He ruminated a moment more and then sighed.
Yeah … If only.
Chapter Six
RONALD REAGAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Dirk got out of the black Ford Crown Vic and pulled his non-descript carry-on bag from the back seat. After thanking the driver, Dirk walked down toward the last exit. Since Soraces had informed him that his transportation was standing by, he needed only to get through the TSA screening point and make his way to the private section of the airfield. As he approached the checkpoint, he noticed a man in a black polo shirt walking a big German Shepherd back and forth. The dog sniffed each person and their luggage before moving on. For a moment, Dirk wondered if the canine would recognize that he’d had the general’s index finger in the front pocket section of the bag only an hour or so before.
Probably specifically trained to alert on firearms and explosives, he thought. I should be safe enough.
Regardless, he had nothing now in his bag or on his person that could be considered the least bit disconcerting.
Above suspicion, he thought with a smile. The only way for an Agency assassin to travel.
And he was right. The dog walked right past him, giving only a little jerk of its head as his snout came within inches of Dirk’s bag.
After showing his identification and the boarding pass on his smartphone, Dirk was ushered through to the scanning line. The TSA screener’s eyebrows knitted together above his mask as Dirk lowered his to display his face. He was used to people taking notice of him. At six-three and with the build of a heavyweight boxer, he was an imposing figure, to say the least.
But it was his eyes, he knew, one brown and one blue, that startled people the most.
The screener tried not to show his amazement.
Dirk merely stared back at him in silence and was waved through.
He hated having to go through the trouble of next removing his belt, watch, and shoes, silently cursing every radical Muslim on earth for creating this encumbrance. But he’d killed a good share of them to make up for it and their radicalism was, in his mind, just another guarantee of job security. He knew the G would never run out of enemies that they wanted terminated.
After placing his bag on the treadmill and stepping through the portal, he was ushered over to a special section and told to wait. Another agent came over and did a cursory pat down, explaining where he had to touch Dirk in the course of his search.
Dirk again said nothing but merely nodded. A few of the female TSA agents were kind of hot, and he almost requested that one of them do the touching.
However, he was in a hurry and trying to be cute with security at an airport was a sure-fire way to get flagged.
Once again, he said nothing.
But something else had attracted their attention: the hunk of wood in his carry-on. It was a foot-long piece of wood, a two-by-four, with five slits cut into the width of one end.
“Sir, what’s this?” the TSA agent asked, holding it up.
In his haste Dirk had forgotten to remove it and chastised himself.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I’m a martial arts instructor and I use it to toughen my hands.” He held up his arm displaying the hardened ridge of callus along the heel of his big right hand.
A little levity might go a long way here, he thought.
“Want me demonstrate?” he asked with a smile.
The TSA agent shook his head and said that he was afraid he couldn’t allow it to be taken past the checkpoint.
“Not a problem,” Dirk said. “I apologize for bringing it, but I forgot it was in there.”
After getting his bag back, he made his way to the private gate section.
Mistake number one, he thought. And the mission hasn’t even started yet.
OFFICE OF EMMANUEL SUTTER
BAIL BONDSMAN
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Although Wolf hadn’t been in Manny’s office for a few weeks, he silently noted that not much had changed except that the front window now had a solid-looking metal netting behind it. Between the netting and the glass, the orange and red neon sign advertising BAIL BONDSMAN was lighted. The small office smelled faintly of the familiar mustiness, but it seemed to have been tainted slightly by some sweet-smelling air freshener. The two big, gunmetal gray desks were still in place taking up most of the space, along with the three large filing cabinets lining the rear wall. The assortment of dilapidated leather chairs, strategically reinforced with layer upon layer of duct tape, were assembled in front of the desks. Manny glanced up as Wolf and McNamara entered and gave a curt shake, his shaggy, bob-style haircut jiggling with the movement. What was visible of his upper body was the size of a barrel, and the metallic portion of his padded leather chair emitted a pitiful squeal as he shifted his enormous bulk. His massive face looked strained and seemed to match the air-conditioning unit which hummed with an equally strained mechanical resonance, but somehow continued to produce a steady flow of cooling air. Manny’s nephew, Freddie, whom Manny disparagingly referred to as “Sherman,” turned in his chair and pushed up his thick glasses on his hooked nose as his mouth twisted into a thin line. Freddie’s bushy crop of red hair looked like it hadn’t seen a barber’s touch in about a month.
