Breaking Creed

by Alex Kava

  Without prompting, he could taste that dust in his mouth and feel the rock against his cheek as he lay helpless, not realizing at that moment that his arm had been severed and blown completely off his body. All he could see was his sergeant, no more than ten feet away. Jason hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the bloody pulp that used to be the man’s face. But he was still alive. Somehow they put him back together again, just like they did with Jason.

  Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  Some days—most days—Jason wished they had let him die.

  Then there were days he contemplated rectifying their decision. It’d be so easy. Some of his friends had done just that.

  So now, sitting here trapped in a vehicle with a poisonous snake at his feet, he actually thought, How bad could it be? Why not just let the snake bite him? How much could it hurt? It’d probably be a few minutes of intense pain. He’d already been there, done that. Piece of cake.

  He toyed with the idea. Hell, Creed’s idea might get him bitten anyway. Rather than try that, he could grab the thing.

  He watched the tail slink farther out of the sack and was surprised by the panic in his gut. Was that a good sign? Had today—tracking through the woods, finding death—given him some strange purpose? What was he waiting for? He had the perfect opportunity. A poisonous snake. No gun, no blood, no mess for his mom.

  No, with his luck he wouldn’t die, again.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  The voice startled Jason. He’d forgotten that he had put the cell phone in his pocket but hadn’t disconnected. Creed wanted him to stay on the line to make sure he was okay. He’d clicked on the speaker option.

  “Can snakes hear?” Jason asked with his chin on his chest to get his mouth close to the phone.

  “I think they feel vibration. So they might be able to feel your voice.”

  “Then shut up.”

  He was waiting for a comeback, but Creed was actually listening, which made Jason more nervous that the snake could probably hear him even breathing.

  He slowly lifted his hand while getting ready to lift his left leg. It took him too long to find the door handle, making him more anxious. He gripped the lever, squeezed, and raised it almost in slow motion. The door clicked and he started raising his foot when he noticed movement in the burlap bag. A second tail poked out.

  “Holy crap! There’s more than one.”

  “Easy, you can do this.” He heard Creed’s whisper in his pocket.

  Jason swung open the door and jerked his foot up. With his other boot he swept at the burlap bag. It was instinctive, like kicking out a live grenade. He watched the bag tumble out the door as snakes started twisting and falling out. Both his feet were on the car seat and he was standing, his back against the roof as he watched them hit the ground.

  “What the hell’s happening?”

  Jason climbed over the console, knocking his knee and scraping his ear on the overhead light. Somehow he managed to get out the other door. His boots hit the ground, and he ran up the steps to the front porch. From there he could see the snakes getting untangled and winding out. His fingers were shaking when he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

  “I’m okay. Looks like there were three sons of bitches in the bag.”

  “Sheriff Holt is sending someone to get you,” Creed told him. “You did good.”

  He breathed a deep sigh of relief, and it surprised him how good it felt to still be alive.

  44

  AMANDA WATCHED from her window perch. She had overheard Hannah talking on the phone. There had been an urgency in the woman’s ordinarily calm voice. It made Amanda’s heart start to race even before she heard Hannah say something about an FBI agent.

  Were they calling in the feds to take her away?

  Every time she tried sneaking out of her room she could hear Hannah at the end of the hallway, as if she was purposely watching for and guarding against Amanda’s escape. Wasn’t it just yesterday that she didn’t care?

  Other than the clothes she had worn at the airport, the only belongings she had were in the small square purse that had been strapped across her body. Hannah had left it on the nightstand, but Amanda figured the woman had gone through it. Didn’t matter, except that the passport was issued under her real name. Leandro had said it was easier that way, and since her mother obviously didn’t care about Amanda, she’d never report her missing. As far as she was concerned, Amanda was out of her house, and that’s exactly what she wanted.

  She stretched and grabbed the purse without leaving her lookout post. There wasn’t much in the small bag: her passport, a few bucks (Leandro didn’t want her carrying more than twenty dollars), some throat lozenges, a lip gloss (though she never used it, but Zapata said all teenage girls carried one), and the new iPod Leandro had given her.

  He had presented the iPod to her the last night they were together. She had always wanted one but couldn’t remember ever telling him that. He could be so considerate like that. On the flight to Atlanta she had listened to some of the music he had already downloaded. Maybe she expected Spanish love songs. She admitted she was disappointed that most of them were salsa, with no lyrics, or hard rock with words she couldn’t decipher. He had also downloaded a few videos and games and a bunch of apps. Amanda had no idea what some of the apps were for.

  She turned the iPod on and watched it go through the process of powering up and connecting to whatever it connected to. Her eyes were more interested in the length of driveway she could see through the trees. She didn’t want to miss Ryder Creed’s Jeep when it brought the FBI. The dings from the iPod startled her��one after another, a succession of them. She glanced down to see the message box icon with the number 9.

  How was it possible that she had nine messages?

