Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  Most of the activity during the day had been limited to a few of the bikers stumbling out of the house to urinate or defecate in a grassy garden area adjacent to the Rice Garden.

  “If they got that damn brick shithouse available,” McNamara had whispered on their recon expedition as they crouched behind the stone wall about ten yards from the defecating man, “why in the hell do they keep doing their business out in the yard like that?”

  Indeed, the distance seemed to be about the same but Wolf had no idea.

  “What was it that idiot politician in Washington said the other night on TV?” he whispered back. “People are gonna do what they’re gonna do.”

  And then the rain had started, and the squatting biker yelped, pulled up his pants, and ran for the house. The curtain of heavy rain advanced over the terrain like an enveloping shroud. McNamara tilted his head back and said the monsoon-like downpour reminded him of the Mekong Delta. They used the curtain of heavy rain to cover their movements through the hundred yards of thicket and back to the waiting Escalade.

  “Whooie,” Ms. Dolly said as they both piled into the rear seat area. “You two smell like a couple of wet dogs just coming out of the briar patch.”

  McNamara grinned. “You’re lucky you didn’t get a whiff of the other guy.”

  Wolf chuckled recalling the bare-ass biker running to get out of the rain.

  After the monsoon passed, the trees and shrubbery glistened in the late afternoon sunshine and the area smelled almost fresh and clean. It reminded Wolf of some of the mountain patrols he’d been on in Afghanistan. Leafy and fresh smelling, but always fraught with sudden danger. After going back into Crown Points to grab some quick fast-food meals, they made their way back in the Escalade, as darkness fell. They drove with no lights and Ms. Dolly behind the wheel. The night-vision goggles sat awkwardly on her head, her red hair puffing out from under the helmet.

  “These damn things are gonna take a whole lotta getting used to,” she said. “Not to mention what it’s doing to my hair.”

  “If you see another car coming with its headlights on,” Wolf said, “just tilt you head back and look underneath them. Or you can flip them up.”

  She coasted to a lights-out stop and used the emergency brake. Across the darkened expanse they could see the lights popping on inside the house at Bootleg Brasheer’s. A couple of floodlights came on in the front yard and some heavy-metal rock music began blaring from speakers set on the dilapidated, outside porch. Wolf had noticed a big generator on the west side of the old house.

  “Stay in touch,” Ms. Dolly said from behind the wheel, the jutting goggles making her look almost insect-like.

  Brenda sat beside her in the front passenger seat.

  “Tenga cuidado,” she said. “We’ll be here if you need us.”

  “Just shout,” Ms. Dolly said, her words echoing in Wolf’s earpiece.

  He knew the range on the radios was about a quarter mile since there was no repeater to amplify the transmissions. Hopefully, they could stay close enough for Ms. Dolly to hear them if and when they called for the pick-up.

  “You ready?” he asked Mac.

  “Born ready,” McNamara said. “Let’s do it.”

  They’d both changed out of their sodden clothes and put on fresh underwear and BDUs. McNamara had his Glock strapped in tight with a low-slung tactical holster and Wolf had a large, burly bladed Coast TX395 knife in his right-side pocket that could be used for offense, defense, or just plain old tactical cutting. As the access road curved, they separated. McNamara went left, Wolf right, taking the longer trek along the stone wall and toward the Rice Garden and beyond. The low wall and the wind barrier trees afforded him plenty of cover, and, even though it was now dark, Wolf had familiarized himself with the terrain on their earlier recon. As he made his way east, running parallel to the curving wall, he tried to surmise where the girl might be. Both he and Mac were certain that she was here. And Timmy Wagner was, too. They’d both seen the remnants of a smashed-up Honda Fury hanging in the Rice Garden. The motorcycle had a new look to it, and both he and Mac were certain it was the same one they’d seen the Wagner punk riding two days ago.

  But was he a punk?

  Wolf thought about that as he slipped by the suspended junkyard and around toward the rear of the barn. It was certainly both possible and likely that both Timmy and Glory had been willing participants in the brutal attack on her parents but Wolf wondered if the two teenagers had bitten off way more than they could chew. Dreams of young love and rebellion might have run smack dab into a brick wall once they got here to biker haven. Wolf recalled the disparaging words Ira-Irv had used describing both Timmy and his rice burner.

  What was that Manny had said Timmy’s motorcycle group called themselves?

  The Lost Ones.

  They were probably lost, all right. Or worse. Timmy might be planted out in the field somewhere, and Glory …

  Well, he thought. Better not try to speculate too much. Makes it too hard to stay optimistic.

  In any case, he doubted that they’d discard a young female too quickly. Timmy, on the other hand, was dead weight just like his dangling Honda motorcycle.

  A stir of commotion on the front porch sent Wolf to a prone position near another fracture in the stone wall. He lifted the rangefinder binoculars to his eyes. The loud music lessened as a crowd poured raucously out the front door and down the wooden steps. The procession was led by a tall, whipcord-thin man with straggly hair and an unkempt beard. His arms, both covered from wrist to shoulder with sleeves of tattoos, were bare and he had two rather plumpish biker chicks fawning over him. Behind the trio, a huge man with grapevine muscles and a barrel chest followed carrying a large stuffed green chair that looked like it belonged in a second-hand furniture shop. The big man’s arms, which were massive, were also decorated with a mosaic of inked designs.

  Spike and his enforcer, Python no doubt, Wolf surmised, recalling Hernandez’s descriptions.

  Everyone in the group appeared to be in some degree of drug or alcohol-induced intoxication. About a dozen or so other men wearing the same motorcycle gang colors clamored down the wooden stairs, pulling and slapping at six similarly clad women, all squealing with delight. Wolf didn’t see Glory or Timmy.

