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.