Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  Buck laughed out loud and shifted the vehicle into gear. McNamara was chuckling too.

  “I thought it was one of my better lines,” he said. “But what I shoulda said was, U.S. Army to the rescue.”

  “Like he said,” Buck continued. “This was right after those sons of bitches were dragging the bodies of the GI’s they killed in the street.” He paused, his mouth twisting into a frown as he backed out of the parking space. “The State Department squelched it, so nobody ever heard about it. Unless you were there, it never happened.”

  “Typical,” Wolf said. He had his own experiences with governmental suppression of the facts. Downplay everything, classify any reports, and pretty soon it was gone without a trace.

  “Plausible deniability,” McNamara said, slapping Wolf on the shoulder. “Didn’t I tell you I don’t like them words?”

  Neither do I, Wolf thought.

  THE GRAND TETONS HOTEL

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  “The Best in the West Tactical Training Institute?” Soraces said. He put the phone on speaker and started a computer search for that name.

  “Right,” Clyde Perkins said. “I had to pass them up on the freeway because I didn’t want to get made. When I saw them exiting, I pulled over and tracked them with my range-finder. They’ve been in there for the better part of an hour now. Looks like one of the owners is showing them around the place.”

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Picking up our food. We flipped for it and I got stuck.”

  Soraces found the site for Best in the West Tactical Training Institute and clicked on it. A web page appeared showing four men, three white and one black, standing next to a big sign bearing the Best in the West name. Each was holding a rifle, AR-15’s from the looks of them. They all had holstered side-arms, too, and the site listed available rifle and pistol ranges as well as training in all sorts of tactics. One of the men displayed was missing a foot and had a metal prosthesis.

  Must be a disabled veteran, Soraces thought, and continued scanning.

  Another section listed them as instructors, along with their bios:

  Howard “Buck” Mason, USMC retired

  Joe Barnes, USMC retired

  Ron Corbin, US Army retired

  Pete Thornton, USMC veteran

  All were ex-military with purported combat experience in special operations. And Wolf’s partner, McNamara, was a former Green Beret. It fit that he might have crossed paths with some of this Best in the West crew.

  Another highlighted section advertised upcoming training classes. Soraces clicked on that link and found numerous listings for classes in urban combat, desert warfare, dignitary protection, and war games. Learn from the best, the site said. Experienced combat instructors offer classroom instruction in tactics and principles of warfare and will take you through all the steps of actual field experience. Numerous firing ranges also available for rental.

  He checked the dates and saw that one of them, Urban Combat Techniques, was scheduled for this week.

  Interesting, he thought. I wonder if Wolf and Company are connected to it somehow? Helping to teach it, maybe? But they weren’t listed as instructors on the website.

  “How near are you to them?” Soraces asked.

  “I’m up on the highway about two hundred yards away. There’s a lot of open space and I didn’t want to get too close.”

  “Can you see what Wolf’s doing?”

  “As far as I could tell, some guy’s giving them the tour, showing them around. They got a bunch of firing ranges in the place.”

  Soraces continued to mull over the possibilities. From Clyde’s description, it sounded like a sales pitch.

  “Continue a loose surveillance,” he said.

  “Okay,” Perkins said. “But I want to turn this car in and get another one. I’m operating on the assumption that they might have noticed this one.”

  “Fine. Do it later. Once they return. By that time we should have Dirk here to help you two.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Perkins said, “We don’t need any help, especially from him.”

  Soraces took note of the tone, and wondered, Do I detect a hint of animosity?

  His brother, Charles, had joked about Dirk coming aboard. The twins had distinctive likes and dislikes regarding their working partners.

  “Whatever,” Soraces said, “Just stay on the job and report back.” With that, he terminated the call and then went back to the computer screen and the website display. What did it mean that Wolf and McNamara were there? After a few more moments of speculation, he picked up his burner phone and dialed the number listed on the website. After a few moments, a man answered spouting off the company’s name. His voice sounded African American. Probably that Barnes fellow.

  “Yes,” Soraces said. “I saw your ad for the urban combat class later this week. Is it still open?”

  “It is,” Barnes said. “You interested in signing up?”

  His tone sounded eager. Too eager.

  “Perhaps,” Soraces said. “What type of class is it? Can you tell me a little more about it?”

  “It’s a combination of lecture, hands on training, and lots of shooting. We cover all the tactical principles involved and then allow the students to put everything into practice.”

  “Are the instructors experienced?”

  “We are, sir. Very.”

  “I saw three instructors listed on your website,” Soraces said. “Are there any others?”

  “Not at this time, but as I said, we’ve all got extensive experience and professional credentials.”

  “You said shooting. Are personal weapons required?”

  “We can provide some,” Barnes said. “Or you can bring your own.”

  Soraces hesitated for several seconds, then said, “How many people are in the class?”

  “At this point, we’re looking at eleven,” Barnes said. “We just signed up two more students today, in fact.”

  And I bet I know who they are, Soraces thought with a smile.

  He had all the information he’d called for, so after a few more minutes of listening to the hard sell, Soraces said he’d think it over and hung up.

