If this sensation was a reaction to that woman, he was slowly acclimating to her strange effect on his circuitry. He felt whole again much faster. The zap of energy left him feeling powerful and clear-minded, like a shot of adrenaline when hewas deep in the fight. It was the side of effervescent tingle that felt strange.
Correlation isn’t causation,Dakota reminded himself.
One of his Swift Water brothers had developed something called Bow Hunter’s Syndrome that stemmed from his years on the football field and on the battlefield, which created lasting neurological trauma that made him pass out with sudden twists of his head.
Dakota swung his head quickly side to side just to see, and it changed nothing.
After yesterday with Benny’s heart attack, this sensation Dakota had experienced three days in a row was catching his attention, especially given his own traumatic injury list.
Dakota asked Benny if he needed a doctor; Benny said he’d go the next day. That decision on Benny’s part almost cost him his life.
Was Dakota being a coward for not stopping by some walk-in clinic to at least run these sensations by a doc? What would Dakota even say? “Listen, I think something's been shaken out of whack from all the times I crouched too close to a blast radius back in my days in the sandbox. Maybe something finally came loose.”
That seemed a reasonable way to start.
More reasonable than that, he had developed some weird reaction to a brown-haired woman who was about five feet eight and had the build of a tennis player. Suddenly, he was spotting her all over Washington, D.C., and every time he did, he fragmented.
Dakota set Tank back on the ground. “What say you, Tank? Have you got it together?”
Tank’s body had stiffened with concentration. His nose was chuffing the air. Then he sat and looked up for his next instruction.
She must be gone.
Signaled to walk by his side, Tank plastered his body to Dakota’s thigh, but his tongue hung long, drooling with hyped nerves. Dakota decided to take a couple of minutes to circle the block so that when they were inside and hopefully, given permission to search any cash reserves as a team, they were squared away.
When Dakota and Tank were back to even keel, Dakota went through the door to the security desk and showed his credentials.
Tank’s nose was chuffing the air, and the guard lifted off the seat and leaned over the desk to get a look. “That’s a magnificent dog,” he said as he sat back down. “Straight through to the elevator bank, then up to the fifth floor. Out of the elevator, take a right, then another right, and you’ll come to the director’s PA’s desk. I’ll let her know you’re on your way up.”
Tank’s feet were wide, and his nose was on the ground as he followed a scent. Either someone had dribbled steak juice, or they were following the brown-haired woman’s trail. For a flash, Dakota thought it would be interesting to just let Tank do his thing, trace the scent to its source, and maybe learn the woman’s name.
But then, what would she think of that? “Stalker material, buddy. How about you stop that? Let’s give the woman some privacy.” Dakota signaled “leave it” to Tank, who then swiveled and plastered himself to Dakota’s side.
Up they went. Following the directions from security, the team landed at the PA’s desk. Stepping back to wait patiently for her to finish up her phone call, Tank focused on the open door of an empty office and stomped his foot.
And there it was, a vase of distinctive tropical flowers.
Very distinctive. Very tropical.
Dakota reached down and scritched the top of Tank’s head. “Got it.”
“Sir, may I help you?”
“Yes, ma’am—”
“Erica.” She smiled.
“Yes, thank you, Erica. I’m Special Agent Dakota Kayne with the Secret Service.” He held up his badge. “I have an appointment with Neesa Meesang this morning.”
“She’s on a call and will be just a minute. May I offer you a cup of coffee or a bottle of water?”
“No, thank you, ma’am. But could you tell me whose office this is?” He pointed toward the open door.
“Rylee Jones? She’s co-director of operations along with Neesa.”
Tank leaned into his leg and looked up at him.
“It’s Rylee,” Dakota told him as a diminutive woman with long black hair leaned around the door, one office down. Her wide-legged pants and tunic seemed like an effective executive style for an NGO. Her look said clean and precise, but also comfortable and welcoming. “Hey, you must be Dakota Kayne and Tank.” She focused on Tank, “You are magnificent. Wow.” She looked up at Dakota. “Huge.”
