He could hear a dog barking, but his eyelids were too heavy. Nearby an engine rumbled to life. The smell of diesel stung his nostrils. Another flash. His eyelids fluttered, caught a glimpse of blurred headlights, then closed again.
In the back of his mind he remembered how crowded the rest area was. Trucks hummed in back, in their own parking lot, separated from the cars and SUVs. Rain turned the wet, greasy asphalt into streaks of neon red and yellow and orange that danced and moved, the reflection of taillights and running lights coming to life. Creed’s sister, Brodie, had been fascinated with the slimy smears. Leave it to Brodie, she could always see rainbows where the rest of the family saw only dirty pools of diesel. Creed remembered how she pranced from puddle to puddle, making sure she splashed in as many as possible as she ran the short distance from their car to the brick building that housed the restrooms. And although he couldn’t hear her, he knew she was humming or singing the entire way. So happy, so good-natured—traits you’d never guess would be hazards.
“Her feet will be soaking wet,” Creed’s father had grumbled from behind the steering wheel as he watched her.
The game was on the radio. Fourth quarter, only five minutes left, and his team was behind by three.
“Can’t you shut that dog up,” he yelled over the backseat.
That was why Creed hadn’t been able to escort Brodie. He had been told to take care of and shut up their family dog so his dad could at least hear “the frickin’ game.” It was bad enough that they would be driving all night and he would have to listen instead of watch. He was already mad that Creed’s mom had to stay behind for a few extra days to take care of Creed’s grandmother.
Ironically, years later, when Creed would find him with a bullet hole in his temple, Creed would wonder if the football game playing on the big screen in his father’s living room had offered condolence or inspired madness.
But that night at the rest area, in the car with the pitter-patter of rain against the roof and the soft blue glow of the interior lights, there seemed to be nothing wrong with staying in the car while Brodie went all by herself to use the rest area’s bathroom.
Now Creed heard the barking again. From the edge of consciousness he knew he needed to wake up before the dream gained traction. Before it grabbed hold and started to play in slow motion. Before it began to flicker and wrap around his mind while it slowly ripped at his heart.
He felt his body twitch. But his eyes only fluttered, lead shutters refusing to disengage. He knew what came next. What always came next. The dog was warning them. He could hear it barking louder now. Why hadn’t they listened to the dog?
A clap of thunder jolted him awake. Creed sprung up as though someone had connected battery cables to his chest. In fact, his heart throbbed so hard that he rubbed his breastbone, half expecting to find electrodes left behind. There was nothing, not even a shirt.
It took him a minute to realize he wasn’t at a rest area. He wasn’t even in his Jeep. Instead, he was safe and sound in his bed, the flash of lightning revealing pieces of his loft apartment. He looked over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The digital display had gone dark. The storm had knocked out the electricity again. There was enough tinge of light on the horizon just below the storm clouds to suggest sunrise. Unless he had fallen asleep hard and it was the next night’s sunset. That had happened a few times, when exhaustion took him over so completely that it literally wiped him out for days.
From the foot of his bed Grace glanced up at him.
“I’m okay,” he told her, and the dog plopped her head back down, too exhausted to disagree with him.
He leaned over the edge and saw that Rufus hadn’t budged. The old Lab was hard of hearing but had long ago earned his spot at the side of Creed’s bed. Neither dog stirred as the thunder continued. Which reminded Creed, and he held his breath to listen.
The generator had kicked on. Living in the Florida Panhandle meant dealing with year-round lightning storms. That was the engine hum and the diesel smell he had mistaken for eighteen-wheelers. But there was no dog barking. As real as it seemed, it was only a part of his dream.
The breeze brought in a mist from the open window. Creed pushed himself out of bed to cross the short distance, but instead of closing the window, he let the rain spray his sweat-drenched body as he stared out over the property.
Woods bordered two sides of the fifty-plus acreage that he and Hannah had transformed into an impressive canine training facility. From this angle, even through the trees he could see the main house. It had been a dilapidated two-story colonial when Hannah convinced him they could restore it. All the other buildings on the property had to be bulldozed. Then, one by one, they built what they needed, revising and designing their plan as the business catapulted them into rapid success.
In the beginning it made perfect sense for Hannah and her boys to take the main house, while they used part of the lower level for offices. Creed insisted on a loft apartment above the dog kennels for himself. He told Hannah that he wanted to be close by to protect and care for their most valuable commodity.
Truth was, the dogs were his one constant and reliable comfort in life. And although a loft apartment above the dog kennels sounded odd, Creed had spared no expense. The open floor plan included a high-beamed cathedral ceiling, lots of windows, cherrywood floors, a wall of built-in bookcases, and a gourmet kitchen. Because he was on the road so much of the time, he had tried to create a retreat as much as a home for himself.
Still at the window, Creed noticed that the spray of rain had stopped as the wind decreased. He could see the storm clouds rolling away, the bolts of lightning reduced to flickers. The smudge of daybreak glowed orange. Now he could see the main house lights come on, one by one, while his loft remained dark.