  Why would Wolf and McNamara, who each had a vast amount of combat experience both overseas and ironically here in Phoenix, be signing up for some additional instruction when they very well had probably forgotten more than those three yoyos had ever learned? He could just have the Shadows maintain a long-range surveillance of them, but then another idea came to him just as the phone rang in his room. He got up from the table and answered it.

  “There’s a Mr. Dirk checking in here now, sir,” the hotel clerk said. “You left word to notify you when he arrived.”

  Dirk, he thought. Excellent.

  “Tell him to come to my room when he’s done checking in, please,” Soraces said.

  He hung up the phone and glanced at his watch. Dirk had made amazingly good time, but then again, a private jet cut out a lot of the waiting.

  After about ten minutes there was a knock at the door and Soraces went and opened it. Dirk’s hulking frame was framed in the doorway, his off-color, mismatched eyes staring down at Soraces.

  “How was your flight?” Soraces asked, stepping aside to allow the bigger man inside.

  Dirk shrugged, said nothing. He walked into the suite, did a quick survey, noticing the whiteboard set-up, and then plucked an apple out of the fruit basket on the credenza.

  “Nice accommodations,” he said, taking a bite.

  “Just like I told you,” Soraces said. “First class all the way. But don’t get too used to them.”

  Dirk raised an eyebrow.

  Soraces laughed.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not like you’ll be going out in the field or anything. But I have got a little side trip planned for you.”

  “Oh? To where?”

  “Mesa,” Soraces said. “You’ll be going back to school.”

  Cha
pter Seven

  OUTSIDE THE RYLAND RESIDENCE

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Wolf was struggling to get through the play, as he fought off the incremental fatigue. He and McNamara sat in the Escalade outside of the Rylands’ house. The residence was what Wolf called typical Arizona: a one-story tan stucco house with those half-circle green tiles on the roof, sporadic patches of struggling crabgrass in front, next to an asphalt driveway, and an attached garage. All was dark, and had been since about eleven o’clock. They’d arrived at twenty-hundred and set up on the opposite side of the street and about fifty or so feet away. There were a smattering of cars parked on this side along the curb and a few more in the driveways of the neighboring houses. So far, nobody had apparently noticed two white guys sitting in a maroon Escalade, and as the evening wore on, they seemed to be accepted as part of the scenery, except for their occasional ventures down the street to the twenty-four-hour donut shop. It had ice cream, too, and Mac had indulged in a banana split. Wolf had declined, preferring only a cup of black coffee.

  McNamara was now snoring in the passenger seat next to him, and Wolf figured it was the ice cream working its mesmerizing magic. Mac allowed Wolf to take the driver’s position so he could rest the book on the wheel. Wolf had on a headband with a bright light centered on his forehead and he now switched it off and allowed his eyes to re-accustom themselves to the darkness only broken by the spectral lighting from the overhead streetlight. The powerful LED beam lit up the pages well enough, but the lack of sleep combined with the boredom and the tedium of reading were taking their toll. Both he and McNamara had elected to take naps when they got back from Buck’s but, in Wolf’s case, it had been an exercise in frustration. Sleep wouldn’t come and McNamara admitted the same as they sat down to eat dinner together.

  One thing that Wolf had noticed was that Kasey had seemed exceptionally quiet during the meal. Although Chad continually asked them questions about what they were going to do that night that had necessitated the afternoon naps, Kasey had barely said anything beyond the perfunctory.

  Wolf wondered what was bothering her and hoped she was all right. She’d been through a lot in recent months with the death of her fiancé and Chad’s horrendous parental abduction. Wolf had also begun to feel better about the relationship between the two of them. What had originally been a faux sibling rivalry, as Kasey kept referring to the “freeloading” Wolf as “the son” her father had always wanted, had gradually softened into an almost friendly tolerance.

  McNamara snorted and shifted his position slightly.

  Wolf was somehow reminded of pulling guard duty in the army, or being stuck on a static-post standing watch. He’d always been pretty successful at staying awake, even with little or no sleep beforehand. And four years of sleeping with one eye open at Leavenworth had further honed his abilities.

  Better put them to good use, he thought.

  Nothing moved in the ambient lighting and he switched on the headband light again and went back to reading. It wasn’t like he was expecting a sapper, or anything.

  He found the play tedious and virtually incomprehensible. He wasn’t sure if this was due to the sophisticated verse being too much for him or the predominance of personal baggage he’d been carrying around. Regardless, he felt constantly interrupted by the disquieting comparisons that came to mind whenever he came across a fetching line.

  That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me.

  That one somehow seemed eerily to his current situation with Yolanda. Not that he was thinking about matrimony, but the fact that he, like Helena, the poor girl in the play, sought the favor of the higher born Bertram. The Bertram character wasn’t much of a prize, in Wolf’s opinion, or that Yolanda was some kind of royalty, but the fact that he, an ex-con with a DD, would be an undesirable factor for Yolanda in the pending police background investigation established the unlikely parallel. There was nothing lower than an ex-con.

  The professor would probably call it personal projection, or something, he thought. But it doesn’t change the fact that she’s way out of my league. Always was.

