Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  Lots of money lost, he thought. But I’m sure she regretted it at her leisure. Hindsight’s always twenty-twenty.

  McNamara came to the counter with a toy police car, a toy army Humvee, a miniature lamp in the shape of the Las Vegas sign, and a couple of other items.

  “Maybe I should buy him something, too,” Wolf said.

  “Nah. Don’t want to spoil the kid.”

  Wolf hesitated, and then recalled the violence that the little boy had witnessed in recent weeks.

  Spoil the child and spare the rod, he thought, and picked up a small, cartoonish, plastic purple dragon holding some type of silver globe.

  “You think he’s old enough to appreciate the lamp?” Wolf asked.

  “Hell, if he’s not, I’ll keep it in my room,” McNamara said shoving his credit card into the slot. “You mind putting a couple of these things in the bag with your belt? Mine’s packed kinda tight.”

  Wolf paid for the dragon and stuffed the items into his carry-on.

  When they got to their gate, the A group was already starting to be called. Wolf and McNamara assumed their positions by the window and took out their boarding passes. On board, they found seats near the front, with Mac telling Wolf to take the one by the window. The middle seat was vacant due to the virus precautions.

  “It’ll give you more room to stretch out,” he said.

  “The flight’s only about an hour or so.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the champ now,” McNamara said with a wide grin.

  Once they were airborne, McNamara unbuckled his seatbelt, slipped off his mask, and got into the middle seat next to Wolf.

  “I been thinking,” McNamara said.

  Wolf took off his mask as well and smiled. “I thought I smelled rubber burning.”

  Mac barked a laugh and then squinted at Wolf. “All kidding aside, you think you want to keep on fighting?”

  “Probably not,” Wolf said. “I only took this fight because I felt I owed it to Reno.”

  “Shit,” McNamara said. “You don’t owe him nothing. In fact, it’s just the opposite. We saved his bacon down in Mexico, and he knows it.”

  The brutal scene of what had happened down in Cancun replayed itself in Wolf’s mind once more: the hot, Mexican night, the three members of Eagan’s Private Military Company, the Vipers, standing guard over him, Mac, Reno, and Reno’s buddy, Herc. Black Hercules, he called himself, aka Henry Preen. All four of them with their arms handcuffed behind their backs, waiting to be executed by the Private Military Contractors, Wolf struggling to retrieve the handcuff key he’d secreted in his boot, and Herc using his tremendous arm strength to break the steel loops of the cuffs. And the son of a bitch did it. He was a powerful man, but even he couldn’t withstand the 7.62 mm round that pierced his massive chest. Reno had taken one in the leg and Mac sustained a through-and-through to his abdomen. Wolf had managed to take out the three Vipers. Reno’s MMA career had been short-circuited when the bullet shattered his femur, and now was trying to regain his former status through a surrogate—Wolf.

  Ironic as all hell, he thought.

  “And the money was real decent this time,” McNamara said. “Wasn’t it?”

  “Decent enough.”

  “Not that Trackdown, Incorporated is exactly hurting for money at the moment,” McNamara said. “Thanks to all that you gave me, not to mention what was in that money-belt that your late, not-so-great lieutenant so graciously bestowed upon us.”

  That scene flashed momentarily through Wolf’s mind as well: former army lieutenant Jack Cummins, one of the men who’d set Wolf up for those war crimes in Iraq, lying dead on the dusty street of the ghost town, the bald-headed black guy who’d, apparently killed him, pulling the money-belt off of Cummins’s recumbent form, Richard Soraces holding what he thought was the real-deal bandito statue … The rest of it had taken place in a matter of seconds, but in Wolf’s mind it had played out in slow motion. The black guy raised his arm and took a shot at Wolf who had returned fire in a lethal response. As the black guy fell, Soraces jumped into a waiting bronze-colored Blazer. Soraces, the same man who’d shown Wolf a minute portion of a video that might clear his name, disappeared into the night.

  “I still think you should take it,” McNamara said. “Put it in the bank or something.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I already told you. It’s yours.”

