Page 3 of Midnight Creed

Santa Rosa County,Florida

Ryder Creed had a bad feeling about this search.

It started as a prickling sensation raising the hair at the back of his neck. He couldn’t ignore it even as he raced to catch up with his dog. Already he regretted not putting Bolo on a leash.

The dog’s sleek, lean body weaved through the trees, sprinting into the woods. The Rhodesian Ridgeback had long legs that leaped and glided. He slowed to drag his nose over some shrubs. His glances back at Creed were only a courtesy to see if his handler was keeping up. He huffed as if to say, “Nope, not here.” Even then the dog didn’t stop and trotted on, this time faster.

Creed struggled to keep the dog in sight. His boots crashed through the prickly undergrowth that snagged his jeans and threatened to trip him. He could no longer hear the sheriff and deputy behind him.

Hell, he couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of his heart and the tromping of his feet.

When the crunch underfoot switched from snapped twigs to broken glass, his stomach fell to his knees.

Bolo’s paws.

Creed’s gut instinct was right. He should never have let Bolo off-leash for this search. Not here in unfamiliar territory.

Fallen leaves barely concealed the garbage dumped on the forest’s floor. Bottles, cans, plastic takeout containers littered the area. Chunks of concrete, a rusted dishwasher, a ripped-up recliner—the trash heap was deeper here. None of it slowed down his dog.

Then suddenly, Creed couldn’t see him at all.

“Bolo!” He tried to level his tone, but the panic spilled into his voice.

A handler never sends his dog into a dangerous terrain, no matter how capable and sturdy the dog was. What was he thinking?

There was a surprised yelp. And Creed skidded to a stop.

He held his breath, not an easy task with his chest heaving and his heart pounding.

Another shriek. High pitched.

But it was human. Not dog! He was certain.

It didn’t matter. Creed’s pulse began racing faster. That prickle at the back of his neck was on fire.

“Bolo, heel,” he shouted though he still didn’t see his dog.

This was not good.

Creed tripped over a discarded microwave tangled in the brush. He caught himself before he fell. Hands outstretched to take on the impact smacked against a tree trunk instead. The stitch in his side suggested he stop. The same place where a recent knife injury was still healing. And despite the pounding that had moved from his chest to his head, he could hear his business partner, Hannah saying, “Rye, you really don’t understand what rest yourself means, do you?”

Beyond the branches, Creed could clearly see a mattress teetering on the debris pile beneath it. On the other side was the Ridgeback. Bolo stood in front of a man who had obviously just minutes ago sprung from the dirty mattress, and now was pressed up against a huge live oak.

“Bolo,” Creed called to him. His voice hitched as he sucked in air and tried to catch his breath. “Bolo...heel.”

It wasn’t the correct command, and the dog pinned his ears as if waiting for Creed to get it right. Bolo cut his eyes toward his handler without moving the rest of his body and without taking his attention away from his target.

Behind him, Creed heard voices and footsteps. Sheriff Norwich and her deputy were finally catching up. The man against the tree stayed put, arms dropped to his sides. Legs spread. Eyes wide. Creed suspected Bolo had frightened him awake. He was feeling sorry for the guy until he saw the man’s arm slowly rise.

How had Creed missed seeing the knife in the guy’s hand?

“Hey, stop! The dog’s not gonna hurt you. He’s a scent detection dog. He’s not a police dog.”

“What’s going on?”

It was Norwich. Creed could hear the snap of a holster.

“Sir, drop the knife.”