Breaking Creed (9 page)

She pulled out the photocopy of the crumpled, bloody driver’s license and laid it next to the tattoo, as if they were cards in a deck and she was presenting him with a blackjack.

“A driver’s license? Why are you wasting my time with this, Agent O’Dell? It looks like you have plenty of pieces to the puzzle, so you might be able to do what I sent you to do—
investigate
.”

She stood still, watching him and trying to determine whether or not he already knew any of this. Had she jumped to conclusions?

“You’re making a serious judgment on poor”—he sorted through the pages again to find the man’s name—“Trevor Bagley.”

“Are you saying this isn’t a hit by a drug cartel?”

“I have no idea, Agent O’Dell.” But he didn’t look up at her. There was something he still wasn’t telling her. “I suggest you go do your job and find out.”

“Stan Wenhoff believes Bagley was restrained . . . tied down. There are ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. He thinks he spent some time lying on a mound of fire ants. His entire back”—she pointed out the photocopy—“is covered in tiny pustules.”

Kunze winced. “And why don’t you think this is the work of a serial killer?”

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Crossed her arms over her chest.

“I don’t know that for sure.”

“That’s right, you don’t. I suggest you get back to work, Agent O’Dell.”

When she didn’t move he looked up at her and pointed to the door.

“Please shut it on your way out.” He pulled a file from his stack, shoving aside the pages she had placed on his desk and dismissing her with an exaggerated sigh of frustration.

She turned and left.

15

HARTSFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

R
YDER
C
REED
never thought he’d actually be anxious to go back to searching for dead bodies. He was, however, certain he was finished with drugs. Hannah had promised this would be the last day, at least for a while.

They had been at it for hours. He’d refused to let Grace work on the tarmac today because of the heat. So instead of inspecting checked luggage before it made its way to baggage claim, they were inside the international terminal. They had been walking up and down Concourse F as hundreds of passengers arrived and were processed.

Creed kept Grace moving through the federal inspection station, along the carousels where the assortment of suitcases, duffel bags, backpacks, and boxes rode conveyor belts. He and Grace weaved through and circled around them and the security checkpoint, then they started the same route all over again.

His badge and Grace’s vest gave them access to anywhere they chose to go with barely a nod or a glance from the U.S. Customs and Border Protection officers. By now, Creed and Grace were well known. Even Grace recognized some of her favorite CBP officers, especially those who had given her treats or stopped to pet her. Both were things Creed did not appreciate people doing with his dogs while they were working, but Grace was an exception. The high-energy Jack Russell needed more interaction to keep her from getting bored.

In assignments like this, a dog handler’s top priority was to keep the dog engaged and motivated. A dog that tired from being in the same place and only ran through the motions would be antsy to leave and might miss an alert. The dog should never consider it work. It was supposed to be fun and interesting.

Creed remembered his marine unit sergeant drilling it into him: “Make the search more exciting than pee on a tree.” Whatever the dog wants and needs, the dog gets.

The marines even gave their canine comrades a military rank one notch above their handlers to reinforce that the dogs receive and deserve respect. It was something that Creed kept in the forefront of his mind, and something he made sure the handlers who he trained did, as well.

It was almost time for a break when he noticed Grace start to sniff the air. She pulled him along, toenails clicking on the floor as she went into what Creed called her scamper-mode. He tried not to rein her in as they quickened their pace through a new crowd of passengers that had been waiting for their baggage to come down the carousel. Grace seemed to ignore the squawking beeps on the machines that alerted the passengers that their bags were ready and would be coming down the conveyor belt. She’d been hearing those beeps for hours and they no longer were interesting. But
something or someone on the other side of baggage claim was drawing her attention.

A CBP officer waved Creed over. He had stopped a man on crutches. A cast covered much of the man’s left leg, starting at the knee and running all the way down to his ankle. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to smuggle drugs in a cast. But as Creed and Grace continued across the baggage claim area, Creed suddenly realized Grace wasn’t leading him to the man in the leg cast. Grace was taking him to someone else, and her nose was twitching.

