by Alex Kava
In addition to Cheyenne’s team of three that he was following, Diesel had two in his sight coming through the forest behind the main house. Nuru’s group from the west included two more. From the camera up in a tree at the end of his driveway, Creed could see a vehicle parked off the road with its headlights off. Once in a while he saw what he believed was the red-orange tip of a glowing cigarette behind the steering wheel.
None of the other cameras had shown any movement for the last hour. So Creed put the count at seven, with one outside the perimeter. He wondered if the guy who had run Hannah and Amanda off the road was here tonight. He hoped so.
What Jason had told him appeared to be correct. Most of the men looked like ex-military. But they also looked like a ragtag assortment. Some were dressed in camouflage. A few wore bandannas around their heads. A couple chose ball caps.
No helmets. That was good.
It meant no advanced communication system, and he didn’t see any radios strapped to their arms or any jawbone microphones.
What surprised Creed—and should not have—was the firepower. Two of the men looked like they were carrying AK-47s. The others had serious semiautomatic handguns. One guy wore an ammo belt strapped across his chest. Another had what looked like grenades hanging from a belt.
This seemed like overkill.
Maggie O’Dell had said that Trevor Bagley and the fishing boat captain had been tortured by fire ants and spiders, then dumped into the river. Neither had been shot or stabbed or blown up. They had been killed by the cartel’s hired assassin, a phantom nicknamed the Iceman. He preferred to torture his victims. Creed wondered why they had sent an entire military-style hit squad to kill him.
And then he realized the answer to his question, and he felt a knot twist in his stomach. Suddenly he was questioning his entire strategy. These men had probably been ordered to capture him for the Iceman. The heavy artillery wasn’t for him. It was to take out his dogs.
64
CREED’S SECOND CELL PHONE started to vibrate. Diesel’s crew had tripped the motion sensor at the back door of the main house.
Creed grabbed his iPad. He punched the app that brought up all the dog collars and their communication devices. He opened Grace’s and tapped three times. She didn’t have a camera—just the communication gadget. He’d be able to watch her from the cameras already in the house. He touched the app for the interior and brought up the camera views from inside. And sure enough, he saw Grace scurrying into position.
The two men entered the kitchen at a crouch. Diesel knew not to follow them inside unless or until Creed gave the command. From Diesel’s camera, he watched the men disappear inside. And from the kitchen camera, he saw them moving in.
The lights were on in the house. In every room, every possible bulb burned bright, so the two men removed their infrared goggles. From camera to camera Creed watched them sneak from room to room. He adjusted his earbud. The microphones on the cameras in the house were much more sensitive.
“Did you hear that?” the man in the lead asked his partner.
“Sounded like it came from that way.”
Just at that moment, Creed saw Grace peek around the corner, letting the men see her.
“It’s a dog.”
Gunfire blasted in Creed’s ear, sending him to his feet.
Damn it!
Frantically, he punched at icons, bringing up cameras to follow the men when he really just wanted to run to the house. As soon as they got to the hallway that Grace had disappeared down, Creed pulled out the remote from his pocket and began clicking buttons, one after another, sending the entire house into darkness.
“Holy crap! What the hell!”
He could hear the men as he watched them screech to a halt. There were only two doors down this way. He kept a faint light on in the room at the end of the hall, which had been Amanda’s room. But it was difficult to see because the other door halfway down the hall was fully open and obstructed the view of the rest of the hallway.
“This is the way the dog went.”
“Come on, let’s get this little bastard.”
The one in a hurry raced to the open doorway with his friend close behind. He rushed through and the scream and crash stopped his buddy in the threshold.
“Craig, what the hell happened?”
Too late! The heavy metal door swung into the man’s back, sending him down. Creed turned the lights back on in time to see Bolo, with his big front paws still on the door, keeping it closed as Creed hit a button and heard the bolt slide and click into place.
“Sorry, guys. Hannah’s been nagging me forever to put steps down to that storm cellar.”
Then he turned on his microphone for the communication system in the dogs’ collars and said, “Good job, Bolo.”
He saw Grace come from the end of the hallway to join the big dog.
“Good job, Grace.”
He watched their ears go back and he knew they had heard him.
“Grace, Bolo, go hide.”
Both of them stood there a moment, as if they expected him to come into the house. That was the only part of this that he hadn’t perfected—no pats, no rewards. Only audio praise. Not until the end . . . if there was an end.
They still hadn’t moved.
“Grace, Bolo, go hide.” He used a sterner voice and the two took off.
Two down, Creed thought. Five to go.
And his cell phone began to vibrate again. One of the groups had just breached the motion sensor at the corner of the kennel warehouse.
Creed readjusted his gadgets and wiped his forehead.
Come on in, guys.
65
FALCO WAITED IN THE SUV at the end of the driveway, exactly like he was told to do. But he wasn’t happy about it. He was getting tired of being bossed around by Leandro.
