Page 6 of Surge

“Yeah, sorry about the smells . . .” She grinned down at her jet-black Belgian Malinois boy and stroked the thick coat around his neck.

Okay. Technically, he was Heath “Ghost” Daniels’s A Breed Apart dog.

She buried her hands back into his fur. “You’ve got this, bud. When the students get here, you’ll show them your awesome scent skills. This’ll prove your recovery to Heath too.”

Heath. She sniffed. He’d been her mentor since high school—five years. Now he was her boss.

The vein in Heath’s neck had throbbed when he’d found out about the eight grueling weeks of counterconditioning training she’d been doing with Surge. Behind his back. And Crew’s. Crew Gatlin had procured Surge for the ranch, but both men were considering retiring the four-legged hero because Surge was a tough nut to crack. But Delaney knew this maligator well and believed he had more work in him before being relegated to Fort Couch for the rest of his days.

Unbelievably, Heath was letting her continue to work with Surge, despite her clandestine training.

She sniffed again, stood to check the setup of her video camera. Then glanced at Surge and—oh man. Black fur stuck to the white pants she’d stupidly chosen to look all professional for the scent discrimination demo today.

She brushed off the MWD’s fur, then gave Surge an ear rub. “You’ve got this. I’ve got this.” She stepped back and grinned. “This is your first ever solo demonstration. Are you ready?”

Surge leapt into her arms, and she laughed, hugged him before he jumped back down.

If he was ready, she was. And she wouldn’t get fired. She hoped.

The school bell rang.

Surge stood and turned toward the gaping gym doors, panting as his ears swiveled toward Mr. Finch’s social studies students pouring into the gym.

“Good boy,” she whispered, burying her hand in his fur. “We’re here to show Heath and Crew that you’re ready to work again, right?”

Surge’s post-traumatic stress after the death of his sister, Tsunami, had relegated him to the ranch, where he’d excelled. Except with certain sounds. The school shouldn’t be a problem, since the bell’s tone was deeper, resonant. Not high-pitched. The one that bothered Surge was a frequency so high most humans couldn’t hear it—the alarm that had gone off in Djibouti when his littermate Tsunami died after exposure to toxic gas on her mission.

Delaney scratched behind Surge’s ears as the flood of preteens and teens clambered up the bleachers. The noise level rose as they mingled and teased and chased and called out for each other. The kids shifted around, each trying to get the best look at the working dog. Murmurs and whispers carried easily across the gym floor.

“Look at those eyes. Intense.”

“All black—so pretty!”

“Did he kill anyone?”

“Can he smell drugs?”

Saving the answers to all those questions for later, Delaney appreciated the way Surge remained steady and focused, ready to work. Ready to deal with any issue, yet compliant enough to keep his black KONG in his mouth. She grinned. A few weeks ago, Surge would’ve been too panicked for a situation like this. And if they could pull this off, she could prove to Heath that she had counterconditioned the Mal well. She did regret not telling him about this, but she had been sure he’d reject her request.

Mr. Finch’s black shoes squeaked as he approached slowly. “Good morning, Miss Thompson.”

“Easy,” she murmured to Surge, then smiled at the teacher who’d invited her to come. “Good morning. Thank you for letting us do a demonstration.”

Surge looked up at her with those bright golden-brown eyes, KONG dangling from his mouth like an old stogie.

Again the bell rang, signaling the start of the class period.

“Okay, boy. Leave it.” Surge dropped the KONG and readied himself, clearly detecting it was time to work.

Delaney pocketed the rubber toy. Movement pulled her attention to the bleachers, where a male student held something aloft.

Yelling “Victory,” he yanked a string at the bottom.

Pop-pop-pop-pop!

Body tense, Surge snapped his snout shut, eyes trained on the boy even as the students applauded the chaos the party popper launched.

Whooping, the boy produced more poppers, passing them to his friends.