  He’d managed to call Garfield that afternoon to inquire about the status of bandito number two. The conversation came floating back to him.

  “Working on it,” Garfield had replied. “I have to wait until closing and then run over and get some more paint. But not to worry. I’ll be burning the midnight oil, but I should be able to get it done.”

  “So we’re talking tomorrow then?” Wolf asked.

  He heard Garfield blow out a heavy breath. “Let’s plan on late Wednesday or early Thursday.”

  Wolf agreed and thanked him for his extra effort.

  “How’s the paper coming?” Garfield asked.

  “I haven’t started it yet,” Wolf said. “We have to do a surveillance tonight and tomorrow, so I’m planning on reading the play tonight and maybe trying to write the paper in the car tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds like an arduous task worthy of a modern, mythological hero like yourself.”

  “I’m hardly that,” Wolf said with a laugh. “But I would appreciate any insight you can give me.”

  “Well,” Garfield said. “I already told you the play is one of his lesser known comedies, and was a rather unorthodox view of the romantic situation at the time. The heroine of the play, Helena, aspires to marry a prince named Bertram, who’s a bit of a cad. The situation sort of transposed the traditional romantic roles of the day, and it’s resolved by her sneaking into bed with him to have sex while pretending to be somebody else. Keeping him totally in the dark, so to speak.”

  Wolf chuckled. “In other words, she wouldn’t let him leave the lights on.”

  “And what fun would that be?” Garfield laughed. “I always imagined a modern version with Rock Hudson and Doris Day. But I guess that casting’s a bit passé now.”

  Wolf didn’t mention he wasn’t sure who Rock and Doris were, or how they’d fit into the scenario.

  The remnants of the past conversation floated into the ether as Wolf went back to the play, rereading the line and tweaking it a bit to fit his own romantic situation: That I should love a bright particular star … she is so above me.

  Pushing the unpleasant comparison out of his mind, he went back to the reading but was soon stopped again by another line: The bind that would be mated by the lion, Must die for love.

  The lion … Ironic … Somehow he couldn’t get away from that either.

  He leaned back and thought about the stolen Iraqi artifact, The Lions Attacking the Nubian, parts one and two. The damn artifact that had somehow started all this. And it was also the key to the ultimate goal he sought, to be able to clear his name. But at this point he was like the play’s protagonist, a commoner without resources trying to complete an impossible task where some rich and well-positioned person held all the leverage.

  Once again, Bambi versus Godzilla.

  Perhaps he could use that as the title for his paper.

  Wolf inhaled deeply and felt the melancholy dissipate slightly, amused by the absurdity of the situation.

  He was reading a play that was written over four hundred years ago and drawing comparisons to his own life in the present day.

  I wonder if the Bard ever imagined that, he thought, then grinned as he mentally added, Not likely. He never heard of either Bambi or Godzilla.

  It was definitely time to take a break.

  He closed the book, stretched, and then slipped out of the car, walked to the parkway, and did fifty push-ups. When he got back in McNamara was awake and winked at him.

  “That all you could manage?” he said.

  Wolf snorted and shook his head.

  “How did I let you talk me into this again?” he said.

  “It wasn’t that hard,” McNamara said. “And besides, Manny’s paying us, remember?”

  “Not enough,” Wolf said. “My brain’s gonna feel like fried mush when I meet that lawyer tomorr
ow.” He glanced at his watch. “I mean today.”

  “Yeah,” McNamara said, stretching a bit. “Why don’t you pass me that thermos and get some shut-eye. I’ll take the next watch.”

  “It’s empty.”

  “Well, in that case, let’s take a drive down to Dunkin’ Donuts there on the corner and get us some fresh cups. I gotta take a whiz anyway and I don’t want to have any of these fine people around here maybe waking up and looking out the window and thinking there’s a man wrestling with a snake out in front of their house.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Wolf said with a grin. “After all, it’s probably a very large snake, right?’

  “You’re damn right it is.”

  After getting the coffee, he managed to skim the rest of the play, and with the help of some Internet summaries on his phone and with what Garfield had given him about the play being based on a story in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, he switched places with McNamara, fired up his laptop, and began to pound out the three-page paper that the instructor had assigned. He ended by quoting one of the final lines: The web of our life is of a mingled yarn good and ill together ... All’s well that ends well.

  But will it? He wondered about this little surveillance venture as well as his own situation with Yolanda as he saved the file.

  He glanced at his watch and saw it was closing in on zero four hundred. Mac’s head lolled over to the side and his breathing had the regular rhythm of sound sleep.

  All’s well that ends well, he thought.

  THE MCNAMARA RANCH

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  After deciding to knock off at four-thirty, the two of them had driven back to the ranch. Wolf was in bed almost immediately and was able to fall asleep quickly. What he intended to be a solid four hours of sleep turned out to be little more than an extended combat nap as an incessant ringing stirred him awake at a resounding seven o’clock.

  He blinked twice, shaking off the vestiges of sleep, and saw that it was his cell phone.

  Grabbing it, he wondered if it was possibly Yolanda, but the number on the screen was blocked. The voice that spoke, however, wasn’t.