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.
“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
