DESPERATE CREED: (Book 5 Ryder Creed K-9 Mystery Series) Page 25

  “In the barrels?” Sykes asked.

  “Yep. Turns out those blue barrels are made of some poly-something-or-another that makes it safe to ship acidic foods. The asshole who tried to start them on fire didn’t know that. Actually, I didn’t know that until a few hours ago.”

  Creed couldn’t take his eyes off the crater. Dust still filled the air. Pieces of debris floated in the streams of light.

  “Have you heard anything from your friends?” Krenshaw asked.

  “No. Nothing.”

  Creed shifted his feet, anxious to run to the edge and start pulling stuff off the piles. His jaw hurt from clamping it tight for too long. The panic churned in his stomach. Was it possible for anyone to survive that?

  As if the sheriff could read his mind, he said, “They’ve already pulled two bodies from the wreckage. I don’t know anything more than that, right now, but I thought you should know.”

  67

  The black sedan was exactly where Rex said it would be. But where the hell was Rex?

  Braxton kept to the shadows and weaved around the line of response vehicles. All of them were empty now. Sirens filled the air. Pieces of crap drifted on the breeze. His eyes felt like he had glass in them. The entire scene looked like a bomb had gone off. It reminded him of his past life. Something from El Salvador, Lebanon, Kosovo. And for a second time in as many days, he told himself that he was getting too old for this.

  He opened the driver’s door, reached in and popped the trunk. The blue duffle bag had been stuffed in a corner, and Braxton leaned all the way under the trunk lid to grab it. But he didn’t pull it out right away. Instead, his eyes darted around. No one paid attention to him. He unzipped the bag and found what he wanted.

  He needed a new strategy. One thing he’d learned all those years ago was how to change quickly, adjust and recalculate at a moment’s notice. He had learned how to survive under the most impossible of circumstances.

  Survival of the fittest.

  The man Braxton worked for was a politician, and he had a sterile vision of what that phrase meant. The man was used to ordering others around. He hired people like Braxton to clean up his messes, so that he never got his hands dirty. He was so far removed from the carnage that the blood wasn’t even real to him anymore. In his little world, he asked for something to be taken care of, and it was done. No questions. No consequences.

  But after all these years, it never occurred to Braxton that his own loyalty and dedication would be paid back with betrayal. He didn’t expect a gold watch, but he certainly didn’t expect to be considered collateral damage.

  That might be how you treat dinosaurs, but it wasn’t how August Braxton was going to be treated.

  68

  Willis’ drive down from Birmingham had been mostly a blur of urgency mixed with scattered downpours. He joined the WACL news crew outside their television van. This close, the wreckage looked so much worse than it did on the station’s monitors. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it.

  They’d already heard that his wife was one of those trapped under the restaurant debris. Instead of exchanging looks of pity, they filled him in on what they knew so far. He appreciated that so much, he was moved speechless. His emotions were already running high. Just before he left the station, Paul told him he’d located Simon, the college storm chaser. Simon from Kansas. Someone had found his battered vehicle. He’d been taken to an area hospital, but his condition was critical.

  The air was now so chilly Willis wished he had grabbed his jacket. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and accepted the take-out container of coffee, though his stomach churned with acid from a day filled with too much coffee.

  “We’re hearing there may be bodies,” the news reporter named Chelsea told him.

  “We don’t know that for sure.” Lawrence shot her a look over his shoulder as he raised the camera higher on its stand.

  Willis had been told they were still filming, though the audio had been turned off. The station was carrying the live feed of the rescue while Mia continued with damage reports as they continued to come in.

  At last count, seventeen tornadoes had been confirmed in Alabama alone, but Willis knew by the end of the night they would have reports of others. The fact that this area had been hit twice in the same day was not unusual, but it was always heartbreaking when it happened. They already knew of victims who had survived the first hit, only to die in the second. So he expected to hear it might be true at the restaurant site as well.

