Intimate Honor Read online

  God. Her heart. Rip. She was such a sucker. “When?”

  “We leave tonight. He’ll be medicated for the trip. We land at JFK tomorrow afternoon.”

  “You said he took three bullets?”

  “Yes,” Chris answered, his voice soft, almost intimate.

  “Is it a good idea for him to be flying?” she asked, matching his tone.

  “We’re flying military available space. Not commercial. So yeah, we’ll be able to give him a little bit of extra attention.”

  “Okay. I’ll need his medical files before he gets here.”

  “You got it. Email or fax?”

  “Email. You have a pen?”

  “Got one,” he answered. “Give it to me.”

  Again with that damn stomach tumble. She recited her email and waited until he repeated it twice. “Okay, Chris, what time should I expect you?”

  “We land at JFK around three, customs, travel time, I’ll say shoot for the latest six, maybe seven. You okay with that?”

  “That’s fine. I live above the shop so I’ll keep a lookout. Do you have my address?”

  “Dwayne gave it to me, so yeah.”

  “Dwayne?” she asked, her heart skipping a beat. Who was Dwayne and how did he know her?

  “He’s a detective with Nyack PD. Also my brother.”

  Her scalp tingled with her rapidly calming pulse. “Ah. Okay. Well, you have my number, if you … you need … um, anything.” Really, Sam?

  The smile returned to his voice when he replied. “I do. See you tomorrow.”

  “All right, Chris. See you.”

  “Later,” he said, and the line went dead. She set the cordless back on its cradle and stared at it for a few minutes. Her stomach took another tumble as her cell phone rumbled across the counter, signaling an incoming email. She had connected it directly, so that way she could make sure she kept up to task with anything. Seeing as everything was business-related, especially as no one from her previous life had her new email, or any way to contact her, and seeing as her first business was one Mr. Chris Gonzalez, she knew the email was from him.

  She scooped the phone off the counter, swiped the security key, and took a breath, then went to her office to fire up the computer. She needed to figure out all she could about dealing with an MWD.

  Chapter Four

  Forty-eight hours after Chris spoke to Samantha Eagen, with her smoky voice and southern accent still stuck in his head, he waited at the side of the airport entry door. Despite the late hour, the loud flight line had a steady stream of traffic coming in and out. He sat off to the left without ear protection and got the full force and beauty that harbored the largest airport in New York City. His duffle hung on his shoulder and his pack was strapped to his back. They had shipped his gear and to both the base and his house in Nyack. All that remained was Delta Alpha, who was being unloaded from the belly of the Globemaster they had flown on from Germany. The typical nine-hour flight had ballooned into twelve with a stopover in New England so they could refuel.

  Needless to say, the wind proved to be a bitch when combined with their load.

  His wounds throbbed in a steady beat that matched his pulse, and he was sure the bandages needed changing, but he couldn’t focus on any of that.

  Dumb Ass had been down for the count for most of the flight, not tranquilized, but medicated enough to where he rested fitfully. Chris had checked on him a few times and the crew had allowed him such after hearing their story. It would have had been hit-or-miss if DA was awake, and even when he was, his dog’s eyes stared at Chris like he saw straight through him. The entire situation sucked.

  He shifted the duffle on his shoulder and adjusted his grip on DA’s bag, one that carried the basic necessities they’d need for the next few days—food, meds, his Kong, and a muzzle. His head pounded a fierce rhythm that rivaled the sounds of the aircraft landing and taking off. His mind went through the mental list of to-dos again: get through customs, get a rental, let Dumb Ass out of the crate so he could relieve himself, get to the vet’s, get a phone, and get some sleep—in that order.

  “Gonzalez,” a deep voice called.

  Chris snapped his head up at a flight member approaching, ear protection firmly in place around the guy’s head. “That’s me.”

  “Your cargo, the MWD?”

  Chris lifted his eyebrows, not liking anything about his partner being referred to as cargo. “My dog … yes?”