“Hey, Mac,” Manny said. “Thanks for coming by.” His eyes shifted to Wolf. “Good to see you too, Steve.”
Steve?
Wolf gave an acknowledging nod and sat in one of the chairs. McNamara took the one next to him. Manny’s greeting had been out of character. He, usually led things off with some kind of off-color wisecrack and normally referred to Wolf as “Wolfman.” But today he looked drawn and tired. His jowls sagged and the vigor seemed to have drained out of the man.
“What did you want to see us about?” McNamara asked, settling back into the chair. “You got some work for us?”
“Yes and no,” Manny said, then rotated the chair around to face his nephew.
“Hey, Freddie,” he said. “Why don’t you run over to D and D and get us a dozen or so?” He shifted back toward Wolf and McNamara. “You guys want some donuts or something?”
Wolf shook his head. He was a bit surprised. Not only had Manny addressed his perennially harassed nephew by his proper surname, but he was actually acting rather polite. It was totally out of character for the obstreperous bail bondsman. Mac seemed equally stunned.
“No thanks,” McNamara said. “I haven’t eaten a donut in fifteen years and that was only one bite to please a lady.”
Leveraging his sausage-sized fingers into his pants pocket, Manny wiggled them around and came out with some currency. He handed it to Freddie.
“Get us some chicken fingers instead,” Manny said. “And a couple of soft drinks for our guests here. What kind you want?”
Guests?
Wolf and McNamara exchanged glances. This was getting stranger by the minute.
“Anything’s fine,” Wolf said. “But you needn’t go to any bother.”
“Right,” McNamara said. “We gotta drive over to Mesa pretty soon anyway.”
“Get us three Cokes, then,” Manny said. “Make mine diet, of course, and whatever you want for yourself, along with those chicken fingers.”
Freddie nodded, his mouth still pulled into a tight line. He started walking toward the door.
“And don’t forget your mask,” Manny said.
Freddie continued walking and went out without saying another word.
Wolf and McNamara exchanged glances once again. It was like being in one of those old Twilight Zone episodes that ran on late-night TV.
Manny placed his forearms on the desk, atop his desk. Wolf was suddenly aware that it looked almost orderly. It usually was awash with paper.
“So how you guys been doing?” Manny asked.
McNamara’s face wrinkled with a frown.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said. “You been acting like a regular human being since we got here.”
&nbs
p; “Aw, come on,” Manny said.
“I’m serious,” McNamara shot back. “You ain’t called your nephew Sherman one time, you offered to buy us sodas, and now you’re inquiring as to our welfare. What’s next? You gonna offer to spit-shine my old jump boots for me?”
The corner of Manny’s mouth tugged downward.
“The place even smells different,” McNamara added. “So, what the hell’s going on?”
“Mac,” Manny said. “You wound me. We’re friends, ain’t we? Can’t I just ask how you’re doing, for Christ’s sake?”
“We’re still kicking,” McNamara said. “Now you better start being straight with us, or we’ll get our asses up and out that front door.”
Manny closed his eyes and blew out a heavy breath. Wolf couldn’t help but notice that his coloring seemed different than usual. He looked paler.
“All right, all right,” he said. “I got a lot on my mind, okay?” He took in another deep breath. “What with this virus bullshit causing a major slowdown in all the courts, business has been at an all-time low. It’s continuance after continuance with the damn judges are giving out fucking recognizance bonds, and all that kind of shit. I’ll be lucky to stay in business once all this is over with, not to mention those asshole politicians talking about doing away with cash bonds nationwide.”