  His eyes were glued to where the firefighters had brought two people up on a ladder they’d extended down into the hole. He couldn’t stop thinking about his last conversation with Beth. He’d never heard her so frightened. What was worse was the humbling remorse in her voice. It was almost as if she thought she deserved this.

  “Mr. Dean.” A firefighter came around the van. He put up his hand to block Lawrence’s camera and asked Willis to step aside with him.

  Willis ran nervous fingers through his thinning hair. This was it. They must have found Beth. But how did they know she was his wife?

  “Come with me, please,” he told Willis.

  Then he led him through a crowd of by-standers. He lifted the yellow perimeter tape and gestured for Willis to duck under.

  “Your wife saw that you were with the news crew.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “No broken bones. She has lots of bruises. A few cuts and scrapes. We’re recommending she go to the ER. Make sure there’s no internal bleeding. She insisted she wouldn’t go without you.”

  “Really? Okay.”

  Willis didn’t know what else to say. He was suddenly shaking, and not sure it was just the chilly air. In all his years as a kid fascinated by the weather then a storm chaser and a meteorologist, he’d never lost someone close to him. It occurred to him that he still loved his wife...very much. He wasn’t ready to lose her. To a storm or to a divorce.

  “You okay, Mr. Dean?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Willis said. He pushed back his shoulders and followed the firefighter to the waiting ambulance.

  69

  Creed was pacing. He stayed back despite it going against his gut instinct. He wasn’t law enforcement. He wasn’t trained as a first responder. Usually, he did his job then moved himself and his dog out of the way so investigators could do their jobs. But this was different, and he felt completely helpless. Without his phone he couldn’t even give himself the false sense of control by checking for unanswered texts.

  Sheriff Krenshaw explained that they’d take digital photos of the bodies they’d found. Just the faces or what was left of them. He promised to let Creed know more as soon as he knew.

  Trooper Sykes left to help secure the perimeter, and Creed could see that was becoming a challenge. A couple of television vans had parked as close as possible, setting up lights and cameras. It looked to Creed that they had reporters doing live broadcasts. A crowd of on-lookers—some of them family members—had also descended on the area. Law enforcement officers had their hands full keeping people out while escorting fire and rescue units.

  All the while he kept thinking and hoping that Maggie might still be down in that hole. And what about Frankie? He knew she had been hurt.

  The firefighters were bringing up another person. They had lowered a ladder and had already helped three people, two women and one teenaged boy. In the stark light of the portable floodlights each of them looked startled as they crawled out. This woman was covered in dust and dirt. As soon as she was on solid ground, someone wrapped her in a blanket and escorted her to the nearest rescue unit.

  They continued to come up. Slowly. Some of them needed more assistance than others. Each time Creed saw a head emerge, his pulse raced faster. It was almost unbearable to watch. And each time, his hope would surge only to crash when he recognized it wasn’t Maggie. His head still throbbed and his chest ached from his rollover. Dr. Avelyn had said he might have a concussion. When Sykes came by to check on him, Creed
accepted the bottle of water the trooper offered.

  He lost track of how many they had brought up. Then suddenly, the firefighters were pulling up the ladder.

  That couldn’t be all.

  His heart was racing now. He had tried to block out the sirens and yells and calls of law enforcement and rescue crews. Suddenly, he strained to hear what they were saying. His eyes darted frantically for Krenshaw or Sykes. Before he could find either, he saw the firefighters exchanging the ladder for a stretcher. And this time, Creed felt his knees threaten to buckle underneath him.

  “Hey,” he heard someone behind him.

  “Jason!”

  “Don’t worry, I left the windows partially opened and the doors locked. The dogs are good.”

  Only now did Creed realize the temperature had cooled. So much so, that his sweat-drenched body was chilly.

  “I was listening on the radio,” Jason said.

  “You probably know more than I do.”

  “Seventeen tornadoes touched down today, just in Alabama.”

