Rochelle Alers - Breakaway

Born Orlando Wells, he’d become Gavin’s foster brother when Gavin’s mother took him in after he’d been placed in her care by a fellow social worker. Orlando didn’t remember his drug-addicted parents, and at nine hadn’t shed a tear when told of their deaths from an overdose of crack cocaine. Malvina Faulkner legally adopted Orlando and after college and a stint as a Navy SEAL, he was recruited by the ATF. Orlando Wells Faulkner had become Raymond Prentice and anyone they wanted him to be.

His younger brother had always been a risk taker, and if Orlando survived this undercover mission, Gavin would do everything within his power to convince him to leave the ATF. Their mother’s greatest fear was that after burying her husband, who’d died in the line of duty, she would also bury one or both of her sons. The elder Faulkner, a former Vietnam War Green Beret, joined the Bureau as an undercover agent. He’d infiltrated a radical group in the early 1980s, but lost his life during a confrontation between group members and the police.

Gavin continued walking along the shoulder of a narrow two-lane road. He’d estimated he’d walked half a mile and a total of eight cars had passed going in either direction. The population of Waynesville was about ten thousand, and that meant most long-time residents were familiar with one another. However, during the summer the number of tourists visiting the mountain region swelled the numbers appreciably.

Being on the run during the summer months and attempting to hide out in a tourist area was advantageous for the undercover agent, but would prove to be the opposite for Gavin because it would make his search more difficult.

His orders dictated that he work alone, without the assistance of regional agents or local law enforcement. The members of the joint task force did not want anything or anyone to compromise their attempt to eradicate a gun-trafficking network spanning more than twenty states.

Gavin knew what lay ahead was a daunting task, but he had to cover acres of virgin forests, mountain caves and miles of streams to rescue the FBI’s Most Wanted before the gun traffickers found him.

Gavin decelerated when he spotted a dark shape in the middle of the road. He’d spent most of the morning driving along Route 44l, which led into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. He’d walked the trails, searching for Orlando Faulkner. After more than six hours, he’d decided to head back to Waynesville.

He’d gotten up before sunrise to plan his strategy. He’d gone over a map detailing western North Carolina, highlighting the many cities he’d planned to visit ranging as far east as Black Mountain. His travels would take him south to Hendersonville and Flat Rock, then northwest to Asheville and as far west as the Great Smoky Mountains, and if necessary, into Tennessee.

Slowing and pulling off onto the shoulder, he got out of the truck, his right hand pressed to the automatic tucked into his waistband under his T-shirt. Going to one knee, he saw a small dog. Each time it attempted to move, it let out a small whimper.

He rested a hand lightly on the canine’s back. “What happened to you, buddy?” Gavin’s head popped up when he heard the sound of tires on the roadway. A car was coming closer. Standing, he waved his arms over his head, motioning for the motorist to stop. Fortunately, there was still enough daylight for whoever was driving the vehicle to see him.

Celia saw the figure of a man standing in the middle of the road, waving frantically. She pushed a button on the steering wheel, raising the driver’s-side window. Slowing, she stopped within feet of the man she recognized as the one who’d asked her about cabbages two days before.

She lowered the window with his approach. “What’s the matter?”

Gavin smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation. He’d grown up around pets, but it was dogs that were his personal favorite. Orlando liked cats because he claimed they were silent and unpredictable. His brother would pretend to be a cat and try and sneak up on Gavin before he detected his presence. Eight out of ten times he was successful.

He leaned into the window. “There’s an injured dog in the road.”

Celia pushed open the door, but Gavin wouldn’t let her get out. “Let go of the door.”

He shook his head. “You don’t need to see it.”

Her eyes grew wider. “Is it dead?”

“No.”

“Then, let me see it.”

“No,” Gavin repeated.

“I’m a doctor,” she finally said.

Gavin froze. “You’re a vet?”

“No! I’m a medical doctor. Now, get away from the door so I can look at the poor creature.”

He took a step back, opening the door and reaching for her hand to assist her. As his gaze swept over the woman who claimed she was a doctor, a slow smile tilted the corners of his mouth. The other day she’d worn a pair of jeans, a baggy T-shirt and running shoes. Today she looked softer, more feminine in a white tank top she’d paired with a pair of black cropped pants and leather sandals. The delicate pink polish on her bare toes matched her fingernails. A black-and-white striped headband held a profusion of curls off her face.

His gaze lingered on her profile when she knelt to examine the whimpering canine. “What’s wrong with him?”

Celia glanced up at the man towering over her. “He has a laceration near his belly. And judging from the swelling, it’s infected.” She stood up. “I need for you to pick him up and place him on the rear seat of my truck, while I call to find a number for the nearest vet.”

“I’m going to put him in my truck, while you pull yours off the road,” Gavin countered.

Celia rolled her eyes at him. “Whatever. Just be careful with him.”

“How do you know he’s a male?”

“I know he’s a he because I checked. And, he’s also a puppy. He still has his milk teeth.” When she’d opened his mouth, two tiny rice-like particles fell into her palm.

She returned to her vehicle, maneuvering it over to the shoulder behind the black GMC Yukon hybrid. Reaching for her BlackBerry, Celia called information, pen and paper ready to jot down the number. Her heart sank when the operator gave her numbers of veterinary hospitals more than twenty miles away. She called each one only to find they were closed. The only one with evening hours was in Asheville.

Getting out, she approached the man wearing a pair of khaki walking shorts, thick white cotton socks, Doc Martens, a black tee and matching baseball cap. She didn’t know his name or anything about him, but he was the most virile-looking man she’d ever seen.

“Where am I taking him?” Gavin asked.

“You’re going to take him to my house. All of the vets in the area are closed and the nearest one with evening hours is in Asheville.”

Gavin shot her a suspicious look. “What are you going to do?”

“Clean his wound. Now, stop jawing and follow me. Please drive slowly. He’s already in enough pain without you jostling him further.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

“The name is Celia Cole-Thomas.”

“What’s your husband going to say when you bring home a strange man and injured dog?”

“I don’t have a husband, Mr.—”

Gavin was hard-pressed not to smile. He didn’t know why, but he’d hoped the tall, slender woman with the infectious dimpled smile wasn’t married. “It’s Faulkner. Gavin Faulkner.”

“Let’s go, Mr. Faulkner. Every minute that puppy doesn’t get medical attention gives the infection the advantage.”

Celia slipped behind the wheel, maneuvering around the Yukon with North Carolina plates, and drove in the direction of her house. She didn’t want to get stopped for speeding although she’d wanted to get home to set up a mock operating room before Gavin Faulkner arrived.