by Alex Kava
ALSO BY ALEX KAVA
THE MAGGIE O’DELL NOVELS
Stranded
Fireproof
Hotwire
Damaged
Black Friday
Exposed
A Necessary Evil
At the Stroke of Madness
The Soul Catcher
Split Second
A Perfect Evil
THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS
Whitewash
One False Move
THE E-BOOK ORIGINALS WITH ERICA SPINDLER AND J. T. ELLISON
Storm Season
Slices of Night
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
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Copyright © 2015 by S. M. Kava
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kava, Alex.
Breaking creed / Alex Kava.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-698-16067-5
1. Police dogs—Fiction. 2. Drug traffic—Colombia—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.A8682B74 2015 2014028557
813'.54—dc23
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
FOR MY BOY, SCOUT
March 1998–May 2014
Miss you like crazy, buddy.
CONTENTS
ALSO BY ALEX KAVA
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
One Week Later: Monday
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Tuesday
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Wednesday
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Thursday
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Friday
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Saturday
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Sunday
Chapter 69
Three Days Later
Chapter 70
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special Excerpt from SILENT CREED
AUTHOR’S NOTE
From the time I was able to crawl, I’ve been enamored with dogs. I even have a few scars that could have and probably should have discouraged me. My earliest memory is of the day I decided to follow our two farm dogs anywhere they went. They were my constant companions when my older brother and sister were in school and my younger brother was too little.
On this day I remember joyously trotting along with the dogs until I glanced over my shoulder and saw that our farmhouse was quite tiny in the distance. I must have been three or four years old at the time, and of course, I don’t need to tell you that my mother was frantic by the time I wandered back with my two friends.
For years now I’ve included dogs in my novels, but I’ve been itching to create a character who not only shared my love and my awe of dogs but who would be truly happy and most comfortable living in the company of dogs. And wouldn’t it be interesting to have the dogs be strong characters, as well? As much as I love research, finally I would be writing about a subject I knew quite well.
Needless to say, I’m excited about this new series, but never once did I realize nor could I predict how very difficult it would be to write about dogs while losing one of my own. And not just any dog, but my sixteen-year-old buddy, Scout, who had been at my side—literally sitting next to me—while I wrote all fourteen of my novels. He even waited until I finished this one before telling me he’d had enough of fighting kidney disease for two years.
My good friend Sharon Car said it perfectly: “Big personalities leave a big hole, and I’m sure Scout has left a crater in your heart.”
That, he has certainly done. But one of the privileges of being a writer is finding some small way to honor those we love. At the end of the book, you might notice that Jason names his puppy after Scout Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird. But in truth, Jason’s dog is named after my Scout who was actually named after my favorite literary character. In future books you’ll get a glimpse of my Scout’s quirks, like chasing his tail, giving kisses on demand, and making everyone—including the other dogs—laugh . . . a lot.
In addition, this book is dedicated to my boy, Scout. And although he was a West Highland terrier, something tells me he would have approved of being represented by a Labrador. His spirit is definitely big enough.
1
BARRANQUILLA, COLOMBIA
SWEAT SLID DOWN AMANDA’S BACK. Her stringy hair stuck to her forehead. The room was stifling and reeked of greasy fried pork. She felt nauseated, and the smell wouldn’t let her forget the slimy soup she had been given to coat her throat. A small dish of the golden liquid sat in front of her, its surface beaded with oil. The soup was for her benefit, Leandro had reminded her.
“It contains a special medicine.” His tone was alwa
ys so gentle and reassuring. “It will be good for your throat and make your task much easier.”
Amanda knew he was right. Last week, when she did this for the first time, she didn’t even feel what she was swallowing. It was as if her entire mouth had gone numb, just like in the dentist’s office.
Still, she stared at the remaining balloons piled up on the scarred wooden tabletop, and she couldn’t shake the sick feeling in her stomach.
Last time she had swallowed fifty-one balloons. Leandro had been so proud of her. And every single one had come out without any problems—well, no problems meaning none had ruptured. The coming-out part had not been pain-free as Leandro had promised. But Amanda had been so relieved that she didn’t mind the pain.