  Her palm began to sweat under the weight of the gadget. She didn’t want to look. She didn’t want to see what they were telling her, the names they were calling her, the threats that were being made. Maybe they were Leandro telling her he loved her. She had thought of him as her knight in shining armor when she first met him. Now she wasn’t sure if she was feeling sick because she was excited that he might be missing her, or if she was still scared of him.

  And just as easily as she had turned the iPod on, she pressed the button and listened to it shut down. She was shoving it back into her purse when Hannah came barging into the room.

  “Don’t you ever knock?”

  “It’s my house.”

  “Even when you have a guest?”

  “You’re not a guest.”

  Yet even as she said it, Amanda watched the woman drop a set of clean towels on the corner of the bed. She had certainly taken care of Amanda as though she was a guest, but Amanda wouldn’t push the point. Besides, she needed to think of herself as a prisoner instead. She couldn’t be caught off guard.

  “You’re ratting me out to the FBI.”

  Hannah made a clucking noise with her tongue and shook her head.

  “You’ve been eavesdropping,” she said. She wasn’t surprised.

  “But it’s true, right?”

  “Child, the FBI’s not coming for you.”

  “I don’t like you calling me child.”

  “And I don’t care what you like or don’t like. Until we can get ahold of your momma, you’ll—”

  “Oh my God! You’re not trying to call my mom, are you?”

  Amanda could see in Hannah’s surprise that she had revealed too much panic. She wished she could take it back and tried to steady herself and her voice when she added, “My mom won’t come for me, so you’re just wasting your time.”

  “And why is that?”

  “She doesn’t want me. She told me to get out of her house.”

  “Child, sometimes parents say th
ings they don’t mean.”

  “Oh, she meant it.”

  “All you’ve been through? She wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  “She doesn’t care. Besides, she wouldn’t believe it. And I won’t go back there.”

  Amanda only now realized she had pulled her feet up onto the chair and she was hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She saw the concern in Hannah’s eyes and she hated that this woman might pity her. Shock would be better than pity, and that’s why she said what she did next. Because she wanted to wipe the pity off Hannah’s face.

  “I’d rather swallow cocaine balloons than have her boyfriend continue to stick his dick down my throat.”

  Thursday

  45

  O’DELL THOUGHT SHE HAD GOTTEN GOOD at disconnecting from pain. She had definitely had enough practice. Life was about sorting and tucking away and compartmentalizing feelings, emotions, and yes, even pain. It was supposed to be as simple as mind over matter. She needed to tell her mind to go somewhere else, to separate from the physical discomfort.

  Simple, unless you couldn’t swallow. Unless you found it difficult to breathe. Every time she opened her eyes, her vision blurred, creating two-headed monsters, then lights swirled until there were only ropes of colors racing around in her head.

  She squeezed her eyelids tight and fought against the damp chill that drenched her body. Any movement—a bump and slide—made her nauseated. Hands grabbed at her and she swatted them away. But they insisted—touching, dabbing, another sting. This time a needle. And so she went somewhere else in her mind. She tried to access sunny skies. Ocean waves. The sounds of seagulls overhead.

  But the dark and the pain triggered other memories. A flood of them.

  Suddenly she was in a dark forest. Red eyes watched her, hunted her from every direction. The electrical jolt of a Taser brought fresh pain. And the paralysis lingered, making her feel even more helpless. She felt herself curl into a bed of leaves that crumpled. The wet soil underneath made her cold—so very cold.

  Then a gunshot made her jerk. Searing pain raced along her scalp, tearing, ripping, burning, until she could smell the scorched flesh. This memory was worse than the scorpion stings, and it pushed her to the surface of consciousness.

  This time when O’Dell woke and opened her eyes she was able to focus. There were no trees, no forest. A high ceiling with polished wood planks. She was in a bed surrounded by cool sheets. Someone stirred behind her, and the panic grabbed hold for a second until she felt the wet tongue on her bare shoulder. She reached back, comforted by the touch.

  “Hey, Grace.” She petted the dog as she relaxed back into the pillows.

  Her eyes searched her surroundings. The bed was at the far end of a large loft apartment. A wonderful scent of something cooking came from the kitchen at the other end. She lifted her arm out from under the covers and in doing so saw that she was wearing only her panties and an oversized T-shirt, the V-neck stretched out and slipped down off her shoulder. The backs of her hands and her arms were covered with a sticky white paste. She could feel it on her neck and her cheek, as well.

  Grace now sat on the edge of the bed staring at her. O’Dell’s eyes searched the apartment again: the overstuffed sofa, the wall of bookshelves, the desk in a corner.

  “Where’s your owner?” she asked Grace.

  The dog cocked her head.

  “Where’s Ryder?”

  Grace’s ears slicked back and she started to wag. She jumped off the bed and glanced back over her shoulder, ready to lead O’Dell to what she had asked for.

  She was surprised to find her head quite clear. No swirling. Just a slight throb at her temples. There was no longer the deep, burning pain. Only an ache and soreness. Her knees didn’t wobble, and she was able to stand without assistance. The T-shirt’s hem came only to mid-thigh, and immediately she looked around the bed for her clothes.