“Yeah,” McNamara said. “We been lamenting the same thing. But don’t try to tell me that’s all of it.”
The big man looked down, blew out another long breath, and then locked eyes with them.
“It’s my niece, Gloria,” he said. “She’s … kinda been messing up lately. Fallen in with some bad company.”
“Gloria,” McNamara said. “That Freddie’s sister?”
“Yeah. My sister’s kid. She’s seventeen and thinks she’s got all the answers. Knows everything.” He shook his head. “I remember when she was just a little girl, cute as a shiny nickel. Wish she coulda stayed that way.”
“What you mean, bad company?” McNamara asked.
Manny compressed his lips and sighed, then opened one of his desk drawers and removed a framed photograph. He held it across the desk toward them.
McNamara reached out and took it, holding it so Wolf could see it as well. It showed a young, pretty girl dressed in a greenish evening gown standing next to an equally young boy in a rented tuxedo. Both of them were smiling and the girl held a corsage.
“That’s her prom picture from last spring,” Manny said. “She was a junior in high school with her whole life ahead of her.”
“And now?” Wolf asked.
“That clown in the picture’s her steady boyfriend, Tim Wagner.” Manny frowned. “He was a senior, one year older than her.”
“He knock her up or something?” McNamara asked.
“Nah, her doctor suggested that she go on the pill to supposedly regulate her menstrual cycle, much to her parents’ chagrin.” His big shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Me, I figured it wasn’t such a bad thing, knowing how precocious kids are these days.”
The understanding uncle, Wolf thought, thinking back to the painful last years of his own high school experience. He’d never made it to the senior prom and was learning to salute and shoot at Fort Polk, Louisiana shortly after his graduation.
“Anyway,” Manny continued. “This virus shutdown and the rest of this shit, kind of ruined her. Instead of going to finish out her senior year, they started doing some kind of virtual class horseshit, and she’s pretty much dropped out. And to make matters worse, that little prick, Timmy, has turned into a real piece of shit. His parents bought him a motorcycle, and now him and his shitbird friends have formed a gang.”
“Which gang is that?” McNamara asked.
“They call themselves the LO’s—the Lost Ones.” Manny snorted in obvious disgust. “And they don’t even drive Harleys, for Christ’s sake. Timmy’s got a fucking Honda.”
“Not too bikeresque,” McNamara said. “It’s too bad about her dropping out of school, but these would-be bikers don’t sound too serious.”
“Serious enough,” Manny said. “Last weekend Glory, that’s what we call her, came home with a couple of fucking tattoos. A tramp-stamp and another on her forearm. Plus, she’s wearing some kind of bracelet that she says designates her as a slave. And she’s still a fucking minor.”
McNamara visibly winced, apparently sympathizing with the plight of the girl’s caring relatives.
“Did her parents make out a police report?” Wolf asked. “Tattooing the body of a minor’s an offense without the permission of the parents.”
“Yeah, they did,” Manny said. “She’s run away twice already and is supposedly under some social working mandate, which ain’t worth shit. My sister and her husband are at wits end. Even poor Sherman’s been down about it. You seen how mopey he looked, right?”
Wolf noted Manny’s return to the pejorative nickname for his nephew and wondered if he’d reverted back to it by default.
McNamara handed the picture back across the desk and clucked sympathetically. “Sorry to hear all this. It ain’t easy to raise a kid nowadays, especially a daughter. I can sympathize with you.”
“So you’ll help?” Manny asked as he accepted the framed photo.
“Help?” McNamara said. “What can we do? This sounds more like something her parents and the social worker need to address.”
Manny waggled his head nervously. “No, you don’t understand. That little asshole, Timmy’s trying to hook up with a gang of real bikers. The Satan’s Spawn. Those guys don’t play.”