  The guy tossed his head toward another set of doors. “Customs stated he’ll be waiting on the other side. Can’t go through the processing line with you. Said it’s standard operating procedure even with military dogs.”

  Chris cursed under his breath and held his temper in check. The guy at least held an apologetic look, as he should, seeing as he had been present when Chris was told he’d be able to take Dumb Ass through the line with him. As it was now—with a quick glance through the glass on the entrance doors—the long line hadn’t moved much in the twenty or so minutes he’d been standing there.

  “Damn it. Did they say exactly where?” Chris asked.

  The guy tightened his lips and tossed him another look full of apology. “Sorry, man, I feel for you. The guy said there will be a cargo door on the other side and all the animals from various flights will be sitting there.”

  Chris sighed and really hoped the sign reading DANGER, MILITARY WORKING DOG—DO NOT TAMPER WITH ANIMAL would be enough for little kids and curious people passing by not to touch his dog.

  “Gotcha,” Chris said, and with another chin lift, pushed inside and waited in the customs line for his turn.

  Another hour later, he walked into the main baggage area and headed toward the lone crate waiting next to a large set of brown cargo doors. No one stood around the crate, and there wasn’t any movement inside, but that didn’t calm his nerves. His stomach turned with unease and sadness at DA left alone in a strange place, especially with all he’d been through. He didn’t like having his dog out of sight.

  As he crossed baggage carousel after carousel, Chris eyed other passengers in the area, some from his flight in battle dress uniform, some from other commercial flights. His steps faltered. Now that he looked closer, DA’s crate sure as shit got lots of attention. Sure, people weren’t approaching, but they stared at the big red and black lettering. And seeing him walking across, still in his desert fatigues, he could only imagine the picture painted. But whatever they thought, this wasn’t a hero’s welcome home, nor was it happy times.

  The last carousel just before he reached Dumb Ass had a crowd surrounding it, waiting for their bags to come out. Chris adjusted his path and went to move through them, his focus entirely on getting to his dog before he heard a little voice chirp up from close to the ground.

  “Hey mister, you in the Army?” a tiny voice asked at about two octaves above what his head wanted to accept. He winced and glanced at the kid. Dark-blond curls went in every direction, and tired green eyes, yet full of mischief looked up at him.

  “Air Force, kid.”

  “Were you in the war?” the kid asked, and Chris fought back a growl as pain lanced through his temples. He inched through the crowd and tried like hell to be patient.

  “Was, yes. Now I’m home.”

  “Welcome, soldier,” one older gentleman said from his other side.

  “Thank you for serving, young man,” another said, and Chris sighed under his breath.

  “You’re a true hero,” an older lady said on his other side.

  Chris shifted, taking it all in but still returning to DA’s crate, from which he’d yet to see any movement. Beneath his breastbone, his heart thumped against his chest. An animal traveling abroad normally was hard. With three bullet wounds and the stress of being shot, there was no saying what kind of shape his dog was in.

  “Thank you. Excuse me, please.”

  More thank yous murmured through the crowd and while he nodded to a few of them, he disregarded the rest and pushed through. Finall
y at the crate, he dropped to his knees, ignoring the wrenching pain through his back and the undoubtedly torn stitches in his leg—because yes, I felt that—he palmed the grated opening of the door and ducked his head to see inside.

  Delta Alpha lifted weary eyes up his way, his gaze jumping between Chris and behind him, as if trying to determine if they were safe or not. As he lay on his side, white bandages stood out starkly against his grey and brown fur. They’d shaved nearly half his body and wrapped the gauze thick around his wounds. The holes were healing, which spoke to how physically healthy his partner was. But the most severe of his dog’s injuries were the ones you couldn’t see. Delta Alpha shook so severely, it was amazing the whole crate didn’t move. His brave and strong dog reduced to quivering in fear at an airport showed how hard the situation was on him.

  “Come on, big guy,” Chris said and opened the front of the crate. DA shrank back and Chris refused to let any sign of disappointment show. His dog would know, would sense the shift. Most likely, he already felt the undercurrent of Chris’s anxiety. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, he tried again. “Delta Alpha, come,” he commanded.