As an apprentice to the Iceman, Falco knew that he needed to stand back and be ready for when the hit squad captured the dog handler. And he actually looked forward to what the Iceman had planned—a brilliant combination of insect bites and stings in an arena-style setting of challenges that the Iceman promised would be worthy of the ex-marine.
Still, Falco longed to be a part of the men who were now sneaking through the woods like savages hunting prey. He was reminded again of those stray dogs in his hometown. The mayor had hired his own hit squad to round up the mutts. He even gave permission to shoot them in the street, although that plan backfired. No matter how much the people of the village wanted the dogs gone, they did not want to witness such savagery—or be caught in the line of fire.
Falco had volunteered for the mayor’s hit squad, and the man laughed at him.
“You’re not big enough to even hold a rifle,” the mayor told him, and then laughed again, humiliating Falco in front of the others.
He felt like Leandro was always trying to do the same thing to him. Always pointing out to the others how young and inexperienced Falco was. Not that Falco wanted to shoot dogs. He actually felt sorry for the beasts. They didn’t stand a chance against the weapons these men had chosen to bring. It was a bit ridiculous.
When Falco had helped recruit these men for this mission, he left it up to each man to bring the weapon or weapons of his choice. Leandro said that was best. Make them account for their own weapons. Ex-military guys never seemed to have a problem getting their hands on a wide assortment of firepower.
Leandro had even insisted that this be part of the contract. That way, if any of the men were caught by law enforcement during any part of the operation, the weapons could never be traced back to Choque Azul, and instead, made each man look responsible.
Okay, so sometimes Leandro could be smart. Although many of the men Falco worked with said that Leandro’s father was still the mastermind, even from behind prison bars. There was even talk that the
Iceman might be taking over.
Falco tapped out another cigarette, impatient and wanting to calm his nerves. He’d need to turn the engine on soon and cool off, again. He didn’t dare open the car windows because he knew he’d have more mosquitoes than he would have breeze.
He had pulled the vehicle off the main road and onto a patch of dirt that connected the neighboring pasture to the road. Trees and shrubs gave him cover on one side. He could still easily see the long driveway, but he had given up trying to see the men through the woods.
He was about to light the cigarette when he thought he saw a flash of light in the rearview mirror. That was impossible. He was backed up to the pasture. Nothing but cows, and even they had left. The dark and the quiet were starting to make him imagine things.
Then suddenly someone knocked on the passenger-side window. Falco startled with a manic jerk that banged his knee into the steering wheel. He fumbled for the revolver under the seat but stopped when he recognized the face—the scarred face—staring in at him with a crooked smile.
He turned the switch and hit the button to lower the window. He remembered the guy from Segway House—Colfax was his name.
“Did you decide you wanted to be a part of the action after all?” Falco asked him.
“Something like that.”
A flood of light hit Falco in the face. This time when he reached for his weapon, Colfax shoved the barrel of his handgun through the open window.
“Might not be such a good idea.”
The floodlight shut off, and it took Falco’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dark. When they did, he could see a strange contraption five feet in front of his SUV. It resembled a wheelchair, only with caterpillar tracks that made it an all-terrain vehicle. In the raised seat was the crippled guy also from Segway House. He had a rifle pointed directly at Falco’s head, and he was grinning.
66
“LOOK AT THAT.” A giant of a man came into the kennels’ warehouse after a good ten minutes of peering around the corner of the open garage-style door. “This should be easy.”
Creed saw him point at the dogs in their kennels at the far end of the building.
“It’ll be like shooting rats in a barrel.”
Creed swallowed bile and let himself feel anger instead of panic. He stayed calm and he stayed hidden as he continued to glance at his cell phones and iPad and watch the giant’s two buddies venture inside behind him.
The giant stood at least six-five and weighed three hundred pounds of solid muscle, by Creed’s estimate. With his gear he looked like a space monster. The infrared goggles were pushed up into a thick mass of dreadlocks, making him appear to have eyes on the top of his head. He was dressed like his buddies, in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants.
This was Cheyenne’s group. Creed recognized the small guy in the Kevlar vest with the bandanna wrapped around his head. He had taken off his goggles and let them dangle on his chest. The third guy—suntanned and wavy blond hair—looked like he could have stepped off his surfboard and strapped on a military belt, with the knife still in its scabbard and the automatic revolver in his right hand.
The second group—Nuru’s—had just tripped the sensor over at the pool and training house. Bad timing. Creed wouldn’t be able to give both his attention.
Creed felt sweat slide down his back. The gear hanging from his neck suddenly felt heavy and in his way. He swung it slowly and quietly around to hang down his back instead of his chest until he needed it.
“They aren’t even barking at us,” the surfer guy said. “Look at them. They’re so quiet and calm. Do you think they’re drugged or something?”
The other two guys looked nervous. Even the giant stopped grinning and started craning his neck to examine the balconies above.
