ralph? Are you forgetting who makes the chore schedule? I can have you scrubbing toilets for the next year.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he instantly responded.

  Bas turned me around so I faced the room, my back braced against the impressive width of his chest and abs. It was like leaning against a foam-covered brick wall. Comfy, yet unyieldingly firm. “Who’s Ralph?” I asked, clueless. I thought I knew everyone by now. He must have followed Bastian up from the basement, as he hadn’t included himself when the men let me know who was in the room. Then again, he may have spoken during that hot kiss. I’m pretty sure I was incapable of thought for a solid five seconds.

  “Lenny’s call name is ‘Ralph,’” Barney Kirsch snickered. “On account’a he barfs when he smells a strong odor. Gets sick at the sight of blood, too. Poor guy ralphed all the way through basic. He ended up doing office work for the rest of his tour. The guy is great with a keyboard, though.”

  “But, hopeless with a cart of cleaning products,” Lenny added, with rueful embarrassment. “If I didn’t barf from the smell of the toilets, the bleach or ammonia products would bring me to my knees, for sure.”

  “He’s the only sailor I know who gets sea sick,” Bas laughed good-naturedly. “Why did a farm boy from land-locked Kansas join the Navy, anyway?”

  “My gran’pa was in the service; a naval officer. When I made a decision to join the military, the Navy was the branch I was most interested in. I figured the nice, clean scent of the ocean would be just the thing to settle my nervous stomach, right? I’d never been on a boat before, let alone a ship. Imagine my surprise during basic training when I realized I got seasick, too. I ralphed all over the guys in my boat, and a call name was born.”

  “So, does everyone have a nickname? What’s yours?” I directed over my shoulder. “Bas-hole?”

  “Har, har, Babe,” Bastian growled, pretending offense. “All of us have a name given to us by our team members. Some are flattering, and some… well, not so much. Right Ralph?”

  “You’re avoiding telling me yours, aren’t you?” I grinned, guessing the reason. “It’s Man-ho, right?”

  There were chuckles from the Mustangs in the kitchen, so I was pretty sure I was on the right track. One of the guys mumbled, “Damn, wish we’d thought of that one.”

  “I kinda like Bas-hole, myself,” another guy, Kirsch I think, added.

  “My name is almost twenty years old, Babe. Keep that in mind, huh?”

  I grinned in anticipation. I do believe Bastian was embarrassed. It was kind of sweet.

  “Oh, for goodness sakes,” Gwyn sighed, exasperated. “It’s not that bad, Teresa. His name was ‘Player.’”

  “Ahh,” I said wisely. “Since I know you hate board games, it’s no doubt a tribute to the swath you cut through the female population.”

  “Those days are behind me, Babe. Unfortunately, the nickname will stick with some of my old team members. Many of Russ’ crew never worked on a mission with me, so they refer to me as Bas or Dec. The guys here, who know my old call name, haven’t used it out of respect for you. No doubt, they’ll assign a new one to me, eventually.”

  There was a loud “whoosh” as Red and Tank barreled through the dog door flap. “Teresa! I heard one of the soldiers say it’s going to snow again starting tomorrow night. Woo hoo! I looooove the snow! Maybe the Mustangs can build a snow fort and make snowballs for us to chase.”

  “Hey Top Dog, where’s the fire?” Russ asked as the two dogs skid to a halt on the kitchen floor. One, or both of them, attacking the water dish with unbridled enthusiasm.

  “He likes Top Dog,” I shared, grinning at the dogs’ exuberance. “Red’s excited about the snow forecast. He has high hopes for a snow fort and a rousing game of fetch with snow balls. Speaking of special names, do you guys have one for me too?”

  Okay, the silence was enough to give me a complex. Seriously? “Gwyn?” I asked, hoping female solidarity would encourage her to tell me.

  “Nope. I’m staying out of this one,” she said. The tapping of her heels became muffled as she wandered off to toward the living room. The echoing click of tiny nails, suggested she was being followed by an inquisitive Tank.

  “They call you ‘Mole,’” Red volunteered helpfully.

  “I’m named after a skin blemish?” I’ll admit, I was somewhat affronted. “You guys couldn’t come up with a really cool name, like…” I had to pause, making up your own name without being conceited is tough. When you back yourself into a corner, rely on outrageousness. “…like hot mama, or siren? Oh, I know—goddess.” There were snorts and snickers from the gathering around me. “Yeah, okay, I admit it’s not easy to come up with a good call name, but really? Mole was the best you guys could do?”

  Bas’ chuckle was warm in my ear. “It’s not a bad thing, Teresa. There are multiple meanings, and you have to admit mole is appropriate due to your blindness. And, they are kinda cute.”

  I glared over my shoulder at him. “Moles are ugly rodents with pointy little rat-faces.”

  “Moles are a unit of measurement,” Lenny added. “You are central to the Team Red unit.”

  “Moles also infiltrate into opposing territory. They are the ultimate secret weapon,” Kirsch pointed out.

  “If we really wanted to emphasize ugly rodents, we could have gone with batgirl,” Fritz said, naming another blind vermin, from the relative safety of across the room.

  I lifted a brow in his direction, “Mighty brave from way over there, Mr. Lieb. Batgirl indeed.” It was hard to hold back a smile as the men teased me, but I think I retained a straight face. “Okay, so Bas is Player. I’ve heard Frost called Iceman,
and Jaspar is Jazz. You guys call Fritz, Lover, which I’ve assumed was a play on lieb being German for love? Henry is Jeeves, probably something to do with his efficiency. So those names are easy enough to figure out. What about Eddie?”

  “Eddie is called Spook. That fucker, err, sorry ma’am, I mean Eddie, can seemingly show up out of nowhere. One minute you think you’re alone, the next second there’s this Indian-lookin’ dude crouching beside you sharpening his big-ass hunting knife. First time he did that to me, he scared the bejesus out of me.” Lenny’s tone was mystified. “I never heard him coming.”

  “I’m just that good,” Eddie said smugly. He must have startled someone other than me, as I heard a cup hit the countertop too hard, and “crap” was muttered under someone’s breath. I knew Eddie’d left the kitchen, but I hadn’t heard him return either.

  “Case in point,” Lenny sighed, accepting the mystery for what it was. Native American magic.