16

A
MANDA
TRIED
NOT
TO
GRIP
her stomach. Zapata had already stared darts at her as she led the way through the baggage claim area. Today Amanda’s stomach hurt even worse. Leandro had promised that this would be the last time, if only she followed his strict instructions.

The only thing Amanda could think about was that one of the balloons had certainly burst open. It had to have. There was no other explanation for the pain in her stomach. Something was ripping away inside her. And once again, Leandro wasn’t here. Nowhere in sight. He had left her to Zapata’s care, and Zapata’s patience had obviously been used up on the last trip.

She waited by the restroom door while the old woman weaved her way through the crowd, attempting to retrieve their luggage. The designer suitcase was packed with belongings that Amanda
rarely needed or used. It was all just another part of the disguise, because passengers traveling without luggage drew attention. It didn’t matter if the suitcase continued to look brand-new and never got unpacked.

Amanda sat on a bench against the wall. Sweat dripped from her bangs. She had pulled back her stringy hair but her bangs needed trimming and were constantly falling into her eyes. They didn’t fall now. Instead, they were plastered to her forehead.

She tried to get her mind off the nausea. She used to enjoy watching strangers in airports, making up stories about them, guessing where they were going or where they’d been. Now she saw only faces staring at her, faces that pretended to look away when she caught them. She knew Leandro had spies everywhere. He’d told her so.

Alongside the bench she noticed a newspaper machine. Lately she’d gotten into the habit of reading them through the glass to check the date. Too many hours and days spent in hotel rooms made her lose track of time. But she didn’t even look at the date in the corner. Instead, her eyes fixed on the front-page photo. She recognized the man and his dog from the television talk show: Ryder Creed and Grace. His name sounded like a movie star’s name.

She was reading the article when out of the corner of her eye she saw something running toward her. At first, Amanda thought her stomach pain might be making her hallucinate. How else could she explain the little dog coming her way with the man from the newspaper following close behind?

Her heart started thumping in her ears. Her eyes darted in the direction that Zapata had gone. The old woman was at the conveyor, waiting for the suitcase and glancing over her shoulder to check on Amanda. She hadn’t noticed the man and the dog. They
were zigzagging around people and luggage, but somehow Amanda knew the dog was headed straight for her.

She stood on wobbly knees and braced one hand against the bench to steady herself. The man wasn’t dressed in a uniform. Instead he wore blue jeans, a T-shirt, and a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the tails out, and the buttons undone. His jaw was bristled and his hair tousled. He looked nothing like an airport officer—too young, too casual, way too hot.

He hadn’t noticed her and was still looking around, trying to figure out where his dog was leading him. He hadn’t realized yet that Amanda was the dog’s target.

Drugs,
Amanda remembered from the talk show and the few lines she had just read.

Holy crap!

Now she remembered from the TV show. The dog sniffed out drugs. It was headed directly toward her. Could it smell the drugs inside her?

Was that even possible?

She took a few steps and felt dizzy. Glanced back toward Zapata and saw that the old woman had turned and was watching her.

Amanda looked around while the baggage claim area tilted and the floor started to move. Not far away a security officer questioned a man with a cast on his leg. People stepped around them, hurrying to gather their belongings. Everyone seemed in such a rush.

The dog was closer. Less than twenty feet away. Zapata had started back, stopping for a stream of people going by, and Amanda could see the old woman didn’t even have the suitcase. One last look and she could see the anger on Zapata’s face. That’s when Amanda waited for the man with the dog to meet her eyes, and when he did, Amanda willed her feet to move—one in front of the other.

Hurry,
she told herself.

The path cleared and she called out, “Uncle Ryder,” as she rushed past the dog and practically fell into the man’s arms. Her heart was pounding against her rib cage as she threw her arms tight around his neck and held on.

“Please save me,” she whispered in his ear.

