Breaking Creed

67

A huge mitt of a hand grabbed Creed by the ankle and began to pull. The man didn’t seem fazed by the mist that should have at least started to knock him out.

Creed kicked at the fingers with his other foot, smashing his own ankle but not discouraging the giant’s hold.

“You bastard,” the man cursed at him, and Creed noticed the words weren’t the least bit slurred.

He let go of his electronic devices to free up his hands. But instead of grabbing onto anything, Creed allowed the man to drag him out from his hiding place. And he did it as roughly as he could, seesawing Creed’s leg and sending his head bouncing against the floor.

But out in the open, the gas mask surprised and stopped the man. Creed took advantage of the brief slip. He balled up his fist and slammed it into the giant’s throat. The guy gasped and grabbed his neck, finally letting go of Creed’s ankle.

Creed scrambled to his hands and knees as the man reached for him, again. Only, this time he collapsed. Finally the fumes had overcome him.

He gathered up his cell phones, leaving the iPad behind. By his calculation, there was one man left to deal with — the guy sitting in the vehicle at the end of Creed’s driveway.

He had already switched off all the dog doors so none of the dogs could come back in until he could air out the building. With his gas mask still in place, Creed collected the three men’s weapons, patting them down and finding knives and brass knuckles in boots and back pockets. He left each man where he had fallen to save time, but zip-tied their hands and feet, then duct-taped their mouths.

Finished, he stood over the pile of their weapons. He’d learned a long time ago that only a fool depended on weapons to save his life. But an even bigger fool wouldn’t take advantage of one given to him. Creed picked up a pistol he actually recognized, though they had only recently been issued to the marine special ops. The Colt M45 was desert-tan and felt small in his hand. It was meant to be a close-quarters battle pistol, which was exactly what he needed right now. He lifted his sweat-drenched T-shirt and slipped the gun in his waistband.

He was already headed for the back door when he heard dogs start to bark. He froze in his tracks. Barking was not good. Every single dog had obeyed his commands all night. Barking was not allowed. Creed had gotten through this far with anger fueling him, but now for the first time panic kicked him in the gut.

The dogs’ outdoor pen ran the length of the warehouse. He continued to use the back door as planned, letting himself out and keeping his body pressed against the building. He pulled off the gas mask, setting it down and sucking in the humid but fresh air. A gentle breeze reminded him that he had also gotten soaked by the spray. He filled his lungs with the damp night air, then he moved on.

He crept in the shadows, trying to listen beyond the barks. Night birds he didn’t recognize seemed to fill the air, possibly stirred up by the dogs’ barking. He was almost to the corner of the building where the pen began when he heard a man call out for him.

“You just as well come out, Mr. Creed.”

The deep voice had a heavy Spanish accent. That surprised Creed. He expected the Iceman to blend in better. The dogs had quieted, and Creed had to step slower and softer without their barking to cover his approach. His fingers started to pull the pistol out of his waistband when he heard a dog cry out in pain.

He recognized that cry. It was Grace.