Breaking Creed

23

As far as assignments went, the one that the Iceman had just given Falco would be his most challenging. Little did it help that he hated dogs. No, that wasn’t exactly true. If it were, this would be easy. He didn’t hate dogs — he was frightened of them. But never in a thousand years would he admit that to anyone, least of all, the Iceman.

He didn’t even have a good reason to fear them. He wished he could point to some vicious attack or at least a scar from a dog bite. But there was nothing like that.

Several years ago, in his hometown of Mosquera — a suburb of Bogotá, Colombia — it seemed that stray dogs had taken over the city. More than thirty thousand dirty mutts roamed the streets. You could see them lounging under trees during the day and prowling the alleys for food at night. You couldn’t walk the city sidewalks without stepping in their crap. It was disgusting.

One by itself might have been a pathetic sight. But they traveled in packs. They looked like savages, desperate and hungry, with long legs, protruding ribs, scruffs of fur, glassy eyes, and frothing mouths. Maybe not frothing. Panting and flashing yellowed fangs. It was what he remembered. He was still just a boy at the time.

It didn’t help matters that his mother had told him that a pack of wild dogs had attacked and eaten a five-year-old boy who had wandered away from the safety of his backyard. Never mind that it was probably a story that mothers told to misbehaving young boys in order to instill enough fear in them to straighten up and do right.

It had given Falco nightmares. Sometimes he still dreamed of being chased by a pack of rabid dogs. He could hear them thundering closer and closer until he could feel their razor-sharp fangs snapping at his heels. Usually he woke up just as they started to drag him down.

A thumping sound made Falco jump and almost swerve off the road. As he checked the rearview mirror he was already embarrassed by his reaction. In the back of the Land Rover the bundle twitched and jerked.

How the hell could the bastard still be alive?

He glanced at the vehicle’s navigation system. He still had forty-seven miles to go. Falco adjusted the rearview mirror to take a better look. He’d rolled the guy up in a plastic tarp and wrapped a sturdy cable around him, tying it securely.

How was the son of bitch able to breathe?

No way he’d manage to get out, even in forty-seven more miles, but Falco didn’t want any blood in the back of the Land Rover. It was bad enough that he had to keep all those burlap bags back there. He’d grown quite fond of this vehicle. Earlier, he worried that the Iceman would make him dump it.

“You haven’t gotten rid of the Land Rover yet?”

“It has a V8 engine,” Falco had told him with a grin.

The Iceman didn’t smile.

“Besides, I changed out the license plates like you told me.”

“Where?”

“That strip club on Davis Highway. Figured some drunk horny guy’s not gonna report it, even if he ever knew what his license plate number was.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, he thought the Iceman almost smiled. Almost. He did nod and that, alone, was praise from the man.

“Still, I’ll tell them to get you a decent ride. Have they, at least, been paying you on time? You let me know if they don’t.”

That wasn’t a problem. The money was good. Falco didn’t know what to do with it all. Really, he didn’t know what to do with it. They paid him in cash. It wasn’t like he could walk into a bank and open an account.

He had started wrapping stacks in aluminum foil about the size of a meat loaf, then labeling them “meat loaf” or “pot roast” on the outside with a black marker. But his freezer didn’t have room for many more. He’d gotten the idea from an old black-and-white movie. He figured if someone found them, they’d just feel sorry for him that all he had to eat was meat loaf and pot roast.

A freezer full of anything was certainly more than his mother had when she was raising him. Sometimes he wished she could see him. She’d love this Land Rover. The seats were made of smooth leather, softer than anything he imagined she’d ever sat on. Maybe in a month or so he’d try to find a way to send her some money.

Falco glanced in the mirror again at the bundle twisting and thumping. Of course, his mother would want to know about his job. Maybe he’d tell her he was a deliveryman.

He smiled at that and turned on the radio, blasting the volume until he couldn’t hear the thumping anymore.