  His dog whimpered and crouched on all fours, still looking outside the crate as if some threat would come up behind his partner.

  “Fuck,” he breathed and dropped his bags off his shoulder and back, then slid his ass down on the ground, his legs spread wide in a V, the crate sheltered between them. Chris touched his forehead to the top. He kept his eyes closed, trying like hell to get control over his impatience and anxiety. Perhaps waiting until the baggage claim area cleared out would be the best bet, but they were late. And he was exhausted, they both were. He was supposed to be at Paws and Claws hours ago. With the sun set, no phone, and still in need of getting a car, getting the hell out of New York City, and doing the thirty-minute trek after that, they didn’t have time to wait.

  He took another breath and tried again, reaching with both hands, letting DA sniff him before he gently ran his fingers through the thick fur of his dog’s neck. He spoke in soft undercurrents, encouraged him to be strong, to ignore everyone else, and to act like the true hero here, the one he’d proved to everyone he could be.

  People bustled by, despite the late hour, with JFK being one of the busiest international airports in the area. Hell, one of the busiest in the country. A few murmured thank you as they walked by, but he ignored them, his focus directed at his dog instead. Chris had no clue how long they sat like that, with him cradling the crate to his body, his hands inside and trying like hell to communicate to DA all was okay, that he was safe and could come out. His back screamed, his legs were restless, and a kink developed in his neck.

  “Mister?”

  Chris sat up at the call, the voice closer than he liked, and turned his head. Behind, to the right, stood a little girl no older than seven or eight. She wore black leggings, a pink hoodie sweatshirt, and black UGG boots. His brother, Matt, used to refer to those UGG boots as uglies, and the thought caused him to smirk.

  The little girl’s blonde hair fell around her face in complete disarray with large bouncing curls. She had the strap of a backpack over her shoulder and her eyes on him. Chris searched for her parents and frowned when he didn’t see anyone.

  “Kid, you shouldn’t wander around without your parents. This place isn’t nice.”

  She shrugged and pointed to the closest carousel. “My mom is getting our bags. She knows I’m here.”

  Chris twisted his body further and looked in the direction she pointed. Sure enough, a woman stood amongst other travelers, clear as day with almost a cloning resemblance to the little girl standing in front of him. Just about twenty years older.

  “You should go back to your mom, kid.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, instead of listening.

  He sighed. “Talking to my dog.”

  Her cobalt eyes lit up, dancing with renewed interest. She looked over his shoulder, not that she could see inside the crate, seeing as he blocked anything from getting in or out with his torso.

  “Can I pet him?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry, kid, he’s not a dog you can pet.”

  She glanced at the side of the crate, narrowed her eyes, then turned back to him. “What’s a military working dog?”

  “That’s my dog.”

  “Yeah, but what is it?”

  Chris drew his brows down, never asked that question before. Sure, everyone he’d been around for the past sixteen years knew exactly what an MWD was. “A military working dog is a dog trained to work with the military. Have you ever seen a dog with police?”

  She nodded, eyes wide.

  “Well, that’s what he is. Sort of like a police dog, only he’s a military one.”

  “I’ve pet police dogs before. Can I pet yours?”

  He shook his head and fought a chuckle. Cute kid, even if she annoyed the hell out of him. “He’s not a petting type of dog. He’s trained to attack. Do you understand?”

  She took a step closer and Chris about bugged his eyes out. Who the hell would walk closer after a statement like that? “He’s sad,” she said, scarily perceptive.

  “He’s hurt.”

  Her face fell. “Oh! What’s wrong with him?”

  “He got shot.”

  She ducked her head, bending as if she’d be able to see past him. As he answered, she’d moved closer and stood only a foot or so away. “Why is he sad then?”

  “What makes you think he’s sad?”

  “He’s crying,” she answered. And suddenly, his dog’s soft whines pierced his ears. He whipped around, facing DA again, and looked inside. Sure as shit, his eyes were full of pleading emotions.