17

T
HE
GIRL
SMELLED
OF
SWEAT
and French milled soap, the kind that hotels had in little fancy wrappers. As far as Creed could tell, she had no luggage except for a leather bag around her shoulder. Even as she strangled his neck and whispered her pleas, Creed could see Grace sitting very still and staring up directly into his eyes. The dog was alerting. She was telling him that this girl was her target and there were drugs somewhere on her.

He hadn’t realized until almost the last seconds that it was the girl and not the man with the leg cast that Grace had been racing toward. Grace’s intent stare told him there was no doubt. Was this display some kind of ploy to get the drugs in her handbag past security? The girl could have recognized him and Grace. They’d been all over the news, and she’d have seen or heard their names. But how did she know they’d be at the airport today?

He tried to untangle her long, thin arms from his neck, trying to
be gentle and not dismantle her act, while his eyes started to search around them.

“She’s there,” the girl whispered. “Don’t let her take me, please. She’s right behind me.”

And sure enough, the woman had cautiously approached them. She looked as if she needed to capture a wild animal without spooking it or alarming everyone around them. She was maybe forty, dressed casually in slacks and a matching blouse, a designer handbag on her shoulder, dark eyes, and dark hair swept up in a matriarch style that made her look older.

“Amanda, dear,” she said in perfect English, but Creed could hear the Spanish accent. And no matter how much the woman pretended, she had not been able to fake the least bit of sincerity. It was enough for Creed to realize that the girl might not just be high or playing a game. That she might actually fear this woman.

“It’s my uncle Ryder,” the girl named Amanda said, without looking back at the woman. “I didn’t realize he was working here today.”

The girl stood back now, and Creed held her shoulders. He felt her body sway as though she would fall backward if he released his hold on her.

“You remember me telling you about my uncle Ryder,” Amanda said, and she squatted down to tap Grace on the head, like someone who had never petted a dog before in her entire life. “And this is his dog, Grace.”

The dog allowed the pats but she didn’t take her eyes off Creed, telling him in her own way that this was what he wanted her to find. He hadn’t released her yet, so she continued to alert, patient, but her hind end wiggled.

“Where are your parents, Amanda?” Creed decided to play along.

“Oh, they’re still at the vacation villa in Colombia.” She looked
up at him, meeting his eyes, and now he had dog and girl staring at him, each wanting something from him. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if you just took me home.”

“No, they would not like that,” the woman said, barely containing her anger.

“Everything okay here, Mr. Creed?” One of the CBP officers had wandered over.

Both women and Grace now stared Creed down, as though their eyes could make him say and do exactly what they wanted, what they needed.

He took a better look at the girl. Her face was flushed with perspiration, her cheeks almost gaunt, as though she hadn’t eaten for days. She was tall with long limbs, like a gawky teenager who hadn’t grown into her body yet. Although she wore pencil-tight jeans, her blouse billowed out and over her thin frame. He stared into her eyes. They were bright blue and anxious but the pupils weren’t dilated. Her face was painted with too much makeup to make her look older, but Creed guessed she couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen.

“Need me to call someone?” the CBP officer asked.

“No, that’s okay, Officer Salazar,” Creed said, glancing at the man’s name tag and noticing that his right hand rested on his gun belt. “I’m just surprised to run into my niece. I didn’t realize she’d be here today.”

Creed watched the woman’s face and could see the spark of anger before she tucked it away. She lifted her chin and shook her head, defiant, as if she wasn’t used to being treated this way. He felt her eyes scan the length of him, settling on the badge hanging from the lanyard around his neck. She was trying to figure out what authority, if any, he had here. He wasn’t dressed in a uniform, and he knew she was contemplating how she could dismiss him, especially now, in front of the CBP officer.

“I’ve been taking very good care of her for her parents,” she told Officer Salazar, as if imploring him to intercede. “Her uncle barely knows her. He has not bothered to keep in touch with the family.”