  “No need for you to keep giving me money like you been doing.”

  Wolf shook his head again, as much to clear out the troubling visions as to decline Mac’s offer. It was blood money, that was for sure, and while that didn’t bother Wolf so much, he wasn’t about to forget that Mac had picked him up from Leavenworth and helped him get back on his feet.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “I owed it to you. You lifted me up off of the floor, gave me a job, free room and board …”

  “Which you’ve officially repaid in spades,” McNamara said. “Especially giving me the purse from your previous MMA match.”

  “I owed it to you for all you’ve done for me,” Wolf said. “Besides, we needed to get the company back in the black.”

  “Trackdown’s back in the black, all right,” Mac said. “After me leading us into the Mexican misadventure. And you insisting I keep the cash in that money-belt.”

  “I don’t need it,” Wolf said.

  He thought about the large sum of money that Soraces had given him which was still untouched in Wolf’s bank account. One hundred thousand dollars. Well, technically it wasn’t from Soraces but from Dexter Von Dien, the rich asshole behind the scenes. Or behind the schemes. It was time to do something about that.

  “Hey,” he said. “I been meaning to talk to you about the money. I’d like to set up a college trust fund for Chad.”

  McNamara’s brow furrowed. “Damn, you don’t need to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  Mac blew out a long breath. “That’s mighty generous of you, Steve. I appreciate it, but we can talk about it later. Right now, we got some other things to discuss.”

  Wolf wondered what that meant. He waited.

  “In case you haven’t noticed,” McNamara said. “This damn virus thing is slowing the courts, and hence the bounty hunting business, down to a crawl.”

  Wolf had noticed, all right. He nodded.

  “And,” McNamara continued, “with some of them asshole, liberal politicians talking about ending the cash bond system all over the country, it’s gonna effectively kill the bondsman business. And with it, the need for us bounty hunters.”

  Wolf had thought about the ramifications of that possibility but hadn’t mentioned it to Mac.

  “So,” McNamara continued. “We got to start thinking outside the box.”

  “Meaning I should seriously reconsider my retirement from MMA?”

  McNamara laughed. “Nah, not if you don’t want to, although I think you could go all the way to the top if you wanted to. No, I’m talking about expanding our horizons, maybe us diversifying a little bit.”

  “Diversifying?”

  “Right. We’re experienced trackers. We could maybe get our private investigators licenses, or maybe even become salvage consultants, like Travis McGee.”

  “Who?”

  McNamara’s brow furrowed again. “Don’t tell me with all the reading you been doing for those stupid lit classes you been taking that you never heard about John D. MacDonald.”

  The name did ring a faint bell for Wolf, but he didn’t think he’d read any of the man’s books.

  “Hell,” McNamara said. “That settles it. I’m gonna have to have a talk with that damn professor of yours when we get back.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Wolf said. “All I have to do is turn in my final paper and the class will be over.”

  “A paper? On what?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Well, I’ll still send him a nasty email then.”

  Wolf laughed. The thought of Mac attacking a college professor’s cho
ice of assignments was incongruous at best.

  “No,” Wolf said. “Don’t do that. I may want to take another course from her down the road.”

  “Her? Figures. She’s probably another one of them liberal asshole professors that doesn’t know her ass from a hole in the ground.”

  Wolf recalled the rather stout professor and told Mac he might have a hard time beating her in an arm-wrestling contest.

  “All the more reason for me to suggest some good literature to her,” McNamara said. “I suppose she doesn’t like Raymond Chandler, either.” He got a wistful expression on his face as his gaze moved upward. “I can remember finding one of his books on a USO table back when I was in Oakland at the Overseas Replacement Center waiting to be shipped out. A paperback. Farewell, My Lovely. I almost passed on it, except there was this real big, tough looking son of a bitch on the cover. Took it with me and read it on the plane. What a writer. When I came back to the world a couple of years later, they’d made a movie of it with Robert Mitchum starring as Marlowe.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A great actor.”