  Creed shot him a worried look.

  “None in Florida,” Jason added. Then he pointed. “Looks like they’re bringing up someone strapped to a stretcher.”

  “This is driving me crazy.”

  “You’re already inside the perimeter. What’s stopping you from getting closer?”

  He realized Jason was right. And yet, his feet stayed planted. Maybe he needed this safe distance.

  “Come on,” Jason told him.

  The kid pulled down his cap and ventured closer.

  “I think that’s Frankie,” Creed said, keeping up with Jason.

  He could see the light shoot across her face as they carried her to a waiting ambulance. He was concentrating so hard on her that he didn’t notice they’d lowered the ladder, again, for the last survivor.

  “There she is,” Jason said.

  “You don’t even know Frankie.”

  “No, Maggie. She just climbed out.”

  This time Creed didn’t wait for permission. He started walking quickly before someone stopped him. His eyes stayed focused on her as if afraid she’d disappear from his sight if he glanced away for even a moment. Halfway there she noticed him, and a smile started slowly at the corner of her mouth. She did a one-shoulder shrug as if to say, “Can you believe this day!”

  He broke into a jog the final yards, and the firefighter that had been escorting her, stepped to the side when he saw him coming. Creed grabbed her by the waist and his hug brought her feet off the ground. He kissed her long and hard before he released her. He heard her gasp then laugh.

  “You taste like whiskey,” he said, but then he saw the way her arm hung down at her side. She was holding it in place with her other hand.

  “You’re hurt! Are you okay? Did I just hurt you?”

  “I don’t think you would ever hurt me, Ryder Creed.” She was still smiling even as she winced from the pain.

  70

  Maggie wanted Ryder to stay with her and Frankie in the ambulance, but they said there wasn’t enough room. When she saw them working on Frankie, she didn’t argue.

  Ryder promised that he and Jason would meet them at the hospital. She traced the cuts and bruises on his face with her fingers and her eyes searched his.

  “Are you okay? she asked.

  “I am now,” he smiled, taking her hand and kissing it then stepping back and letting them close the ambulance door.

  Now here at the ER, she wished they’d let her stay with Frankie. They might have if Maggie had been better at hiding her own injury.

  Ryder had texted her. He and Jason were making their way to the hospital, but the route was clogged with emergency vehicles.

  She told him not to rush. To be careful. The hospital was packed. Most likely they’d be turned away to make room for storm victims and emergency healthcare personnel. A nurse had told her that the lobby was even being used as a prep and triage area.

  Cell phone service was spotty. Calls wouldn’t go through, so they continued to use text messages.

  FRANKIE’S ALREADY IN ICU.

  HOW ABOUT YOU?

  THEY’RE TAKING CARE OF MY ARM RIGHT NOW.

  She didn’t, however, get a chance to tell Ryder how serious Frankie’s condition was. The paramedic and the ER doctor tried to explain crush syndrome. Maggie thought she’d done the right thing by getting the beam off of Frankie’s legs as quickly as possible. But it wasn’t that simple. The impact, pressure and weight would have already damaged the muscle. When the compressive force was relieved, a cascade of events had begun with toxins from the damaged tissue’s cellular components being released. This systemic release could ultimately be fatal resulting in renal failure, shutting down other organs and possibly even prompting a cardiac episode.

  Maggie’s undergrad included a minor detour in pre-med. But even so, down in that dark, sweltering bunker she never suspected any of this. And why would she? For a decade now, she looked after the dead, not the living.

  The entire time her arm was being worked on, she was distracted by what she should have done differently. Finally, alone again as she waited between x-rays and what came next, she pulled out her cell phone and started reading through Agent Alonzo’s messages. He’d linked a video from Detective Jacks in Chicago, and she debated whether she should watch or conserve her battery. Alonzo’s text said:

  THIS WAS TAKEN FROM A SECURITY CAMERA. NOT GREAT BUT SHOWS GATES’ ATTACKERS.

