DESPERATE CREED: (Book 5 Ryder Creed K-9 Mystery Series)

by Kava, Alex

  In her wisdom, Hannah had told him to be patient. She reminded him that even Brodie didn’t know who she was.

  In all the years he’d searched for her, dreamed about her, he always imagined her as that eleven-year-old girl. The little sister he could still see skipping through the rain puddles.

  “Rye?”

  Hannah was standing beside him, her hand on his arm and a look of concern that she usually reserved for others.

  “Maybe it’s time for you to get back out in the field,” she said.

  But this weekend was Brodie’s first scheduled visit with their mother. Olivia was driving all the way down from Atlanta. Hannah told Creed that it might be better if he wasn’t around for either woman to depend on him.

  Less than a half hour later when he received the phone call from the Butler County Sheriff in Alabama, Hannah told Creed it was a sign validating her instinct. She’d been right so many other times, he didn’t dare argue with her.

  But he still wanted to check with Brodie.

  “You don’t need to babysit me,” Brodie told him. “Besides, you sucked at babysitting.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he answered, sounding exactly like a teenaged boy who sucked at babysitting.

  “You always burned the pizza.”

  “That’s true,” he said, and he left it at that, not wanting to let on how much he enjoyed that it still made her smile.

  13

  Chicago O’Hare International Airport

  While riding the train, Frankie bought the last seat on the next flight to Atlanta using her phone. But almost immediately she received an email telling her she’d still need to check in at the ticket counter.

  Now, she waited. The ticket agent raised an eyebrow at her computer monitor, and Frankie’s heart skipped a beat. She’d never purchased an airline ticket three hours before the flight. Maybe there were rules. She’d switched connecting flights with less time, but that was probably different. Should she ask the ticket agent what the problem was? Or would it only draw more attention to her and how paranoid she was at this very moment.

  Then without warning, the woman looked up, handed Frankie her boarding pass and told her the gate number.

  “Enjoy your flight.”

  Frankie tried to be casual and not show her relief. Her mind was already running over what Hannah had told her, so much so that she almost collided with the woman waiting in the ticket line behind her. Hannah had offered her a safe haven, but Frankie worried she might be putting her friend—along with her children—in danger. Hannah promised she’d arrange a meeting for Frankie with her FBI friend.

  “Just get down here,” Hannah had said.

  She made it through security and found her gate, but continued walking, not stopping until she was two gates down. In the last three years Frankie had traveled for the agency, meeting clients all over the country, so she was familiar with O’Hare, especially this terminal. She found a seat with her back to a wall and a view of everyone coming from the security checkpoint, making the turn and down the ramp to the gates. A television monitor was close enough for her to read the news alert crawl at the bottom of the screen. Satisfied that no one was paying attention to her, she pulled out her cell phone and turned it on.

  New messages started pinging. With only a glance, Frankie could see none of them were from Hannah. All were from Angela, and she was getting impatient.

  WHERE ARE YOU?

  STILL STUCK IN TRAFFIC?

  HOW MUCH LONGER DO YOU THINK YOU’LL BE?

  The last message was twenty-seven minutes ago.

  She sat back, shook her head and released a heavy sigh. She missed Holly. Angela was no Holly.

  In her mind Frankie had gone over exactly what she’d tell her new, young assistant. They barely knew each other, which meant she didn’t owe Frankie any loyalty or favors. Her old assistant had worked with Frankie for five years, and with Frankie’s help had recently been promoted to project manager. Holly would have been quick to help come up with ways to delay and distract the men without Frankie needing to prompt her. But on the other hand, Holly knew her too well for Frankie to have ever gotten away with the excuse she was getting ready to use. Holly would have seen right through it and would have wanted to know what was going on.

  Frankie tapped:

  FEELING SICK. MUST HAVE EATEN SOMETHING BAD AT THAT NEW DELI. HEADING BACK HOME. PLEASE TAKE CARE OF THINGS.

  She shut off her phone before Angela responded. The woman would either freak out or recognize this as an opportunity to show off her skills.

  One good thing, Mr. McGavin didn’t expect her back until next week. Even if Tyler had set Mr. McGavin on edge with his cereal protest, she knew her boss wouldn’t interrupt her time off. He was a true proponent of working hard but refilling the creative well with time off.

  Reluctantly she left her spot to buy snacks, a couple bottles of water and two pre-paid phones, all of which finally made her backpack heavier. And yet, when she returned to her favorite seat she still had an hour and twenty minutes before her flight boarded. All the urgency, all the rush, and now, she had to sit and wait. She tried to relax and sipped from one of the bottles of water, her back to the wall, her eyes watching and observing.

  That’s when she saw him.

  It wasn’t possible.

  It had to be a different man.

  He was supposed to be waiting downtown outside her office. But of course, he could have left when Angela didn’t hear from her. Or after Frankie sent the last message. How long ago was that? She glanced at her watch. Tapped the faceplate.

  Damn it!

  She didn’t need to know how many steps. Just the time.

  A little over an hour. Plenty of time to get here. But how did he know she was at the airport?