  Grace scampered across the room, her entire hind end wagging impatiently for O’Dell to follow her.

  “You have any idea what happened to my pants?” she asked the dog.

  Grace’s only answer was a two-step prance and twirl.

  “No, I didn’t think so.” O’Dell couldn’t help but smile.

  Grace led her to a door off the kitchen that had been left open.

  The stairs were polished wood and spiraled down to a balcony that ran the length of the outer walls. It overlooked an atrium of a large warehouse-like building. Despite the open rafters and silver air-duct piping along the ceiling, windows at the top brought in streams of sunlight that sent shadows dancing across the earth-toned walls and the stamped cement floor. The place could easily be someone’s warehouse-style home. It was obviously the living space for Creed’s dogs.

  From her stance on the balcony’s landing, O’Dell could see a full kitchen in one corner with stainless steel commercial-sized appliances and shiny countertops. But instead of a table and chairs, rows of different-sized bowls were arranged on the floor with decorative mats underneath.

  There was a buzz and she saw a line of dog doors, several going up electronically now as dogs came in and immediately looked up at her. In the opposite corner, kennels lined the wall; more than a dozen dogs were sleeping or watching Grace and O’Dell from dog beds that were scattered around the floor. And in the middle of them she spotted Creed curled up—shirtless with only jeans on—nestled up between two large brown dogs. His head lay against the bigger dog’s back.

  Despite the tousled hair and bristled jaw, she couldn’t help thinking how much he reminded her of a young boy, fast asleep and at peace among the friends he knew he could count on and trust most.

  46

  SHE HAD BEEN STUNG BY SCORPIONS and awakened from a black fog, and yet the first thing she said to him was, “I couldn’t find my clothes.”

  Creed stifled a grin. He didn’t want her to feel any more self-conscious than she obviously was. Already her fingers were tugging down the hem of his favorite T-shirt, stretching it out beyond repair and making it even more of a favorite.

  “They were pretty dirty. Hannah took them to wash.”

  “Hannah?”

  “My partner.” He saw her glancing around his apartment and added, “She lives at the main house with her boys. You met her last night, but I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

  They had come back up from the dog kennels, though he certainly wouldn’t have minded lying there a bit longer. He’d managed to get maybe three hours of sleep. When he woke to see Maggie standing on the balcony above, he thought he was dreaming. The sunlight streaming down on her had made the white T-shirt practically transparent. She had looked like an angel—a quite shapely angel—totally unaware that he could see more than the bare thighs she was now trying so desperately to cover.

  “She offered to bring your freshly laundered clothes back with some lunch.”

  “Lunch? But you have something smelling wonderful here in your kitchen.”

  “Oh, that’s actually for the dogs. I’ve got one with kidney disease. It’s always a challenge to get him to eat. And we have two new boarders who are missing their owners.”

  “Ryder’s Dog Café?” She smiled at him, and he was glad to see she appreciated his effort rather than thinking he was silly. “Boarders? I didn’t realize that was part of your business.”

  “It’s not. Hannah volunteers at a place called Segway House. They take in runaways, recovering drug addicts, pregnant teens, and a lot of returning military. They can’t have their dogs while they’re living there. A couple of our boarders are dogs whose owners have been deployed and there were no family members to take the dogs in.”

  She was staring at him, and for a moment he thought perhaps she wasn’t feeling quite as well as she initially thought she did. “Wow!” she finally said. “That is really . . . admirable.”
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  And that was the last thing any man wanted to be called by a half-naked woman in the middle of his apartment.

  “Sometimes it’s a pain in the neck. I end up with a dog I didn’t want.”

  “The owner doesn’t come back for the dog?”

  “Or he comes back in a flag-draped casket.”

  “Oh.” It was obvious she hadn’t thought of that.

  At the kitchen counter he filled glasses with orange juice, then led her to the sofa, pointing to the blanket draped over the back. He waited for her to settle in while he held her glass. She tucked a bare foot up underneath herself, revealing even more than she intended before yanking the blanket over her lap.

  She’d been feverish last night but the crimson today was definitely a blush. He hated that she was uncomfortable and hated it even more that he found it sexier than hell. Especially after what she’d been through. He’d had plenty of women come to his loft apartment, some stayed the night, others just several hours, but this was more intimate than anything or anyone before, and he hadn’t even touched her.

  Then he realized that she probably thought he had.

  “Just for the record, Hannah and Dr. Avelyn undressed you last night. They put the baking soda paste on the stings.”

  She held up her hands and stared at the backs of them. The swelling was gone. A few welts were still visible under the paste. It was remarkable how, less than twenty-four hours later, Maggie looked almost back to normal.

  “You’re sure you’re feeling okay?”

  “I feel good,” she said as she took the glass of juice from him. Her eyes caught sight of his welts, and she reached up and touched the back of his hand. “Looks like you got stung, too.”

  Her fingertips meant to caress, but Creed felt only the unexpected electrical charge. He shrugged and pretended the stings and her touch were no big deal. He asked, “No pain?”