  She texted him that she was out from under ground. Both her and Frankie. Then she asked:

  ARE YOU STILL ABLE TO TRACK GATES’ CELL PHONE?

  If the men who were chasing Frankie had been watching the scene, they knew where Frankie had been taken. Her eyes darted around the small ER room looking for her weapon. They didn’t make her get out of her T-shirt and don a gown, but she did have to remove her shoulder harness. Now, she suddenly felt naked without it.

  Her phone dinged with Alonzo’s response. Only then, did Maggie notice that it was almost midnight.

  LOST IT WHEN THE STORM HIT.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised. It was difficult enough to have a conversation without the call getting dropped.

  CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE ABLE TO. SOME INTERESTING DEVELOPMENTS.

  Why did people do that? Now all she wanted to do was call Alonzo. But first, she’d take a look at the video, if she could access it.

  The connection was slow. A few seconds after the video started it stalled then began, again. Typical security footage. Grainy, but not jerky. No audio. From the angle she could watch the men approach from the opposite direction. Frankie was right. One of the men was huge. Square shoulders, no neck, a block for a head.

  Both men wore jogging suits. Gates stopped to talk to them. A few seconds later, he put up his hand. The gun came up close to his forehead and Gates’ head jerked back then he crumpled to the ground. A street lamp blocked part of the view. The other man cocked his head and pointed. He must have seen the earbud in Gates’ ear.

  The big guy kneeled to grab the phone while the other man backed away. Maggie had paid little attention to the other man, but now, she watched intently as his head swiveled casually and he started walking up the street.

  She hit pause and started again. She zoomed in, zoomed out and started again. After the third time she knew she was right. She had to find Frankie and fast.

  71

  Frankie remembered the firefighter strapping her to the stretcher. He had gorgeous blue eyes and a calm, deep voice that made everything he said sound fascinating. She remembered the cool night air and how wonderful it felt even if it gave her goose bumps. But somewhere after her being loaded into the back of an ambulance, she lost her focus. She knew Maggie had crawled in beside her. She heard her responding to the paramedic’s questions.

  “How many hours? How much weight are we talking about?” the man wanted to know.

  A blanket appeared, billowing up and draping over her body. An IV bag swung overhea
d. She hardly felt the needle, and she hated needles. A warm sensation seemed to flow through her veins almost immediately, but that’s when her eyelids refused to stay open.

  Now, as she tried to focus on her new surroundings she couldn’t make her brain work. Machines hummed. IV lines trailed from her arm and disappeared somewhere above and behind her. She didn’t have the energy to turn her head. She nodded off and jerked awake. How many times, she wasn’t sure. Once or twice she thought she’d seen someone sitting in the chair over in the corner. But maybe that was a dream.

  Nurses and doctors and techs came and went. Some of them had questions. Others worked around her silently. Every time the door opened she could hear—and sometimes glimpse—the chaos in the hallway. Then she drifted back to sleep.

  All concept of time had gotten lost underground. Did the tornado happen a day ago? A week?

  She woke bleary-eyed and feeling no pain. It took her a few seconds to notice the man standing over her. She saw the white coat and waited for his questions. He looked familiar when her eyes finally focused. His head cocked to one side while he examined her. It was the same way he’d looked at her the first time they’d met. Like he couldn’t decide whether or not to be bothered with her.

  “Hi Gus,” she said.

  Her voice was so quiet and weak she wasn’t sure if he heard her, because he didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned to someone behind him.

  “Let’s make this quick,” he told a huge man with a blockhead and wide shoulders.

  72

  Creed didn’t realize how bad he looked until he walked into the ER and a nurse said they’d take a look at him as soon as possible.

  “No, I’m fine. But a couple of my friends came in by ambulance.” He glanced at his wrist to check the time and remembered the tornado had taken his watch. “Maybe an hour ago. One was brought on a stretcher. The other had a broken arm.”