This time she had downed only thirty-six before the nausea hit her.
Leandro would be disappointed. How could she disappoint him when he had given her so much? When he had been so good to her.
She watched him fill the last of the balloons. He had explained to her that he used only the strongest condoms available. He told her he did it for her benefit, because he cared so much about her and because this would eliminate the risk of a balloon rupturing while inside her stomach.
Amanda had asked what would happen if one of the balloons did break, but Leandro had waved his hand at her as if he were swatting flies. It was a gesture that was becoming familiar, and it was usually accompanied by his favorite phrase: “This is something you do not ask. This is something you leave to Leandro.”
But now, as Amanda watched his slender fingers stretch the condom over the top of a glass vial, she wondered what would happen if one of the balloons broke inside her. Is that why she was feeling sick now? The thought made her shiver, and she forced herself to sit up straight, as if that would give the balloons in her stomach more room.
She tried not to think about it. Instead, she continued to watch Leandro as he carefully spooned the cocaine into each condom. When the latex tip bulged out a half inch to an inch in diameter, Leandro tied a knot, keeping it small and tight. Then he trimmed it close and neat, so there was less to swallow. When she’d watched him last week, he had explained that this, too, was another detail he did out of concern for her.
She glanced around the room. The three swallowers and Leandro’s partner, the old woman they called Zapata, paid no attention to Leandro. They all were focused on their own tasks in front of them. But Amanda watched how his muscles bulged under his T-shirt and yet how gentle his fingers were. He was focused on making everything easier on her, and it made her love him even more. He would never let any harm come to her. And certainly she could ignore a little stomachache.
She licked her lips and realized she couldn’t feel them. Instead of panicking, she quickly reminded herself that it was only the special medicine in the soup. She must have gotten some on her lips. She tried not to think about it. She needed to calm herself. Her stomach probably wouldn’t be upset at all if it weren’t for the new girl. And now Amanda realized that her discomfort was definitely the girl’s fault.
She’d been crying since they brought her into the room, even while she ate the greasy soup. Pathetic sobs, all soft and quiet except for that irritating hitch to her breathing.
The girl was a year older than Amanda. She’d heard Zapata tell Leandro that the girl was fifteen. She sure didn’t act like it. She was probably just faking to get Leandro’s attention, because now suddenly he left his work of filling the balloons and went over to her.
“Lucía,” he said gently.
Then he put his hand on the girl’s back, almost a caress. Amanda stopped breathing, straining to listen as Leandro bent over and whispered something to the girl. His lips almost touched her ear. Amanda couldn’t make out the words. She didn’t know enough Spanish, but she couldn’t help noticing that Leandro’s tone sounded soothing, as if he were coaxing and persuading Lucía that everything would be okay. It was the same tone he used with Amanda.
Amanda grabbed another balloon from the pile. She dropped it into the small dish in front of her and rolled it around in the greasy liquid, using her fingers and not caring that they became slick, too. Then, still watching Leandro, she put it quickly into her mouth. Her throat was still numb, and she swallowed it with no problem.
She took another and followed the same process, just as Leandro had taught her. Then she did another and another, letting her anger sweep them down. Already her nausea started to leave. Before poor Lucía had cried and choked down two balloons, Amanda had added a half dozen. And her reward was Leandro looking over. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then a smile transformed his entire face. By the time they were ready to leave for the airport, Amanda had swallowed two more than last week, while Lucía—still crying and now grasping her stomach—had managed to get down only twenty-five.
Amanda found herself silently telling the girl that she would never win over Leandro with such a pathetic performance. Although the older girl was so very pretty, with long, silky black hair and rich brown skin. By comparison, Amanda’s hair was stringy and dirty blond, her face spattered with freckles that she wished she could scrub away. No matter how many balloons she swallowed, she was still jealous of the new girl. Jealous and worried that Leandro might find her more suitable because Lucía was Colombian while Amanda was just poor white American trash. That’s what Zapata called her despite Leandro’s scolding the old woman.
