Reckless Creed

THE RYDER CREED NOVELS

Silent Creed

Breaking Creed

THE MAGGIE O'DELL NOVELS

Stranded

Fireproof

Hotwire

Damaged

Black Friday

Exposed

A Necessary Evil

At the Stroke of Madness

The Soul Catcher

Split Second

A Perfect Evil

THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS

Whitewash

One False Move

THE E-BOOK ORIGINALS WITH ERICA SPINDLER
AND J. T. ELLISON

Storm Season

Slices of Night

SHORT WORKS COLLECTION

Off the
Grid

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

Publishers Since 1838

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2016 by S. M. Kava

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

eBook ISBN: 9780698160699

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Kava, Alex, author.

Title: Reckless creed / Alex Kava.

Description: New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons, 2016. | Series: A Ryder Creed novel ; 3

Identifiers: LCCN 2016027554 | ISBN 9780399170782 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Search dogs—Fiction. | O'Dell, Maggie (Fictitious character)—Fiction. | Dog trainers—Fiction. | Search and rescue operations—Fiction. | Veterans—United States—Fiction. | Criminal profilers—Fiction. | Conspiracies—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Thrillers. | FICTION / Suspense. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Suspense fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3561.A8682 R43 2016 | DOC 813/.54—dc23

LC record available at /2016027554

p. cm.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In Memory of
Patricia R. Kava
July 17, 1933–February 17, 2016

And again for my boy, Scout.
(March 18, 1998–May 8, 2014)
This whole series is dedicated to you,
buddy.

CHICAGO

T
ony Briggs coughed up blood, then wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve.
This was bad.
Although it was nothing he couldn't handle. He'd been through worse. Lots worse. But still, they didn't tell him he'd get this sick. He was beginning to think the bastards had double-crossed him.

He tapped out “
fine mess I got myself into
” on his cell phone and hit Send before he changed his mind.

The text message wasn't part of his instructions. Not part of the deal. He didn't care. So what if the watchers found out. What could they do to him now? He already felt like crap. They couldn't make him feel much worse.

He tossed the phone into the garbage can along with the few brochures he'd picked up throughout the day. His itinerary read like a sightseeing family vacation. Or in his case, something presented by one of those make-a-wish charities—one final trip, all expenses paid.

He laughed at that and ended up in a coughing fit. Blood sprayed the flat-screen TV and even the wall behind. He didn't
like leaving the mess for the hotel housekeeping staff. But it was a little too late for that. Especially since his instructions included touching everything he could throughout the day. The list rattled in his head: light switches, elevator buttons, restaurant menus, remote controls, and escalator handrails.

Earlier that morning at the McDonald's—before the cough, just before the fever spiked and he still had a bit of bravado along with an appetite—he'd felt his first tinge of apprehension. He'd taken his tray and stopped at the condiment counter.

Touch as many surfaces as possible.

He'd been told to do just that. Germs could live on a hard surface for up to eighteen hours. He might have screwed up a lot of things in his life, but he could still follow instructions.

That was what he'd been thinking when he felt a tap on his elbow.

“Hey, mister, could you please hand me two straws?”

The kid was six, maybe seven, with nerdy glasses, the thick black frames way too big for his face. He kept shoving at them, the motion second nature. The kid reminded Tony immediately of his best friend, Jason. They had grown up together since they were six years old. Same schools. Same football team. Joined the army together. Even came back from Afghanistan, both screwed up in one way or another. Tony was the athlete. Jason was the brains. Smart and pushy even at six. But always following Tony around.

Old four-eyes.

“Whadya doing now?” was Jason's favorite catchphrase.

In grade school they went through a period where Jason mimicked everything Tony did. In high school the kid bulked up just so he could be on the football team, right alongside Tony. In the back
of his mind he knew Jason probably joined the army only because Tony wanted to. And look where it got them.

Tony shoved at the guilt. And suddenly at that moment he found himself hoping that Jason never found out what a coward he really was.

“Mister.” The kid waited with his hand outstretched.

Tony caught himself reaching for the damned straw dispenser, then stopped short, fingertips inches away.

“Get your own damned straws,” he told the kid. “You're not crippled.”

Then he turned and left without even getting his own straw or napkin. Without touching a single thing on the whole frickin' condiment counter. In fact, he took his tray and walked out, shouldering the door open so he wouldn't have to touch it either. He dumped the tray and food in a nearby trash can. The kid had unnerved him so much it took him almost an hour to move on.

Now back in his hotel room, sweat trickled down his face. He wiped at his forehead with the same sleeve he'd used on his mouth.

The fever was something he'd expected. The blurred vision was a surprise.

No, it was more than blurred vision. The last hour or so he knew he'd been having hallucinations. He thought he saw one of his old drill sergeants in the lobby of the John Hancock building. But he'd been too nauseated from the observatory to check it out. Still, he remembered to touch every single button before he got out of the elevator. Nauseated and weak-kneed.

And he was embarrassed.

His mind might not be what it once was thanks to what the
doctors called traumatic brain injury, but he was proud that he'd kept his body lean and strong when so many of his buddies had come back without limbs. Now the muscle fatigue set in and it actually hurt to breathe.

Just then Tony heard a click in the hotel room. It came from somewhere behind him. It sounded like the door.

The room's entrance had a small alcove for the minibar and coffeemaker. He couldn't see the door without crossing the room.

“Is anybody there?” he asked as he stood up out of the chair.

Was he hallucinating again or had a shadow moved?

Suddenly everything swirled and tipped to the right. He leaned against the room service cart. He'd ordered it just like his watchers had instructed him to do when he got back to his room. Never mind that he hadn't been able to eat a thing. Even the scent of fresh strawberries made his stomach roil.

No one was there.

Maybe the fever was making him paranoid. It certainly made him feel like he was burning up from the inside. He needed to cool down. Get some fresh air.

Tony opened the patio door and immediately shivered. The small cement balcony had a cast-iron railing, probably one of the original fixtures that the hotel had decided to keep when renovating—something quaint and historic.

The air felt good. Cold against his sweat-drenched body, but good. Made him feel alive. And he smiled at that. Funny how being this sick could make him feel so alive. He'd come close to being killed in Afghanistan several times, knew the exhilaration afterward.

He stepped out into the night. His head was still three pounds
too heavy, but the swirling sensation had eased a bit. And he could breathe finally without hacking up blood.

Listening to the rumble and buzz of the city below, he realized if he wanted to, there'd be nothing to this. He had contemplated his own death many times since coming home, but never once had he imagined this.

Suddenly he realized it'd be just like stepping out of a C-130.

Only without a parachute.

Nineteen stories made everything look like a miniature world below. Matchbox cars. The kind he and Jason had played with. Fought over. Traded. Shared.

And that was when the second wave of nausea hit him.

Maybe he didn't have to finish this. He didn't even care anymore whether they paid him. Maybe it wasn't too late to get to an emergency room. They could probably give him something. Then he'd just go home. There were easier ways to make a few bucks.

But as he started to turn around he felt a shove. Not the wind. Strong hands. A shadow. His arms flailed trying to restore his balance.

Another shove.

His fingers grabbed for the railing but his body was already tipping. The metal dug into the small of his back. His vision blurred with streaks of light. His ears filled with the echo of a wind tunnel. The cold air surrounded him.

No second chances.
He was already falling.