Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  The Latino machismo would never be the same.

  After pocketing the cell phone, Dirk pulled out his knife and plastic tube.

  The right index finger would do nicely, he thought, and took it off with a deft chop. After depositing the verification of his work in the plastic container, he wiped the blade of the knife, leaving a crimson spoor on the tangled white sheet. The Agency always preferred proof in addition to the pudding.

  Dirk then walked briskly to the door, stopping to peep up and down the corridor.

  Not a creature was stirring, he thought.

  Stooping down, he retrieved one of the rifles from the fallen guard, just in case, and checked the selector switch.

  Fully automatic. Definitely U.S. Government property at one time.

  It had an old fifteen-round magazine in it so he disengaged the mag from the other guard’s rifle and then trotted down the stairs.

  No need to police my brass, he thought with a smile.

  Outside, the street was still dark and, basically, unoccupied, unless you counted the three guards whose bodies still leaned against the limo and two rag-tag beggars who were now going through the trash bags down the way. Dirk pressed the key fob unlocking the doors of the limo. The taillights blinked on and off quickly.

  Striding around to the driver’s door, Dirk opened it, tossed in the rifle, and slid behind the wheel. The limo’s engine started right up, and Dirk decided to use it instead of the motorcycle he’d stashed in the alleyway to ride to his departure point down by the marina.

  But first, he thought, all the loose ends needed to be tied up.

  He pulled out onto the street, stopped, and then shifted into reverse.

  Stopping adjacent to the two scavengers, he lifted the Caracal as he lowered the passenger side window.

  “Hey,” he yelled.

  Both beggars looked up, their grimy faces registering shock and trepidation.

  Dirk squeezed off two more rounds, both center-mass hits, and then shifted into drive, raised the window, and set off down the street.

  Rating: plus ten, still minus two.

  He retrieved his satellite phone from his pants pocket and hit the transmit button.

  A voice answered and Dirk said two words: “En route.”

  “Roger that,” the voice said. “We’re waiting.”

  Dirk terminated the call and then hit the stop button on his watch.

  8:59

  About a minute and a half over, he thought.

  But he’d dallied to pick up the rifle and the extra magazine. And he was still under the ten-minute mark. He gave himself an extra point for finishing under the high-end mark.

  Overall rating: plus eleven, minus two equals nine.

  Close enough for government work, he told himself, and then momentarily lamented at how sparse the wet work assignments had become in recent years.

  More red tape and fewer opportunities as the bureaucrats continued to take over the Agency. He was overdue for a string of good luck.

  He lowered the driver’s window to let in some of the cool night air, but the odor from the omnipresent floating fecal matter on the Guaire River that ran through the center of the city was too pervasive. He raised the window back up.

  Sometimes life’s just a bowl of shit, he thought. But maybe something better will come along.

  THE MCNAMARA RANCH

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Despite the lingering soreness from the fight, Wolf got up at his usual pre-dawn time and dressed in his running clothes, a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a handkerchief tied around his forehead. When Mac had once called attention to it, Wolf had replied that it was in homage to his American Indian heritage. His mother was full-blooded Cherokee. His father had been white and a drunk. He’d ended his life crashing his pickup truck into a cement porch at about ninety miles-an-hour. At least that was what the sheriff’s department had estimated the speed to be. He’d been an absentee father most of the time anyway and Wolf’s life had been hard. Half-Indian, half-white, and the son of a drunk who’d essentially killed himself.

  But before his father had been a drunk, he’d been a soldier and a good one at that. This he knew for sure because Mac had told him so.

  He stepped out onto the asphalt driveway and watched as the first vestiges of light began to crest the distant mountains. The heat of the day wouldn’t be far behind. He started his run, trying to ignore his still-sore body and pushing the disturbing thoughts of his current troubling situation out of his mind.

  But that was easier said than done.

  Mac had picked him up from Leavenworth and brought him here, giving him free room and board and a way to make some money. He’d slowly been working his way back and intended on repaying Mac for his largess. While he’d pretty much accomplished that now, he’d also brought a whole load of trouble to his friend and mentor. Conflicts from Wolf’s past kept twisting around with the unpredictability of a pissed-off rattlesnake. First, there’d been the Mexican fiasco, where McNamara was wounded, and then the band of South African mercenaries who’d invaded the ranch and taken them all prisoner. They’d also murdered Kasey’s fiancé. It was all over the statue of a Mexican bandito, or rather what was inside of it. Wolf still hadn’t yet determined exactly what that was but he hoped to know soon. He did know that a very rich and powerful man coveted whatever it was. And he was obsessed with getting it.

  Dexter Von Dien … Wolf knew the name and also that the man behind it had unlimited money, power, and influence. One hundred thousand dollars sat in Wolf’s bank account now—a gift from the rich man or, rather, supposed compensation for the multiple attempts on Wolf’s life. Or so Von Dien’s mouthpiece, Soraces, had stated.

  Wolf trusted Soraces about as much as a smiling politician and Von Dien, whom he’d never seen, less than that.

  But how does Bambi fight Godzilla?