  Maybe it wasn’t him.

  And yet, Frankie knew she’d never forget those eyes, that hawk nose, that massive forehead. From thirty feet away she saw him tug at his shirt collar like a man not used to wearing a necktie. When his fingers came away she saw just enough of that ugly scar to know it was the same man.

  And yes, he was here! Never mind how.

  He hadn’t seen her...yet. He was trying to blend in, but his head rotated like a square block on thick shoulders. He was checking out the passengers waiting at Gate 2.

  Her gate!

  She needed to get out. Her heart began to pound. Her pulse started racing, and she felt like a trapped animal sitting against the wall. The man was less than thirty feet away. What was worse—he blocked her path. There was no way to leave the terminal without walking by him.

  Frankie shouldered her backpack and handbag, keeping both high enough that she could slouch, half her face hidden behind the bundle. She got up, startled to find her knees wobbly.

  Stay calm. Don’t look at him.

  A sudden swell of passengers separated Frankie from the man. She knew how to slide into a moving crowd without making anyone slow down or take notice, allowing the wave to swallow her. But the crowd was walking in the wrong direction. Away from the terminal’s entrance, toward more gates and deeper into a trap. Somewhere down this way was a women’s restroom. She knew it was close.

  Heart still pounding, she eased her way to the other side of the crowd. She moved with the flow and waited until she was exactly at the doorway then she pivoted and ducked inside. She almost collided with an abandoned janitor cart tucked in at the elbow of the entrance.

  Frankie found an empty stall, a prized corner unit with extra room to breathe. As she fastened the lock she noticed her fingers were shaking.

  What was she going to do? Could she stay here until they called her flight? He wouldn’t be able to follow her on board. Or would he convince the airline attendants that he had some sort of authority? He’d obviously convinced Angela.

  The fact that he was here—that he even knew she was here—dispelled any chance this man only wanted to talk to her. That he only wanted to give her information about Tyler. And being in a public plac
e didn’t seem to discourage him. She could still see his eyes looking at her through the screen of her phone, eyes filled with anger when he realized there was an unexpected witness to his crime.

  She needed to think. She needed to focus. Be creative. Come up with a solution. She got paid to play out scenarios all the time. What was important to one demographic didn’t matter to another. It was her job to make people see and believe exactly what the advertising campaign wanted them to see and believe.

  The man on the phone had gotten a look at her face, but her hair had been up in a towel. Who was she fooling? Tyler probably had a photo of her in his contacts alongside her phone number. Still, he had no idea how tall she was, how she walked or what she was wearing.

  She looked down at her clothes. What if she’d been followed from her apartment? Had there been someone on the train platform with her? Is that how they knew she was at the airport? But how would they know what airline? And even the gate number? Was there someone else tracking her that she hadn’t noticed?

  Almost immediately, she took off her jacket and started peeling off her clothes, hanging them on the hook on the back of the door. Out of her backpack, she pulled out jeans and a black T-shirt. She exchanged her leather flats for running shoes. At the bottom of the bag her fingers found a hairband. She tied her hair in a ponytail and weaved it through the back opening of a black baseball cap. She folded and rolled her clothes and shoved them into the bag as she silently prayed, “Please let it still be there. Please let it still be there.”

  Several deep breaths later and she exited the safety of the bathroom stall. She took time to wash her hands and seeing the slight tremor almost unnerved her. She met her eyes in the mirror and pulled the bill of the cap down low while she took an extra minute to listen. A couple of the stalls were occupied, but no one else was using the sinks. She would have seconds, not minutes to pull this off.

  As she rounded the corner she almost gasped with relief.

  Thank God!

  The janitor cart was still there. She dropped her bags into the yellow vinyl trash container, not paying attention to the garbage they landed on top of. She grasped the handholds and backed the cart out of the entrance. The mop and bucket rattled. The castors squealed, and she kept from wincing at the noise they made all the way from the tile of the bathroom entrance until they hit the industrial carpet.

  Frankie pulled the bill of her cap even lower. She curved her shoulders inward as if she did this everyday and off she went. She didn’t dare look around.

  14

  “She’s here. She’s in this terminal.”

  “I don’t see her.”

  They talked using earbuds, a small white button with an inch long stem that was hardly noticeable. It was almost identical to the one Tyler Gates was using. If August Braxton had noticed that one small detail, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Usually technological advancements made his job easier. He probably should care how they all worked. Years ago, he might have cared. But now? He was getting too old for this crap. He left the technical stuff to the experts. He counted that as one of his strengths, that he depended on people smarter than him. Smarter in certain things. No one had better instincts than him. That’s why he was still on the payroll.

  Ironic. All the technological advances and artificial intelligence that money could buy, and they still needed his old world, old school instincts.

  Braxton brought up the woman’s photo again on his cell phone screen. His fingers pinched and pulled it larger. It was a headshot that didn’t look anything like Francine Russo’s driver’s license photo. In this one, she wore full makeup. In the other, her face was scrubbed clean and she wore her hair a bit short. She looked years younger.