  “I’ll have to see if I can find it on the nostalgia channel.”

  “Read the book instead,” McNamara said. “I have a copy. I’ll loan it to you.”

  “I’ll look forward to that. But reading about a PI in some novel is a lot different than doing it in real life. It’s like watching Rambo take out a whole company singlehandedly only using a bow and arrow. We’d be playing catch-up trying to do something we don’t have the slightest idea how to do.”

  “Exactly,” McNamara said. “Which is why I’ve been seriously considering another possibility.”

  Wolf raised his eyebrows in expectation.

  McNamara smiled. “Mercenary work.”

  The thought of the Vipers and the team of South Africans who’d tried to kill him and Mac sprang into Wolf’s mind. His face must have reflected his discomfort because McNamara seemed to read his thoughts.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know those Afrikaans guys we dealt with were all pieces of shit, but I ain’t talking about that kind of mercs. I got a buddy, an old buddy, who’s setting up this special shooting, combat, and tactics school over in Mesa. He’s got his own facility and everything. Calling it the Best in the West Tactical Training Institute.”

  “Best in the West, huh?”

  McNamara nodded. “And not only that, he’s got a side gig traveling around giving seminars to teach courses in firearms, dignitary protection, urban combat techniques, all sorts of that stuff. His name’s Buck Mason.”

  “Was he Special Forces too?”

  “Well, no, he was a marine, but don’t hold that against him.” McNamara smiled. “He was with Force Recon and he saw a ton of action in a whole lot of shitholes around the globe. Good guy.”

  “So you thinking of joining him in doing some teaching?”

  McNamara grinned. “Already set up. You and me got a spot as instructors down the road at his next seminar. If we want it, that is. All we gotta do it go through some tactical training so we’re all on the same sheet of music, is all.”

  Wolf considered the offer. It wasn’t like he had anything else pending, at least something he could act on. He nodded, then asked, “You sure he wants both of us? I don’t want to be a deadweight for you.”

  “Are you kidding? You’d be a natural, with all your training and experience.”

  Wolf compressed his lips.

  And what about my prison time and DD? he thought. I’m a liability, just like with Yolanda.

  “What’s wrong?” McNamara asked. “Don’t you like the idea?”

  The flight attendant, a tall, statuesque black woman, stopped at their seats and cleared her throat loudly.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” she said. “But new regulations during the pandemic require that all passengers must wear their masks at all times in-flight.”

  McNamara shot her a wry look. “Masks? You must have us confused for the Lone Ranger and Tonto.” He grinned and jerked his thumb toward Wolf. “Even though he’s half Indian.”

  “No mistake, sir,” she said. “It’s the new regulation.”

  “Aw, hell, ma’am,” McNamara said, the grin still stretched over his face. “Me and him are both veterans. You think we’re afraid of some little Asian flu bug?”

  Her dark eyebrows arched. With the mask on it was impossible to tell how she was reacting to Mac’s contrariness.

  Wolf put his hand on McNamara’s arm and said, “Mac, the mask.” He picked his up.

  “Shucks,” McNamara said. “You know how many times we put our butts on the line in different places around the world? I bet I got more scars from getting shot than you’ve got birthdays.”

  “I’ll bet do,” she said. “And I’ll have to take your word for it. But that still doesn’t change things. You’ll have to put your masks on, please.”

  McNamara seemed ready to say something else, but Wolf slipped his mask back into place and said, “We’re always ready to oblige a pretty lady.”

  Actually, Wolf couldn’t tell how pretty she might be with the blue mask covering the lower portion of her face, but her dark eyes looked good.

  McNamara slid his mask on again as well.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” the flight attendant said. “And thank you for your service.”

  She continued down the aisle and McNamara snorted.

  “Hot damn,” he said. “She was a bit of a pistol, wasn’t she? There was no dealing with her.”

  “She was just doing her job.”

  “Yeah, but I was just wondering what she looks like without her—”

  “Mask?”

