“Already putting on my dungarees.”
That made Creed smile. Hannah was the only person he knew who referred to blue jeans as dungarees. She’d hate it if he called her a Southern belle, though her mannerisms sometimes fit. She would say she was corn bread and black-eyed peas and certainly not a lady who lunched.
“But no need to drive,” she continued. “They’re sending a jet. A Gulfstream 550.”
“They’re sending what?”
“I know I got it right. I wrote it down. Gulfstream 550. That’s one of the pretty ones, isn’t it?”
“Wait a minute. I thought you said the request was from the Department of Defense.”
“That’s right.”
“What interest do they have in a landslide in North Carolina?” Creed didn’t like the sound of this.
“That is not on my list of questions. Maybe they had some training personnel in the area. The gentleman said he knew you. That you two had worked together years ago.”
“I don’t know anybody at the DoD. And I haven’t worked with a military dog in a long time.”
Creed could hear her flipping pages. She kept impeccable records and always got more information than she actually needed before she confirmed an assignment.
“Here it is,” she finally said. “Logan. Lieutenant Colonel Peter Logan.”
Afghanistan. Creed felt like acid had slid into his stomach.
Over seven years ago, and yet just the mention of Peter Logan brought back images and memories he had hoped were long buried.
3.
Pensacola, Florida
Emotion runs down the leash.
It was one of the first things Creed taught dog handlers and something he reminded himself of constantly. As a handler, whatever you were feeling, you needed to tamp it down. Keep it under wraps as much as possible because a dog could sense it immediately.
As Creed walked down the aisle of the Gulfstream, he glanced back to see Bolo practically tiptoeing behind him at the end of his leash. It was exactly the way Creed felt—uneasy in the luxurious interior, like he didn’t belong there. And the dog was copying him.
He patted the big dog’s head, then ran his hand the length of his back, over the thin streak of coarse hair that stood up and grew in the reverse direction. The line was a defining characteristic of the Rhodesian ridgeback, and for some reason when Creed petted him there, the dog tended to calm down.
“Hello.” A woman greeted them from the back of the plane, looking up but not interrupting her tasks.
Glasses tinkled. He smelled fresh-brewed coffee. She wore a navy blazer, matching skirt, and black heels. Probably the flight attendant.
“Are you traveling with Mr. Creed?”
“I am Mr. Creed.”
That stopped her.
He watched her take a step back to get a better look at him. He expected to get right to work as soon as they landed, so he’d worn his usual uniform: blue jeans, hiking boots, a T-shirt, and a long-sleeved oxford left unbuttoned with the tails untucked. His tousled hair crept over the back of his collar and he kept his face unshaved but trimmed with fine lines that made it look groomed instead of like he had just gotten up. But he figured appearance wasn’t the only thing that stopped her.
“I’m sorry, it’s just that I expected—”
“Someone older?”
Her face flushed the answer before she admitted it. “Yes, I suppose so.”
And in that moment he could tell she was younger than he initially had thought. In fact, she was much closer to his age, somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty. Maybe she expected her uniform to give her gravitas. So many people did. He worked with a lot of uniforms—official as well as unofficial—and titles. Law enforcement and government loved titles and badges and knowing whose title or badge won jurisdiction. Creed wasn’t interested in their pissing contests, and he simply didn’t care what others thought of him.
But now, realizing he was her official passenger, not just some casually dressed lackey, she left the galley and the flight preparations to greet him properly.
“I’m Isabel Klein, Mr. Logan’s assistant.” She held out her hand.
After a firm, brisk handshake she offered her open palm to Bolo to sniff. And because of that small gesture, Creed decided to cut her some slack for her initial mistake. He took a second look at the woman.
She noticed. Caught his eye, and he swore there was a hint of a blush, but it didn’t stay long. She reached out and took the duffel bag from his hand and swung it up into the luggage compartment with little effort. He wouldn’t allow her to take anything else and started pulling straps from his shoulder, then shrugging out of the backpack.
“Sit wherever you’re comfortable,” she said as she looked around behind him. “What’s his name?”
“Bolo.”
She smiled. “Like the acronym BOLO?”