  His eyes scanned the crowded area. More and more passengers flooded the gates as boarding calls were made. He rubbed his jaw trying to brush away the exhaustion.

  So which image are you today, Francine Russo?

  Braxton swiped away her photo and replaced it with the map. Was it possible he missed something? And yet, there was the red light, beating like a heart, stationary as if she was sitting somewhere close by. Somewhere within reach.

  The system wasn’t advanced enough to show him the exact location. Just the area. Any movement came in tiny increments, jerky and delayed by a second or two. Maybe if HQ’s experts were in Chicago instead of the District, the surveillance equipment would run smoother. Yet, they were able to direct him to Gate 2. They even gave him the airline, flight number, departure time, and seat number. He didn’t ask how they managed to accomplish all that. He supposed they’d gotten the information the same way they’d gotten the information that Deacon Kaye had hacked into a corporate server.

  Talk about irony. He couldn’t help but smile. The same company that depended on Braxton’s boss to hack into computers and tell him exactly where Russo was and where she was headed—that same company had been surprised and offended to find their own system so easily exploited. And by two guys barely out of college. The corporation, along with Braxton’s boss, had gotten too big, too ballsy. They all thought they were infallible. Just like the Titanic.

  He smiled to himself. He liked reading historical books. The Titanic was his latest fascination. Not just the event, but the ramifications the sinking of the unsinkable had on an entire era. The ripple effect.

  His stomach growled reminding him that coffee and a protein bar had been too many hours ago. Hunger pangs only added to his frustration. Maybe this job would be his last. He had enough stashed away to take a long vacation. A cabin in the mountains. He could hike, read, fix himself gourmet meals and sip some of the expensive wines he’d collected.

  He glanced across the noisy, bustling crowd. Rex’s head and eyes continued to pivot on massive shoulders. Everyone discounted the man as a dim-witted brute. That caveman forehead didn’t help. But those beady eyes missed very little. He reminded Braxton of a huge lizard of dinosaur proportions. He’d never tell the man to his face how he’d come up with the nickname. Rex, short for T-Rex. Although, he suspected Rex might actually appreciate the dinosaur comparison. Maybe not the lizard.

  Bottom line, the man followed orders and was loyal to a fault. In this business those two traits were invaluable and had saved him more times than he liked to admit.

  On his phone’s screen the red dot pulsed, moving but very little. She was still here...somewhere. He stretched his neck to see above and in between the crowd. He needed to quiet his stomach.

  He tapped the earbud and told Rex, “I’m gonna grab a quick sandwich. You want anything?”

  “I’m good.”

  Of course, he was good. He’d downed three fast-food breakfast sandwiches between hits. The man could wolf down food no matter the circumstances.

  Braxton saw a vendor on the other side. The line didn’t look long. He wasn’t thrilled about a plastic-wrapped pre-made sandwich, but it’d have to do. He waited for a janitor and cart to pass then he weaved his way through traffic.

  15

  In the back her mind Frankie kept telling herself, just be exactly what people expect to see.

  Walk with purpose. But not too fast.

  Get to the next bathroom. But again, not too fast.

  Remember, you don’t enjoy cleaning toilets so much that you’re in a rush. Keep it slow.

  People stepped aside for the moving cart, but no one really took time to look at her. In a matter of seconds she was steering the cart right by Gate 2, the mop handle bouncing around in front of her. A broom was slid into the left side of the cart with its bristles obscuring her vision, but it also would partly obscure her face.

  Still, when she saw the man with the scar, every nerve ending came alert. He was looking up the ramp, watching for new passengers coming to the gates from the security checkpoint. She would be in his line of vision the entire trip. Would he notice something different about the woman pushing the cart?

  Her heart already pounded in her ears. Would she even hear if th
e real janitor started yelling at her?

  Passengers engulfed her on both sides, going both ways. She stayed close to the right, plodding along with a steady pace. She didn’t stop for anyone, didn’t weave around. A straight line.

  Boarding calls blared around her. People talked on cell phones. Families scurried to keep up. Passengers bumped each other’s roller cases without slowing and without apology. And Frankie just kept moving, pushing the cart, hoping to not meet up with another janitor pushing another cart.

  The whole time she could feel the presence of the man with the scar. He was now behind her, his eyes on her back. Only a bit farther and she’d turn a corner to an open concourse with several paths to other gates. She tried to picture exactly where the escalator was. He wouldn’t be able to see her once she turned that corner.

  Unless he was walking up and down the ramp looking for her. He might be right behind her, right now. She didn’t dare glance back.

  She hugged the wall.

  Almost there.

  She turned right. Ten feet away was another women’s restroom. Frankie guided the janitor cart into the entrance and waited for a group of women to exit. She did a quick scan to make sure no one could see her then she dug her bags out from deep inside the trash container. She didn’t even care that her backpack now had something disgusting hanging from it. She simply brushed it off, shouldered both bags and left.

  This time her eyes darted around searching for the man while she headed for the escalators. Walking briskly.

  Don’t run.

  Once she hit the bottom it was an effort to keep from breaking out in a sprint.

  Just keep walking. Blend in.