Reckless Creed (5 page)

FLORIDA PANHANDLE

C
reed and Jason had just gotten back from Pensacola. He wasn't sure he had convinced the kid that his grandfather would be okay. It was a good thing that they had caught the
C. diff
now.

Creed noticed the dogs' reactions before he looked up and caught a flash of black metal moving through the tree line. Several of the dogs jumped at the fence, restless and alarmed with ears pitched forward. Noses sniffed the air. Heads turned. All of them pointed toward the driveway, a quarter-mile stretch that wound through the forest.

His view was limited. All Creed could see were slivers of the black vehicles and glints of light reflected off the windshields. But it looked like a long caravan, reminding Creed of a funeral procession. His stomach tightened. His jaw clenched.

This wasn't good.

He weighed his options.

How long would it take to run up into his loft and get the revolver he hid underneath his mattress? The shotgun was clear
across the property, locked up in the training facility. Before he had time to choose, the first SUV made the turn onto the property.

They knew enough to drive past the two-story house and the sign that directed visitors to the K9 CrimeScents office on the first floor. But the house was also the residence for Hannah and her two young boys, and Creed felt a slight relief. It was short-lived as he watched the huge black Suburban drive up over the grass and head directly toward him and the dog kennels.

A second followed. Then another. In minutes Creed's front yard was filled with five identical black SUVs. Tinted windows. Shiny and new with only the dust from Creed's driveway.

“What the hell is this?” Jason asked.

Creed hadn't even heard Jason come up beside him. From the corner of his eye he saw Dr. Avelyn coming out of the clinic. He glanced at the house and hoped Hannah would stay inside.

“Settle,” Creed told the dogs, keeping his voice calm.

The dogs stayed quiet but the tension was easily visible. Tails stayed down. Hair at the back of the neck stood on end. Eyes were locked. Ears were still pitched forward.

Creed dug a remote from his pocket. He clicked a button preventing any of the other dogs from coming out into the yard, keeping them safe inside the kennel.

With the engines still idling, car doors opened and men in dark suits and sunglasses sprang out with a sense of urgency. A couple of them had Kevlar vests over their suits. Three men who exited the last Suburban carried automatic rifles. The sight of them made Creed's hands ball into fists. The panic in his gut was quickly replaced with an instinct to fight and protect.

“Son of a bitch,” Jason muttered under his breath. “Who the hell are these guys?”

One of the Kevlar-vest guys started walking toward them, and Creed finally recognized the man.

“I must have missed your phone call,” Creed called out to the man. “What's going on, Agent Tabor?”

“It's best if everyone stays calm, Mr. Creed. We just need your cooperation.”

“It's hard to stay calm when you come onto my property without warning or an invitation.”

“This is official government business.”

“Did I forget to pay some sort of tax?” Creed tried to keep his voice casual for the dogs. When Tabor didn't answer, Creed asked, “What's this about?”

“Those birds you bagged. I understand they may be carriers of a deadly virus.”

Tabor hadn't seen Creed bag up the dead robins. Sheriff Wylie must have told him. By now, Dr. Avelyn had joined Creed and Jason.

“I have them sealed and isolated,” she said. “I can get them for you.”

But Tabor didn't seem interested in what she was saying. He waved at someone and more car doors opened. The four men who exited this vehicle wore white jumpsuits with surgical masks dangling at their necks. They crossed to the back of their SUV, opened the tailgate, and started pulling out equipment.

“It's highly contagious. I've been told it's a new strain of the bird flu,” Tabor said, while he gave more hand signals to a couple other
men who joined him. They ventured closer to the kennel yard where Creed, Jason, and Dr. Avelyn stood in front of the fence.

“Just give us a minute and we'll get the dead birds for you,” Creed told him.

“I wish it were that simple.”

“I sent off samples two days ago,” Dr. Avelyn told him. “They may already have the results.”

“I'm afraid that's not good enough,” Tabor said. “We'll need to quarantine everyone.”

“None of us touched them,” Creed said.

“But one of your dogs did. Sheriff Wylie told me it had the robin in its mouth. If it's the strain of the bird flu that we think it is, by now your entire kennel has been contaminated,” Tabor said. “And all of you might be, too.”

And suddenly Creed realized what this was. He glanced at Dr. Avelyn and quietly asked, “They can't do this, can they?”

She looked up at him but didn't attempt a response. He caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.

“We'll make it as quick as possible,” Tabor said, his demeanor distracted as he waited for the men in the protective gear.