On his iPad, Creed could see Nuru’s crew of two enter the pool and training house. He noticed that Nuru had already left them, and he couldn’t help but smile and think silently to himself, Good dog.
“His apartment is supposed to be on the second floor of this place.” The big man pointed his chin at the landing in the middle of the atrium. “Looks like there’s a door.”
Creed watched the two men inside the pool and training house. They both wore red—one a red bandanna and the other a red ball cap. Either they were bold enough to wear red or too stupid to know how well it showed up in the dark. Now in the pool and training house lights he saw how young they looked, even with the black paint smeared on their faces, and he decided “stupid” was probably correct rather than “bold.” Although either one was dangerous when you combined it with semiautomatic weapons.
“No one’s around,” the surfer guy said down below. “Maybe the other guys are having more luck in the house.”
“Oh, he’s here,” the one in the Kevlar vest told them. “Falco said he followed him home. Watched him go from his vehicle into here.”
Creed had noticed the tail, although he had to admit, Falco was good. He wondered if Falco was the one who was waiting at the end of the driveway.
He saw that the red bandanna and the red ball cap had reached the duffel bag he had left on the floor in the middle of the training facility. Just as they came up on either side of it, Creed clicked his remote twice. He didn’t have the sound turned on to hear their screams as the floor opened up and swallowed them.
Deep graves under floorboards were always an excellent training tool for cadaver dogs.
Two more down.
The three in the kennel warehouse were right below Creed now. Two of them started climbing the stairs at opposite sides of the building.
Creed put the whistle to his lips and blew. Only the dogs could hear it. They came out of their kennels and headed for the dog doors. The electronic buzzes startled the men.
“What the hell?”
“They decided to leave.” The Kevlar vest guy thought it was funny and started laughing. “They probably don’t like the way you smell,” he told the giant, and the surfer guy laughed now, too.
That was a better reaction than Creed expected. The dogs’ leaving would actually make their jobs easier.
Last dog out the dog door was Kramer, a Maltese who Creed didn’t use as a scent dog because he was too small, even smaller than Grace. He was one of those heartstring dogs that Penelope Clemence had talked Creed into saving. Andy had trained Kramer to do a number of tricks, and before the dog left the warehouse, Creed gave two short blows and one long blow on the whistle. Kramer leaped up and tapped a small box about three feet off the ground.
“What did that dog just do?” The giant noticed and swung the rifle off his shoulder.
On the other side of the warehouse, the garage door they had come through started to close, and all three men jerked their heads in that direction as Kramer scurried through the dog door.
“Did that dog just close the door?” It was the surfer guy.
All three men came back toward the door, eyes and guns darting across the warehouse. Yet none of them retreated or even tried to stop the door.
As soon as Creed was certain that all the dogs were gone, and when he heard the door hit the floor, he put on the contraption that had been hanging from his neck. Then he used his remote once again. Two clicks and the sprinklers in the ceiling burst open.
“What the hell.”
Creed watched the clock on his cell phone. It would take several seconds for the men to realize it wasn’t water being sprayed down. He poked up from his hiding spot to sneak a peek at them down below. The giant saw him and raised his rifle. Creed had to duck as bullets ricocheted. They dinged off the metal railings on the balcony. Something ripped open Creed’s cheek under his right eye. More bullets slammed into the metal bin as Creed belly-crawled back to his hiding place.
Okay, too soon. That was stupid. And he squeezed himself against the wall behind the bin.<
br />
“Stop, Adam. We’re not supposed to kill him.”
“Damn it! What . . . the hell is this . . . stuff.”
Creed could hear the Kevlar vest guy struggling to get the words out. He stayed tucked away and watched the clock. His gas mask protected him. The other men should be knocked out in less than a minute. But he hadn’t calculated someone as big as the giant. Adam, the giant, would probably take longer.
And that’s when Creed heard someone coming up the steps.
67
A HUGE MITT OF A HAND grabbed Creed by the ankle and began to pull. The man didn’t seem fazed by the mist that should have at least started to knock him out.
Creed kicked at the fingers with his other foot, smashing his own ankle but not discouraging the giant’s hold.
“You bastard,” the man cursed at him, and Creed noticed the words weren’t the least bit slurred.
He let go of his electronic devices to free up his hands. But instead of grabbing onto anything, Creed allowed the man to drag him out from his hiding place. And he did it as roughly as he could, seesawing Creed’s leg and sending his head bouncing against the floor.
But out in the open, the gas mask surprised and stopped the man. Creed took advantage of the brief slip. He balled up his fist and slammed it into the giant’s throat. The guy gasped and grabbed his neck, finally letting go of Creed’s ankle.
Creed scrambled to his hands and knees as the man reached for him, again. Only, this time he collapsed. Finally the fumes had overcome him.
He gathered up his cell phones, leaving the iPad behind. By his calculation, there was one man left to deal with—the guy sitting in the vehicle at the end of Creed’s driveway.