Wolf had heard about the group. While they weren’t on par with the Hell’s Angels or the Outlaws, they were loosely affiliated with one or the other of them. Through the wire mesh and filthy glass, Wolf caught sight of Freddie pulling up in Manny’s van.
“I can understand your concern,” McNamara said. “But like I told you, we ain’t social workers.”
“Or cops,” Wolf said. He wondered if Yolanda would be handling situations like this when she got on the force.
Time will tell, he thought with a twinge of regret. But I’ll probably never see her again to find out.
“No,” Manny said. “But you’re a couple of tough hombres that can run those Lost Ones fuckers off if they come by, ain’t you?”
“Run them off?” McNamara frowned. “Just what do you mean by that?”
Manny cocked his head to the side and held both hands outward, palms up.
“All it would take would be for the Wolfman here to kick the shit out of Timmy and his wanna-be biker buddies.”
“And get me arrested, too,” Wolf said. “I’m not some kind of hired thug.”
“I know that,” Manny said quickly. His tongue flicked out and swept over his lips. “Look, all I’m asking is you keep a little watch on their house for a couple days. Like maybe tonight and tomorrow night, okay? My sister’s making arrangements to send Glory to live with our other sister in Idaho for a while. If Timmy and his friends come by, just run ’em off. Okay?”
“Not okay,” McNamara said. “We could be getting ourselves in a real trick-bag doing that.”
“Believe me, a show of force is all you’ll need.” Manny’s voice sounded almost like a whine. “These guys are punks. One look at two big guys like you two, and they’ll melt into the asphalt.”
Both Wolf and McNamara sat in silence. Wolf was thinking it would be best not to get involved, but he knew the situation with the wayward daughter might have affected Mac more deeply given the guilt he felt about not having been there for Kasey’s formative years.
“Look,” Manny said. “I’m not asking you guys to do it for nothing. I’ll pay you if you want. Make it worth your while. Just a couple-two nights. Till she gets outta here. Whaddaya say?”
Freddie had entered the office and was standing there holding a paper bag and a cardboard tray with four large plastic glasses with straws sticking out of the lids. The odor of fast-food fried chicken and French fries filled the air.
“Nights?” McNamara said. “What about during the day?”
“These little fuckers are like vampires. They don’t come out till it gets dark. Plus, my sister and her husband are off work and home. I ain’t worried until they go to sleep.”
“They gonna help us, Uncle Manny?” Freddie said, standing there with a hopeful expression on his face.
Manny raised an eyebrow and stared at Wolf and Mac.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Are ya?”
Wolf and McNamara looked at each other once again and a silent acknowledgment seemed to pass between them.
Mac’s never been the kind of man to turn down a friend’s request for help, Wolf thought. Even in a no-win case like this.
“Well,” McNamara said slowly. “I guess we could kind of hang around there and keep an eye on things.”
Manny and Freddie both grinned and Manny snapped his fingers at the carrier with the soft drinks.
“Great,” he said. “Thanks. You guys are the best. I owe you.”
“Always willing to help a friend in need,” McNamara said. “Or a young girl in distress.”
Even if she doesn’t want to be helped, Wolf silently reflected.
While he was sympathetic, his doubts about their efficacy were growing.
“Let’s drink to it,” Manny said, setting the container with the soft drinks on his desk and then reaching down and coming up with a bottle.
Wolf was wondering if someone had said that to Don Quixote and Sancho Panza before they went after the windmills to defend the honor of Dulcinea.
THE GRAND TETONS HOTEL
PHOENIX, ARIZONA
Soraces duct taped the solid square of Styrofoam from the box that had contained the new laptop onto the big whiteboard and then stepped back across the expansive dining room area of his suite. He estimated the distance to be about twenty feet or so.
Good enough, he thought, removed the ninja pen from his pocket, pulled it apart, and hurled it with a backhanded motion toward the Styrofoam.
Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4) Page 10