“No one touches my dogs except my staff. If you need samples, my vet will get them for you.”

Now Tabor shook his head at Creed.

The realization hit Creed like a punch to the stomach. Tabor didn't intend to take samples and quarantine the dogs. He was here to euthanize them.

“I'm told it spreads very quickly,” Tabor said. “All of your staff will need to be put under quarantine. But the dogs . . . I'm sorry.
From what I understand, even if they test negative they could still be carriers. I'm just following orders.”

He glanced back at the men in white who carried cases and tranquilizer guns slung over their shoulders.

“Whose orders?” Creed wanted to know.

Instead of answering, Tabor said, “We'll try to make this as quick and painless as possible.”

“They can't frickin' do this, can they?” Jason asked, fidgeting beside Creed.

Creed moved toward the gate. Inside his head a wind tunnel had begun to swirl. Ice water rushed through his veins as his hands clenched the gate rail tightly. They'd have to shoot him first.

When the first gunshot fired, Creed thought it was his heartbeat exploding inside his chest. Only when he saw Tabor duck for cover did he realize it was real.

T
he second gunshot sent the men scrambling back, diving behind their vehicles. Only then did Creed realize the gunfire wasn't coming from Tabor's gang.

Tabor and the men closest to the fence crouched behind the trees. Even the men with automatic rifles stayed low behind car doors, their heads pivoting, eyes darting, trying to see where the shots had come from.

Creed stood perfectly still. Dr. Avelyn was beside him. Jason had disappeared. The dogs were pacing. Creed grabbed a whistle and the remote from his pocket. He put the whistle to his lips at the same time that he opened the kennel doors. The dogs ran inside on command. After every single dog was safely inside and the kennel doors shut, he turned his attention back to Tabor and his men.

“We're here on official business,” Tabor yelled. “Put the gun down now before someone gets hurt.”

Creed saw Hannah come out on the lawn in front of the house. She looked like a trained marksman with the shotgun level in front of her ready to shoot again, and this time not in the air.

“I don't care what your official business is,” she yelled back. “I need to see a warrant.”

“We don't need a warrant for this,” Tabor called out as he ventured from behind the tree. “I advise you to put that gun down before you get yourself hurt.”

A shot fired above his head, sending him back to take cover. But this shot didn't come from Hannah. It came from the tree line behind Jason's trailer.

“What the hell?” Tabor was down on one knee now that he realized he had two shooters.

Creed exchanged a nervous glance with Dr. Avelyn. Jason had lost half his arm in Afghanistan, but his army training as a sniper hadn't been affected.

“I think it's best you go back and get a warrant,” Hannah yelled.

“I don't need—”

“Oh, I work with the federal government enough to know you folks love your paperwork. I'm filling out twelve pages' worth every time you need to use one of our dogs.”

“That's entirely different,” Tabor insisted. “I have the authority—”

“Now see here,” she interrupted. “I have my own authority right here.” And she racked another shell into the shotgun's barrel like it was second nature to her.

This time Tabor looked over at Creed and said, “She's only making this more difficult for you and your employees. Especially if you all get sick. You have no idea what you're dealing with or who you're dealing with.”

“You have no idea who
you're
dealing with, Tabor. I suggest you and your men get off my property.”

Tabor stared him down.

“You're making a very big mistake.”

He cautiously stood up, waited to be sure there would be no additional gunfire, and then walked back to the first SUV. Glancing over his shoulder at Hannah, Tabor gestured to his men to follow suit.

Car doors slammed. Engines rumbled to life. Tires spun and spit up grass. The long black line formed, and piece by black shiny metal piece it disappeared between the trees. Leaving behind exhaust fumes and silence.

HARTSFIELD-JACKSON ATLANTA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
GEORGIA

S
tephen Bishop dragged the roller bag through the busy terminal. There were long lines to the security check-in. A place against the wall opened up and Bishop grabbed the chance to stop and observe. This was the third trip to this airport, in this terminal, in less than a week. Bishop pulled out a cell phone and pretended to read messages, while watching over the top of heavy-framed glasses.

They were short one body scanner today. The machine was corded off, and the TSA official gestured for passengers to use another lane. The PreCheck line was longer than usual but moving quickly. Bishop wasn't in a hurry. There was no flight to catch. This trip, like the others, was strictly for observation and ultimately preparation.

By now Bishop recognized several of the TSA officials. The tall black man with the shaved head and muscular arms was named Oscar. He usually worked the PreCheck lane. His narrow-set eyes scrutinized everything, so even though passengers didn't have to take off their shoes or remove liquids from their carry-ons, they still had to get past his approval.