He glanced back at the digital alarm clock, which remained unlit. The good news was that it wasn’t a widespread power outage. The bad news was that the lightning must have zapped the kennels and his loft apartment, again. This was the third time in two months.
Time to call an electrician.
Just as Creed reached for his jeans, he noticed headlights at the end of the long driveway. The vehicle had turned in, but slowed down and then stopped. The driveway was almost a quarter of a mile long, but Creed could see the entire length of it from his perch. He’d purposely made it long to keep them as far off the main road as possible. Sometimes people got lost and used it to turn around. Maybe someone had gotten lost in the storm.
He was about to shrug it off. But the vehicle didn’t move. And then the headlights went out. For some reason the words of Liz Bailey’s father came back to Creed: “Watch your back.”
8
DURING THE TEN MINUTES that it took Creed to pull on clothes and make it to the main house, the vehicle at the end of the driveway had not moved. He knocked before he opened the back door that led into the kitchen. The scent of cinnamon, baked bread, bacon, and coffee stopped him in his tracks. It wasn’t until Hannah looked up and scowled at the shotgun in his hands that he remembered why he had been concerned.
“You going hunting?” she asked him as she wiped her hands and glided her large frame effortlessly from one task to another. “Otherwise, I don’t appreciate a gun in my kitchen.”
He glanced around before he remembered her boys were at Hannah’s grandparents’ farm for their annual two-week summer adventure. Finally he told her, “There’s a vehicle stopped at the end of the driveway.”
“Probably just someone waiting out the storm.”
“It pulled in after the rain stopped.”
“So you’re gonna go shoot ’em?” She said it with a straight face, all matter-of-fact, with not a hint of sarcasm or humor. Hannah always had a way of defusing his paranoia and making what he believed was a perfectly reasonable decision sound ridiculous.
“No, of course not. Maybe scare th
em a little.”
He set the shotgun aside and squatted down to pet Lady, a black-and-white border collie. She greeted him with a head-butt to his thigh, making him smile and realize that she redefined the term “lady,” but then so did Hannah, who had chosen the name for her.
Creed had found the dog along Highway 98. She’d been the victim of a hit-and-run. Her pelvis had been crushed. No tags and no one claimed her. Bright-eyed and scared, she still allowed him to pick her up. She wasn’t the first dog they had mended back together. Lady, however, had failed miserably as a scent dog. She was always more interested in rounding up everyone than searching out any of the surrounding smells. Her natural instinct did make her the perfect companion for Hannah’s two boys, as she watched over them and herded them away from danger.
And now Creed wondered if perhaps he was simply being overprotective. Had the incident on the boat spooked him into thinking a drug cartel would bother to come after him? Hannah was right. It was ridiculous. If they did send a hit squad, they wouldn’t be so obvious as to park at the end of his driveway.
When he looked up he noticed Hannah had stopped her morning routine and was staring at him, hands on her hips, those brown eyes inspecting and examining him. He’d never been able to hide anything from her.
“Something happen yesterday? You didn’t stop at the house last night.”
He stood and rubbed at his bristled jaw, but he felt it go tight despite his effort to stop it. “We found five kids.”
“I thought you were searching for drugs on a fishing boat.”
“We were. A seventy-foot long-liner with about eighty thousand pounds of mahi-mahi. Coast Guard had been tracking it. It had its hold full and was headed south to leave the Gulf.”
“Doing a pickup out in the middle of the water?”
“That was the suspicion, but there wasn’t any cocaine. Grace found five kids. Hidden under the floorboards.”
“Good Lord! Stowaways?”
“No.” He shook his head, and his eyes left the kitchen, looking out the window as the sun crested through the trees. “Not stowaways.” He realized how much he didn’t want to think about it anymore. Didn’t want to even talk about it. The incident on the boat was probably what had brought on his nightmare about Brodie.
“They’re trafficking kids now,” she said without waiting for an explanation.
She turned back to the stove, still shaking her head, but thankfully not expecting Creed to tell her more. At least not now.
“That’s a lot of food.” He needed to focus on something else and already found his mouth watering from the combination of aromas. Breakfast foods were always his favorite comfort foods.
“Andy’s taking everyone through basic drills this morning.”
“I’ll be out at the kennels if anyone needs me. Electricity is out.”
“Again? Seems like every time we have lightning, it’s knocking it out. You sure you don’t have one too many gadgets that’s tripping everything up?”
“The more self-reliant the dogs are, the less work around here.”
She rolled her eyes at him. It was an old argument, but the truth was, Creed wasn’t completely comfortable using so much automation for this exact reason. What happens when the power is out? He liked using the most advanced technology available, as long as he could have a backup system if anything malfunctioned.
“I’ve got everything running on auxiliary for now. I think I might be able to mess with it and get it back running.”
“I’ll check at Segway House and see if we have any electricians. Wouldn’t hurt to have a professional take a look. You know I don’t like you messin’ with hot wires. Believe me, you would not look good with curly hair.”
