Page 5 of Surge

Medical staff moved toward Zim.

“I’m fine,” he snarled, and the woman backed away, eyes wide.

As they hurried toward a vehicle, Garrett ran his hands slowly up and down the sweet, hard-working Malinois as she was transferred to another gurney. His gut tightened as she let out a keening whimper beneath raspy, difficult breathing.

The nurse pulled out her phone and called the vet clinic as he climbed into a waiting ambulance with Tsunami.

Garrett stood on the tarmac, the team hurrying in one direction or another to take care of the injured. Didn’t look good for Reicher. Iffy for Tsunami. All because of . . .

“The chemicals were weaponized,” Zim huffed. “They didn’t tell us that. I mean, it was a possibility, I guess—but . . .” Face sweaty and pale, the newb looked up at him. “They’d tell us if they knew that. Right?”

“Caldwell,” he growled.

This was Caldwell’s fault. No way the operative didn’t know. . .

An hour later, Garrett threw open the door to the Tactical Operations Center and strode up to a CIA analyst, whose hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. The remnant of Charlie team gathered behind him, battle faces on.

“Where’s Caldwell?” Garrett demanded.

“B-break room,” she stammered, finger pointing to the rear.

Garrett pivoted toward the hall, feeling the team snake behind him. He punched open the door that reeked of burned coffee and frozen dinners.

At their intrusion, Lieutenant Commander Taylor swiveled from the counter as he heated some food, licking his thumb. His gaze seemed to automatically slide to the far side of the room.

In that back corner, Bryan Caldwell smacked his laptop shut and rose. “Problem, Walker?”

“You could say that.” Garrett stalked over and got into Caldwell’s smug CIA face, and the team circled behind him. “You knew the chemicals had already been weaponized and didn’t tell us!” He clenched his fists at his side. “Tsunami’s sick, snapping at Hell’s gates, and Reicher’s dead.”

The operative held his gaze as he processed the news. “My condolences.” He scratched at his long nose like that itch was more important. “Sorry to hear that.”

“Condolences? This is your fault! You withheld vital intel and killed Reicher.”

“Now hold up.” The man’s face reddened. “There was no way to know they’d made a weaponized form already. And your team should have exercised more caution consid?—”

Garrett’s fist swung on its own. Connected with Caldwell’s nose.Crack!

With a strangled shout, Caldwell shoved away, cupping his hands over his blood-gushing nose. “What the—” His eyes widened. “Walker, you’re through!”

“Through with you? You bet your sorry six I am!” He didn’t step back, hoping Caldwell would try something so he could level him.

Silence strained the air between them. Caldwell spat to the side, then stormed out.

“He’ll press charges,” Taylor warned from behind. “That was. . . dangerous—he’s powerfully connected to the brass. Could get you discharged.”

Behind him, Garrett felt the hot eyes of Charlie team.

“I’m not re-upping anyway.”

1

SIX MONTHS LATER

NEW BRAUNFELS, TEXAS

Delaney Thompson stoodin the center of a middle school gym—one that was a blasted twenty-seven years old, complete with the usual aluminum bleachers, multiple basketball hoops. The usual must of sweat and body odor. This was obviously a torturous middle school just like the one she’d attended.

At her side, Surge pressed his shoulder into her thigh.

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