LeKeesha sat at one of the X-ray machines. Last time Bishop had heard one of her colleagues call out her name. The others treated her like she was more senior than them. She was big and brassy. Even her purple-streaked hair demanded attention. When she stopped the line and asked that a case be pulled for a search, it got done immediately.

Of all the terminals, this was the one Bishop had chosen. Despite having a guaranteed PreCheck boarding pass, it would still be important to feel confident and look confident so that someone like Oscar or LeKeesha had absolutely no reason to stop and say those dreaded words “Please step aside.”

That old saying “Never let them see you sweat” became a vital mantra. And not an easy one today.

Bishop's suit was snug. The extra weight was difficult to get used to. It was exhausting, especially while plodding through the airport. But the extra weight had one benefit. It created—actually forced—a new walk that came instinctively with little risk of slipping into old habits.

Bishop's discomfort, however, didn't stop there. The beard itched. The short, square-trimmed fingernails and the heavy-framed glasses were annoying. Bishop had given up everything fashionable and chic in exchange for ordinary and invisible. It was a small price to pay for future notoriety, possibly even making the annals of science history.

Bishop's grandfather, who had been a renowned scientist during the Cold War, loved to say, “You can change the world or sit on the sidelines and let the world change you. It's your choice.”

The cell phone started vibrating, and Bishop plucked it from
the suitcase pocket with a quick glance at the incoming call's phone number.

“What is it?” Bishop said, using the new commanding voice that came with the new image.

“Is this Bishop?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“The colonel needs to know—”

“If the colonel needs to know anything, he needs to call me himself. I'm not talking to a lackey of his.”

“Excuse me, but I'm the director of the division for—”

“Good for you. Congratulations and never call this number again.”

Bishop ended the call before the caller had a chance to respond. The phone stayed in Bishop's hand. It would take only a few minutes for the lackey to report his failure to his boss.

Colonel Abraham Hess was a necessary evil. They had formed an unholy alliance that suited both their needs. Bishop had agreed to spare the colonel's precious reputation, while Hess provided Bishop with protection. The old man still held an undisputable amount of power and influence, but sometimes that same power triggered what Bishop called an arrogant ignorance. The colonel believed he was infallible. Stupid mistakes like trusting some low-level assistant with classified contact numbers would eventually bring the old man down, but he wouldn't be taking Bishop with him.

The phone started vibrating again. The same incoming number. Bishop swiped the faceplate to answer but said nothing.

“Bishop? What the hell's going on?”

“Don't ever share my phone numbers with anyone. Do you understand?”

“He's a high-level—”

Bishop hung up and waited. The colonel would be furious. No one dared treat him with such disrespect.

The phone began vibrating and Bishop let it continue, answering just before it went to voice mail.

“What is it that you need to know?” Bishop asked in place of a greeting.

“I need to know what the hell's going on. I don't expect to be updated through rumor and eventually cable news. There's a young girl who was found dead in a river. What the hell—”

“Stop. Say no more,” Bishop said calmly. “I'll call you but not on this phone. I'll need to get you a new phone number.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake. Isn't that the reason we're using these silly disposable phones? There was not a breach just because—”

Bishop ended the call again. The vibration started after only three seconds.

“Okay. Give me the new phone number,” Hess said in a conciliatory tone that sounded like he was biting his tongue at the same time.

“Someone will deliver the new number this afternoon.”

“Another handwritten note? This is ridiculous. You're a scientist. What's with this archaic ritual you insist upon?”

“When was the last time someone was convicted because of an incriminating handwritten, courier-delivered note? You know as well as I do that any and every electronic footprint can be and is watched, listened to, recorded, sorted, and filed. You'd be surprised how many of your D.C. friends use this exact method.”

“There's such a thing as handwriting analysis, too.”

“Wouldn't matter. It's not my handwriting. You have your ways of protecting yourself and your interests, allow me mine. Which reminds me. I need a guaranteed PreCheck. You'll need to handle that.”

“You'll need to be fingerprinted.”

“Not happening.”

“There's no way—”

“Figure it out.”

Bishop ended the call, finished with the old man for now.

There was no SIM card to pop out and destroy, so the entire phone went into an empty coffee cup with the lid tightly replaced. Finished for the day, Bishop tossed the cup and phone into a nearby trash can and headed for the exit, dragging the empty roller bag.