  The question kept echoing in his mind as his feet skipped over the pavement with rote skill as he made his way to the mountain. He paused at the beginning of the trail that led up the side of the first and smallest of the massive structures.

  In times gone by he’d taken the trail up to the top. It was an intense workout even in the relative coolness of the nascent dawn. He’d done it many times in the past when he was honing his body for one of his matches or just trying to find solace in the joy of physical exertion.

  But not today, he thought, and did the swooping loop that set him on the road back to the ranch.

  After his last encounter with Soraces, it had been Wolf’s plan, his vow, to go on the offensive, to track down this Von Dien character and put a stop, once and for all, to the incremental disorder that had overtaken virtually every aspect of his life. Von Dien had been behind it all, from the setup in Iraq, to the shootout south of the border, to the South African contingent. He’d also paid Wolf all that money, which to him was, apparently, nothing more than a tip left for a waiter or bellman.

  The bandito statue that Soraces had ended up with had been a fake and Wolf wondered how that had turned out.

  The speculation brought a smile to his lips.

  Von Dien couldn’t have been pleased and probably figured that Wolf still had whatever it was that the rich man was seeking. But he had what Wolf really wanted as well: a video of Cummins confessing that he’d set Wolf up in Iraq, that he really wasn’t guilty of the war crimes he’d been convicted of committing.

  The question now became how to obtain it.

  Maybe Garfield will be able to give me some answers, he thought.

  As he neared the familiar two-mile marker on the back side, Wolf was thinking about sitting down with his laptop after he’d showered and pounding out that final English lit paper. The on-line classes had been compressed into a work-at-your-own-pace sort of thing, and Wolf just wanted to get it over with and grab the three credits. He quickened his pace and then saw McNamara jogging toward him. Mac wore his usual baggy sweat clothes and Wolf knew his friend had one of his stainless-steel semi-autos
in a shoulder holster under the shirt.

  “Don’t leave home without it,” McNamara always said.

  He turned as Wolf got to him and they fell into step together. Wolf had to slow his pace a bit but the company made it worth it.

  “I didn’t think you’d be up this early,” Wolf said.

  “You know better than that,” McNamara said. “Especially when my pard’s got something on his mind that he’s not telling me.”

  Good old Mac, Wolf thought. Always able to read a man like a book. That came from leading men all over the globe, not to mention facing down others in hostile lands and instantly being able to figure out if they were going to fight or quit.

  “What makes you think that?” Wolf asked.

  “You hardly said two words last night at dinner. Kasey went out of her way to fix you your favorite. Meatloaf and baked potatoes.”

  He remembered that she had gone the extra mile with the meal and regretted that he hadn’t shown the proper appreciation.

  “Sorry. I should’ve said something but my jaw was a little sore,”

  “Horseshit,” McNamara said, his feet making skidding sounds on the gravelly shoulder adjacent to the rough asphalt highway. “You gonna tell me what’s really bothering you?”

  “A lot of things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Your stride, for one thing,” Wolf said. “Is that how they taught you to run at Bragg? Pick your feet up more.”

  “Shit,” McNamara said. “These old feet have logged more miles than you can even imagine on your best day.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Good. Now tell me what’s really bothering you.”

  Wolf didn’t answer.

  They ran about ten yards in silence and then McNamara said, “Well, there’s only one thing that’ll make a man clam up like you’re doing. Woman trouble.” He was huffing a bit more heavily now. “It’s none of my business, but is everything okay between you and your gal?”

  Again, Wolf was silent.

  How the hell did Mac know?

  But it was a moot point. Wolf didn’t know if Yolanda had discussed her upcoming departure from the P-Patrol with Ms. Dolly and, if not, he didn’t want to risk spilling the beans too soon. He didn’t want to ruin things for her.

  Ruin things … He was getting to be an expert at doing that, and in so many different ways.

  “Either you’re gonna answer me, or tell me it’s none of my business and to shut the hell up.”

  The sun behind them had begun to crest the mountains and Wolf and McNamara’s jerking shadows extended out before them.

  “Let’s just say she doesn’t need me dragging her down in the dawn’s early light anymore,” Wolf said.

  After the run Wolf had proceeded into the garage and went four three-minute rounds on the speed bag and then the heavy bag.

  Or, he thought. He tried to.

  His thoughts intruded each time, crowding out his concentration and destroying his rhythm.

  Bambi versus Godzilla. He needed some way to even the playing field between him and the rich, powerful adversary who held the key to salvation.

  One step at a time, he told himself as he pounded the last series of punches into the canvas surface. One step at a time.

  By the time he’d finished showering, his cell phone was ringing. He looked at the screen and saw it was Mac.

  “You coming over here for breakfast, or what?” McNamara said. “Kasey’s whipped up a bunch of scrambled eggs and bacon. Just the sort of thing for a fighting man.”

  Wolf looked at his own kitchen and the meager supplies he knew were in his refrigerator and told Mac he’d be right over.

  “Okay,” McNamara said. “But shake a leg. Today’s Chad’s first day of kindergarten and she has to drop him off.”

  “I thought they were doing that remote learning stuff?”