  “Come on, buddy. You can do this. I’m so sorry.”

  A little hand landed on his shoulder and he about jumped out of his skin. Dropping his head, he laid it on the front of the crate, feeling not the weight of that hand, but more like the world on his shoulders.

  “Mister,” the little girl called. “Sometimes when I’m sad, my mom tells me it’s okay to cry. She says you need a good cry in order to feel better.”

  He kept his head on the crate. A little voice came from the side of DA’s crate now, and he knew she spoke through the holes on the side.

  “Feel better, puppy.”

  “Susie!” a lady shouted. “Leave that man alone.”

  “Coming, Mommy! Bye, mister!”

  Footsteps sounded behind him to his left and Chris looked up as a young man in a nondescript light-blue uniform walked toward him. “Sergeant Gonzalez?”

  What now? Chris nodded. “Yeah?”

  “I’m Mark with the rental agency. We got a call from Sergeant Fusko a few hours ago telling us your flight was running late. He said you might need some help getting things sorted and wanted us to bring the car to you.”

  Part of the weight on his shoulders lifted and Chris nodded again, his throat tight. Thank fuck for Sergeant Fusko. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take care of the dog, if you can get the bags?”

  The guy took one look at the crate, read the warning sign with his eyes wide, and turned back to Chris. “Deal.”

  Chapter Five

  Samantha knifed up in her bed, fear pumping a sporadic rhythm in her chest. The pounding vibrated through her apartment walls again and sent her skittering, plastering her back to the headboard as she tried to get her bearings, tried to remember she wasn’t stuck in the past, and had moved miles away from her asshole of an ex. She was perfectly safe in her little apartment above the vet center.

  She looked at the clock, which read two in the morning. The walls shook again, and she dragged in a shaky breath, the taste of fear and the need for flight left a fine sheen on her skin, a sour taste in her mouth. Sam slid off the bed and pushed aside a curtain, attempting to see who was at her front door downstairs, but the overhang in front of the entrance prevented her view. Whoever it was, they weren’t going away, and from the sound of it, they were eager to get her a
ttention.

  After falling into a fitful sleep just two hours ago, her brain felt foggy, her body laden, and her skin hot. Battling against her nightmares, against being woken to a scene she’d lived in the past when she’d locked Manuel out of the house, had her on edge. Jumpy. Freaked the hell out. Looking for a weapon, anything she could use, and making a mental reminder to check out local gun permits for future reference, she spied a hammer sitting on the small kitchen table by the window and grabbed it.

  In short pink boxers and a white tank, she crept down the stairs, almost jumping out of her skin as the banging started again.

  “Doctor Eagen, open up!” a loud voice shouted through the walls.

  Well, at least the use of her new name gave her somewhat of a measure of relief. She released the air from her lungs and swallowed hard. Thoughts of this being an emergency with someone’s pet had her picking up her step until she rounded the corner into her lobby. Across the front of the building sat a half-wall of glass, so the sight of a tall man wearing military fatigues was so out of the norm she blinked, halting in her steps. He returned her blink with dark eyes—she couldn’t see the exact color from where she stood, but they were dark—then did a leisure scan down her body and back up. He brought his eyebrows together in a sharp V, displeasure written clear as day—which it was not, it was night—across his face. She frowned.

  Well, then… Hello to you, too, mister two-o’clock-in-the-morning visitor.

  Reaching beneath the front counter, she grabbed the keys to the door but didn’t unlock it.

  “Can I help you?” she asked through the window.

  Tall, dark, and—yes, let’s get cliché—handsome blinked at her again. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes then mentally questioned opening the door at all. Her trust identified as a blind, mutinous crowd chanting in the back of her mind, reminding her of how quickly she’d been subdued before. She calculated how far she was from her phone and tightened her grip on the hammer.

  Sergeant Chris Gonzalez had been a no-show that afternoon. No call either. No email. She suspected this may be him, but she’d learned in the past that assumptions could very well have dangerous consequences.