  “Yeah, right.” McNamara chuckled. “Seems like there’s always some babe who comes along to spoil our fun.” He turned and glanced after her then turned back to Wolf. “She kind of reminds me of your little gal, Yolanda.”

  Wolf had thought about that too and wondered how she was doing.

  “Well, whaddaya think?” McNamara said.

  “About what?”

  “About you and me maybe doing some stuff with the Best in the West Tactical Institute.”

  “Sound’s great,” Wolf said, although he was feeling just the opposite. He wasn’t really eager for a new gig. What he really wanted was to figure out a way to clear his name, and to do that he’d need a new lawyer, a new trial, and some new, exculpatory evidence.

  And the only way he could get that would be to get hold of that video confession that Soraces had shown him, which meant he’d have to get it from Von Dien.

  Batman vs. Godzilla, he thought, then smiled.

  No, maybe Bambi was the more applicable choice after all.

  THE VON DIEN WINTER ESTATE SOUTH

  BELIZE

  Just like old times, Richard Soraces thought as he set his iced tea down and lit up one of the hand-rolled cigars that the servant girl had brought him. He was riding the crest of the wave with a lucrative new assignment, the new deposit in my Cayman account, and my insurance policy duly recorded on my spy pen.

  He sat in the gazebo in the exterior garden surrounded by creeping lines of bougainvillea, symmetrical rows of bright flowers, and all sorts of other immaculately trimmed vegetation. It was almost a shame to ruin the natural fragrance with the heavy tobacco smell, but Fallotti had assured him it was a pure Havana. The servant girl was young and pretty, perhaps no more than eighteen, if that. She was more slender than his usual preference, and a bit younger, too, but he looked forward to watching her melt under his tutelage. She’d scream, too, and not only with delight. But that would wait until later.

  Business before pleasure, he thought, as he rotated the cigar in the flame of the match, puffing copiously to get the tobacco ignited.

  The smoke tasted heavy and hot. Cuban cigars were a bit overrated, in his opinion, but there was something to be said for the defiance factor. Knowing that he was violating the U.S. boycott edict, even though he was technically on foreign soil, made
the bitter taste almost sweet. Especially after all those years with the Agency having to justify every expense on a Department of Defense form.

  Yes, he thought, blowing out a smoky breath. It was good to be back in the private sector.

  The girl stood by holding an ashtray, her luscious brown face frozen in a smile.

  He’d have to see how long that lasted tonight.

  Dropping the extinguished match in the glass ashtray, Soraces took it from her and said in Spanish that he’d need her services later.

  “Sí, Señor,” she said. “Yo sé.”

  “Tome un bano y aféitate,” he said, telling her he expected her to be clean and shaven. “Traiga algunas profilácticos. Muchos profilácticos.”

  The smile flagged a bit with a slight twitching at the corner of her mouth at the mention of the rubbers. Perhaps word of what he’d done to the last two Latina sweeties that had been provided for him had spread. She turned and scurried off, no doubt contemplating what was to come.

  No matter, he thought. Lancelot has returned and is once more in good graces with the king. And the rich bastard doesn’t even know that I’ve got him by his short hairs. He thought about the video recording which he hadn’t yet taken the time to review. That could wait. It was best to set his new plan in motion.

  After taking a few more puffs on the cigar, he set it aside and picked up his cellphone. They’d given him a burner to use but he had most of his old contact numbers on his smartphone. He scrolled through them and found the one he’d been looking for: Cameron Dirk, or just Dirk, as he preferred to be called. Since Wolf had proven to be a tougher customer than Soraces had originally thought, it was time to pull out the biggest gun. Gunther had been good, one of the best Soraces had ever worked with, but Wolf took him out with one shot. Dirk, however, was a Superman capable of handling any and all comers, always competing, even with himself, to be the best. He didn’t come cheap, but he could take Wolf out six ways to Sunday. It would be interesting to watch.

  And since money doesn’t seem to be an object, Soraces thought, I might as well make sure I’ve got the A-team.