***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2015 S.M. Kava 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 always 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 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. While Wilson handed Creed his own "mustang"--the air crew's term of endearment for the orange flight suits they wore--he stared at Grace as though perhaps Creed might have brought the wrong dog. Even the rest of the crew--copilot Tommy Ellis, flight mechanic Pete Kesnick, and rescue swimmer Liz Bailey--looked at the terrier as if they weren't sure what to do with her. But it was actually Grace whom the Coast Guard had requested. Last week she'd made the national news when she managed to sniff out two kilos of cocaine at Hartsfield's international terminal in Atlanta. A Colombian woman had creatively found a way to make chocolate bars with cocaine centers. She had made it through customs and was headed out of the area when Grace pulled Creed off the line they were working and raced after the woman. Two weeks before, Grace had stopped a duffel bag filled with a case of peanut butter. It was coming down the conveyor belt out of the cargo hold of an American Airlines flight from Iquitos, Peru. They had already spent a morning going over checked luggage from incoming international flights when Grace alerted Creed to the red-and-black duffel that looked brand-new. Sure enough, in the gooey middle of each jar was a triple-bagged stash of cocaine. Each sixteen-ounce jar of extra-crunchy contained almost a kilo. Creed was told that the twelve-pack carton had a street value of nearly a million dollars. Suddenly they were becoming celebrities. Just two days ago, Creed and Grace had traveled to prerecord an appearance on The View that was scheduled to air this week. Creed's partner, Hannah, was fielding calls for more appearances, on Good Morning America and Fox and Friends . Grace, of course, was taking the attention the same way she reacted to everything else--as if it were just another part of her daily adventure. Creed not so much. He'd worked hard to carve out a mostly private life for himself despite building a nationally known K9 business. At first he bristled at the media attention, until Hannah convinced him it could be a way for his sister, Brodie, to find him. "Rye," Hannah told him when he groaned at another photo of him and Grace, this time on the front page of USA Today . "What if Brodie is still alive? She might see you. She'll recognize the name, if not the face. Maybe all this is a blessing." That was Hannah, always finding a positive spin, seeing blessings where Creed saw only chaos. That's how she had saved him in the first place. Seven years ago she'd seen promise in the drunk and belligerent marine who had taken on three guys in a bar fight. It happened at the end of her shift at Walter's Canteen on Pensacola Beach. In all his life, Creed had never had to deal with an angry black woman, especially one whose anger came in a calm and measured sermon that had sobered him more than any drill sergeant ever had. Somehow he ended up with a mop in his hands, cleaning up broken glass and sticky beer, instead of in an alley with a busted skull or broken ribs. It was Hannah who'd convinced Creed to use the skills he'd learned as a K9 handler in his marine unit to start his own business. And since that night she'd managed to become his business partner, his confidante, his counselor, his family. She was usually right, even about the things he didn't want to admit. And maybe she'd be right about this. Fifteen years ago his sister, Brodie, had disappeared, taken from an interstate rest stop. She was only eleven. Creed was fourteen. Brodie's body had never been found. It ripped apart his parents and forced Creed to grow up too soon, haunted and forever burdened by that autumn day when suddenly Brodie wasn't in the restroom anymore. She wasn't anywhere to be found. His search for her inspired Creed to start K9 CrimeScents. The company had grown into a multimillion-dollar operation with a dozen employees, a training facility on fifty acres, with a waiting list for their services as well as for the dogs Creed trained. Every cadaver search got his hopes up, because even though Brodie had disappeared as a little girl, there was always the possibility that she had lived on for any part of the fifteen years she'd been missing. So every time Creed's searches discovered a body--whether it was that of a child, a teenager, or a young woman--there was always a chance, always the slightest possibility, that it could be Brodie. And each time the body was identified as someone else, Creed felt the same overwhelming mixture of relief and misery. Relief that maybe, just maybe, his sister could still be alive. And misery, because if she was, what kind of a life was it? Initially when the despair from searching for dead bodies almost did him in, Hannah insisted Creed start training some of their dogs for search and rescue, and then she added bombs and drugs to the list. That was why she had him doing drug searches these past several weeks. When she found him passed out in his loft apartment or saw too many women coming and going, she knew he needed a break from tracking dead bodies. Otherwise the stench of death and the false hopes would suck the life right out of him. So Creed told Hannah that he'd tolerate the media attention as long as it didn't bother Grace. And he would do a few more drug searches. But this helicopter ride was bringing back other memories that Creed had not expected, and now he wished he'd said no to Hannah and to this assignment. Grace licked his hand. She was staring at him. An intense stare was supposed to be her cue to him that she had found what they were searching for. Grace was one of his few multitask dogs. All Creed had to do was put on a different vest or harness and Grace knew what he wanted her to sniff out. But this stare was different. Dogs could detect their handlers' emotions, too, and Grace knew that something was wrong. She was an amazing little dog. Hard to believe that someone had discarded her like trash in the ditch at the end of his driveway. But then that was how Creed had gotten most of his dogs. Hannah had shaken her head at him when he brought in another stray. "Folks just taking advantage of your soft heart," she'd tell Creed. What no one understood, not even Hannah, was that the dogs he rescued--those abandoned mutts that were worthless to some- one else--had flourished into some of his best search dogs. There was a loyalty, a bond between Creed and the dogs. He'd given them a purpose, a second chance. In a sense it was exactly what they'd given him. But now, for Grace's sake, he needed to shove aside those memories that had jolted him with the simple smell of diesel and the sound of the rotors. It was Grace's first helicopter ride, but it was hardly Creed's. Almost as soon as he'd boarded, the vibration had drummed out a rhythm that threatened to swallow his heartbeat. Without warning, his chest felt as if it might explode. He craned his neck so he could look out and down at the emerald green water below. He took deep breaths and calmed his nerves. He tried to remind himself that it was the Gulf of Mexico under his feet and not the suffocating dust and rock of Afghanistan. Times like this it surprised him how much he could still feel that place. And yet he had no one to blame but himself. His mistake. He'd been looking for an escape from his life and thought the marines would take him far away from his troubles, but instead he discovered that there were worse versions of hell than the one inside you. "We're almost there." Commander Wilson's voice blasted through Creed's helmet, startling him a bit. Creed scratched behind Grace's ears--their signal that everything was okay. Finally she put her head down on his leg, but her ears were still pitched forward, letting him know that he wasn't fooling her. Excerpted from Breaking Creed by Alex Kava All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