  “Remote learning bullshit you mean,” McNamara said. “It’s what they’re calling a hybrid class. A couple days in the school and a couple watching on a computer. This partial lockdown horseshit is sure cheating the kids out of a decent education.”

  Wolf recalled his own elementary school days and how much he’d hated them. Little Chad had already been through more trauma than a dozen children his age. Maybe this modified school setting and schedule would help the kid ease into learning. Wolf hoped so.

  He finished dressing choosing a tan Polo shirt to complement his regular blue jeans and running shoes. They were the same pair that he wore on his morning runs and were covered with reddish-brown road dust so he grabbed his shoe brush and ran it over them. The beam of sunlight was streaming through the window and illuminated the minute particles as they floated toward the floor and he realized he’d have to vacuum later.

  But to do that, he’d have to borrow the vacuum cleaner from Mac.

  Not too much different than my Sandbox days, he thought. Dust everywhere, no vacuum cleaner, and staying in somebody else’s abode. I really need to start thinking of getting a place of my own.

  He trotted down the stairs of his apartment and into the lower floor, which was the garage with his workout equipment: the speed bag and heavy bag that he and Mac had put up, a set of weights, Mac’s riding lawn mower, which he never had to use, and various tools and items in storage. Wolf had used some of the money from his last MMA match to buy himself a laptop, a relatively small TV, and an old used Jeep. The vehicle was about fifteen years old and had well over a hundred thousand miles on it, but it got him where he wanted to go. Wolf had given the remainder of the money to Mac to cover the room and board that he’d accumulated over the several months. McNamara had initially refused to take it but then relented after Wolf’s insistence: “The only reason I took the chance of getting my ass beat,” he’d said, “was to put Trackdown, Inc back in the black.”

  With this new paycheck coming from this most recent bout, and the still untouched money he’d gotten from Soraces for past injuries and inconveniences, Wolf figured he was financially very comfortable. He still was mistrustful of the payoff that the sleazy lawyer had arranged but he left it in there. It was more money than he’d ever had in his life, not to mention the cash in the money-belt they’d recovered from Cummins.

  I’d trade it all for a decent shot at clearing my name, Wolf thought. But that’s probably not in the cards, video confession or not.

  But a hundred thousand would go a very long way in hiring some new, fancy lawyer, like Andrew Taylor, the one who’d represented him and Mac after the last shootout. But guys like Taylor didn’t come cheap, and Wolf still planned to use the money to set up a college trust fund for Chad.

  The kid’s been through the mill because of me, Wolf thought. It’s the least I can do.

  And the kid did call him “Uncle Steve,” which made him feel too much like the surrogate son that Kasey had originally accused him of being.

  Kasey, he thought. She’d really come around, doing a three-sixty reversal since his initial appearance.

  Looks like he’s finally got the son he’s always wanted, she’d said about her father when Wolf had first gotten there. To say that she resented him then was an understatement. It had sure been a rough few months.

  He was on his way across the asphalt driveway when his cellphone rang again. He glanced at the screen.

  Yolanda.

  After letting it ring several times, he finally got the courage to answer it. The temptation to hear her voice, even though she was in Las Vegas, was too great.

  “Good morning,” she said. “For a minute I thought I was going to go to voicemail.”

  “Yeah, I’m kinda slow on the draw this morning. What’s up?”

  “Just wondering how my boo was doing, is all.”

  “Still kicking,” he said. “Mac and I did a few miles this morning and I’m heading over to the house now to eat breakfast.”

  “I’m starting the academy this morning,” she said.

  This stopped him. It was hearing something that yo
u already knew but had purposely not been thinking about.

  “How’d Ms. Dolly take you leaving?”

  Yolanda laughed. “Like she takes everything. Wished me well and then asked if I could talk you into coming to work for her in my place.”

  It was Wolf’s turn to chuckle. “I’d never fit in with the P-Patrol. I’m not Bruce Jenner, you know.”

  “That’s Catlin Jenner now, and you should never say never.”

  He slowed his pace across the driveway and was almost at the door.

  “So I need you to do something for me,” she said.

  “Name it.”

  “Tell Mac about this police department thing for me. I listed him as a reference.”

  “I’m sure he’ll give you a good one,” Wolf said. “And I’ll tell him to keep any mention of me out of it.”

  “What? Will you stop?”

  He said he would and they exchanged a few more pleasantries. Wolf was standing outside the door now, talking and waiting, and suddenly McNamara opened it and glared at him.

  “You coming in, or what?” McNamara said.

  “I got to go, babe,” Wolf said.

  “I know. I heard him. Tell big boo daddy I said hi,” she said. “And about the other stuff, too.”

  Wolf said he would, wished her good luck, and terminated the call. As he slipped the phone back into his pocket, he said, “Yolanda says hi.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Damn, that’s good to hear. I should’ve yelled something.”

  “We’ll talk later,” Wolf said, stepping inside. Kasey waved to him from the kitchen. She had on an apron over a blue business outfit. Wolf saw she was wearing heels, too, and appreciated the triangular musculature of her exposed calf.

  “Kasey going somewhere?” he asked.

  “She’s got some kind of thing at the university,” McNamara said.