“Very funny.”
That’s when Creed saw the headlights coming up the driveway. “Looks like our stalker decided to be sociable after all.”
Hannah glanced out the window.
“Oh mercy, I forgot to tell you. I hired a new worker.” She started shutting off burners, putting on lids, and setting aside utensils. “Figures he’d be early.”
“So early that he had to sit and wait at the end of our driveway?” He slipped back into his anger.
“Now be nice, Rye. This guy’s had a tough time. He reminds me a little bit of you.”
Creed shook his head and smiled. He was the one who brought home discarded and damaged dogs, while Hannah did the same with people.
By the time the man parked and was getting out of his car, Creed was marching ahead of Hannah, the shotgun barrel down and relaxed in his right hand. He’d set this guy straight on appropriate etiquette. Being early for work was a good thing, but hanging out at the end of his driveway was bordering on creepy.
“Rye, just hold up there a minute or two.”
Hannah was trying to keep pace with him and she sounded a little too nervous about their introduction. She volunteered at a halfway house. That’s where she met runaways, recovering drug addicts, and abused wives. But Creed trusted her judgment when she brought one of them home. He was beginning to think she wasn’t too sure about this guy.
At first glance the man looked young. Creed guessed he wasn’t even twenty. Hannah had said the guy reminded her of him, but Creed didn’t see any resemblance. The man was four or five inches shorter than Creed. He was clean-shaven and wore his hair close-cropped. He wasn’t smiling when he met Creed’s eyes. There was something there—something hard and dark. Distrust, maybe a little anger. He didn’t flinch when he noticed the shotgun.
He came around the side of his vehicle and that’s when Creed saw that the right sleeve of his denim shirt hung loose from the elbow down. He watched with those intense eyes as Creed noticed, almost as if he was daring Creed to dismiss him or say something inappropriate.
“Jason, this is my partner, Ryder Creed,” Hannah said, coming around to stand in between the two of them as if she might have to referee. “Jason’s been home from Afghanistan for a few months. Looking for work. You know how hard it is to find a job these days.”
“Unless you think there’s a problem with me working here,” Jason said.
And there it was. Creed could hear the challenge in the young man’s voice, even as he lifted his chin. Lady had followed them out of the house. She joined Crockett, a retired rottweiler who could still be intimidating if he wanted to be. The pair began sniffing Jason’s boots.
“Hiring is up to Hannah,” Creed said, and pretended not to notice as the young man slowly opened his left hand for the dogs to sniff while still trying to maintain his rigid tough-guy stance. In that small gesture he could see that Jason was comfortable with them. He didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. Instead, he had silently opened up for them to check him out.
“I trust her judgment,” Creed added. “Besides, the dogs don’t care whether you have one hand or three. Just don’t park and sit at the end of my driveway, okay?” He nodded at Hannah and turned to leave.
“Park? What are you talking about?” Jason asked.
Creed looked back at the man and met his eyes. There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment, guilt, or anything that looked like a lie. Only confusion. Creed glanced at Hannah, and for the first time that morning, he saw a flicker of concern.
9
COLOMBIA
AMANDA COULD SMELL HIM before she heard him come into the room—a combination of sweat and that greasy hair gel he liked to use. She was still angry with him . . . and maybe a bit scared of him. Right now she’d hang on to the anger. That was easier to deal with, so she kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, though she was far from it. Back in the hot, humid room that she called home, she hugged a sweat-drenched pillow and tried not to think of the cool tiled floor and the luxury hotel that she’d left behind.
It had been a tough trip back. The nausea continued, despite getting a
ll the balloons to pass. She had checked each one herself, pushing Zapata away. She had touched each one, rolling and feeling to make certain none of the rubber had broken or the ties had come undone. Amanda had counted and counted again until the old woman started looking at her as if she had gone mad.
And maybe she had. Maybe a little bit, because Amanda could swear that something felt ripped inside her.
Coming back through the airport, the customs officer had scrutinized her passport for a beat too long. Adding to Amanda’s discomfort. No one had prepared her for what she should do if they detained her. There had only been warnings, no instructions.
“You just came into the country,” the man said, his eyes narrowing as he ran them up and down Amanda’s body. “What’s the rush to leave?”
Before she could answer, Zapata had laughed. A sound Amanda had never heard coming from the old woman’s mouth. It sounded so real, so genuine, so much like real laughter.
“Parents with too much money,” Zapata told the officer, as if there might be a secret bond between the two of them. “They want what they want. I just follow their instructions.”
It made Amanda glance up at the man. Her eyes caught his and she looked away. It was enough for her to see that the man might be of Hispanic origin, brown skin and dark eyes. When he spoke again, she could hear a subtle accent, thicker now, as though Zapata had given him permission. He nodded like he understood the type, while he kept examining Amanda.
That was when it hit her. As Amanda watched his eyes take in her designer jeans, the makeup Zapata had insisted she put on, the fancy jewelry Leandro had given her, and the leather handbag, Amanda realized that all of it was part of her disguise.