When Amanda had first met her, she thought Zapata was Leandro’s mother. But there was something so cold about the old woman that Amanda didn’t think she was capable of being a mother. Not like Amanda had much to go on. Her own mother had thrown her out of the house, told her never to come back. All because she couldn’t keep her own boyfriend off her daughter. Her mother had caught the asshole slam-dancing Amanda against their kitchen counter.
Instead of asking if Amanda was okay, instead of kicking the asshole out, she made Amanda leave.
It ended up for the better. She needed to get out of that house. And she would never have met Leandro if she hadn’t left home. He treated her so much better. He appreciated her. And maybe after today, Zapata would also realize that Amanda was worthy of her respect.
At least today Zapata was screeching at Lucía. More Spanish, but Amanda didn’t need to understand it to know that the old woman had become impatient with the new girl. Franco had come to tell them he had the van out front, and the others were already grabbing their backpacks, heading for the door.
Except for Lucía. She was crying even harder now, her arms wrapped tight around her stomach. Her face was streaked with sweat, not just tears. She looked as if she were in pain.
Amanda shuffled toward the door, watching and waiting, wanting to sit next to Leandro in the van. But his attention was focused on Lucía.
And then suddenly the girl collapsed, falling to the floor. Her head slammed against the heavy wooden table leg.
Amanda couldn’t believe it. Was she faking it?
Zapata was shaking her head and saying something to Leandro, only the old woman’s voice was eerily calm and quiet. And it was Leandro who was cursing under his breath.
Amanda couldn’t take her eyes off Lucía. She couldn’t look away. She was waiting for the girl to move, but Lucía didn’t flinch when Leandro shoved her. There was nothing gentle about his touch now. When Lucía didn’t respond, it only made him angrier, and Zapata grabbed his arm before he could shove at Lucía again.
“She’s done,” Zapata said. “Get it out.”
Then she noticed Amanda. Her eyes widened, and Amanda thought she saw a flash of panic before the cold black eyes returned to their usual hard stare. Zapata walked toward Amanda, gesturing for her to leave, but Amanda couldn’t stop watching Lucía and Leandro standing over her.
“We must go,” Zapata told her in a calm, steady voice as she took Amanda by the elbow. “We can’t miss our flight.�
�
The old woman squeezed and pulled at Amanda’s arm to turn her toward the door, but not before Amanda saw Leandro pull a knife from his boot. He was still muttering to himself or cursing Lucía. Amanda didn’t know which. She had never seen him like this. He didn’t seem to notice that she was still in the room. He started cutting Lucía’s clothing with the knife, ripping at it with urgency and anger. Was he helping her? Could he save her? Maybe it wasn’t too late.
“What’s he doing?” Amanda asked.
“It is none of your concern,” Zapata said as her fingernails dug into Amanda’s arm and she dragged her along.
The old woman pushed her out the doorway, but not before Amanda saw Leandro plunge the knife again. This time into Lucía. And now Amanda knew what happened if a balloon ruptured inside her stomach.
2
OFF PENSACOLA BEACH, FLORIDA
OVER THE GULF OF MEXICO
THE COAST GUARD HELICOPTER pitched to one side, sending Ryder Creed sliding. He tightened his grip on Grace. His other hand white-knuckled the leather strap that kept him anchored to the inside wall. Grace was tethered to him, one end of the nylon restraint secured to her vest and the other end wrapped around Creed’s waist. Despite never having flown in a helicopter before, she didn’t appear stressed at all.
Creed, however, didn’t have a good feeling about this trip. In fact, he was beginning to regret taking the assignment. None of his dogs had ever been in a helicopter before. He couldn’t help thinking the sixteen-pound Jack Russell terrier felt even smaller cradled next to him.
But Grace was taking it in stride, already used to the thumping of the rotors and treating the roller-coaster ride as if it were just a part of the adventure. She watched and sniffed at the unfamiliar surroundings, anxious to get to work, because as soon as her vest went on, she knew they were headed for a job, and this girl loved her work. That was what made her such an excellent air-scent dog. She possessed a natural curiosity. The tougher the puzzle, the more excited she became.
“She’s not exactly what I expected” was the first thing Commander Wilson had said when he met Grace and Creed on the helipad before takeoff.