  Spike stopped in an area next to one of the illuminated lights. It was in between the house and the barn. He said something inaudible and the group laughed. The leader waved his arms and pointed, and Python placed the chair on the ground.

  “Get rid of that fucking music,” Spike said in a throaty yell.

  One of the other bikers turned with a stagger and pulled a gun out of his waistband. He aimed in the direction of the house and fired.

  The music continued and he fired again.

  “No, dumb ass,” Spike yelled. “Go shut the fucking thing off.”

  “I’ll do it,” one of the biker chicks said, and started running toward the house. They were called “old ladies” or “mamas,” Wolf recalled from his days of overheard conversations in the prison yard. The former meant the woman was the property of one man, subject to change, while “mamas” were fair game for everybody.

  The biker with the gun squeezed off another round and the girl jumped back and screamed as the shot apparently whizzed by her.

  The biker with the gun turned with a dumb-looking simper plastered across his mouth that instantly vanished as Python stepped over and delivered a swift, powerful backhanded blow to the other man’s face. As the biker fell, the enforcer lurched forward and seized the gun from the crumbling man’s hand.

  Big and quick, Wolf thought. A dangerous combination.

  “We got shots fired,” McNamara said. “You got eyes on them?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said, knowing his earpiece would transmit the words. “They’re in the front yard acting stupid.”

  “Copy that,” McNamara said. “You see anything of the girl?”

  “Negative,” Wolf replied. “But it looks like they’ve got
something planned.”

  “I’ll move up to where I can get a look-see,” McNamara said.

  “The way those idiots are shooting,” Wolf said, “you’d better stay behind cover.”

  “Roger that.”

  The biker chick ran up into the house and the sound of the music lessened substantially.

  Spike lifted his arms and when it seemed as though he had the group’s attention he said in a loud voice, “Let the entertainment begin.”

  He plopped down in the unseemly green chair and Python tossed something to one of the others. It looked to be a ring of keys. The catcher and another man shuffled off toward the brick structure that Wolf assumed was the Throne. He debated whether or not to move up, and decided to wait.

  About a minute or so later he was glad that he had. The two bikers who had entered the throne returned, dragging someone, a slender man, between them. Wolf brought the rangefinder glasses up once more and adjusted the zoom lens. The dragged party’s head twisted to one side and Wolf caught a glimpse of his face: Timmy Wagner.

  Not dead after all, Wolf thought. Yet.

  He relayed this information to McNamara, who acknowledged.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Mac said. “Or the smell, either.”

  Wolf advised that he was going to move up and did a low crawl over to the big metal poles embedded in the ground securing the winch. A shift in the wind carried the stench of human waste over to Wolf’s new position, but the area directly under the suspended motorcycles afforded him an unimpeded view of the group, which had spread out into a circle. The two bikers threw Timmy into the center.

  “Is this the piece of shit that betrayed brother Irv?” Spike said, addressing everyone in a resonant tone.

  A chorus of boos and assents emanated from the group.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” Spike said, addressing Timmy.

  The youth was crying, and his voice cracked as he made a muttering plea that he was sorry.

  “Sorry?” Spike said, raising his eyebrows as his head rotated from side to side surveying his minions. “He says he’s sorry.”

  Another chorus of boos echoed in the night.

  “What shall we do with this transgressor?” Spike asked.

  A unified chant from the crowd began like a mantra and grew louder and louder and it gathered intensity.

  “BEAT DOWN, BEAT DOWN, BEAT DOWN …”

  Spike raised his arms again. The chant immediately ceased.

  “And so, your punishment has been decided,” he yelled. “Python.”

  The big man stepped forward and tried to seize Timmy. The youth darted to the left and tried to run, but the circle of bikers grabbed him and shoved him back toward the enormous opponent. This time Python snared an arm and delivered an underhanded punch to the boy’s body. Timmy folded like a collapsible card table and sank to his knees. Python walked around and lifted a huge fist.

  “Make it last awhile,” Spike said.

  The big man nodded and swung an open-handed strike to the side of Timmy’s head. He fell over and Python continued to walk in a circle around him.

  “That boy ain’t gonna last long at this rate,” Mac’s voice said in Wolf’s earpiece.

  “Your call,” Wolf whispered back.

  His mind raced. They still didn’t know where Glory was, but Wolf felt it could be in that Throne place. If he could double-time it behind the barn without being seen, and then get into the outhouse, he might be able to locate her. But he’d seen Python toss one of the two bikers who’s retrieved Timmy a set of keys. That meant it was locked. He had to get the keys first, but how?

  The other, unspoken alternative would be for Mac to start picking people off. His Glock 19 had a mag capacity of nineteen, and one in the chamber made twenty. There were twenty hostiles, old ladies and mamas included, and gunning down a whole slew of people, especially the women, would not be something Mac would want to do. He was a man of honor. Plus, a mass shooting incident with a good chance of multiple fatalities, would put Hernandez on their tail. Most, if not all, of these bikers were armed, albeit probably not very effective marksmen, and none of them would probably be receptive to a call to surrender. They could try a bluff, saying that the whole place was surrounded by the Gila County SWAT team, but Wolf knew you didn’t engage in a bluff that you couldn’t pull off. And starting a firefight when you were facing ten-to-one odds was not a very attractive option.

  But neither was watching a kid getting beaten to death, even if he had brought it on himself.

  Python lifted Timmy with one arm and punched him in the gut with the other. The youth expelled a ragged breath.

  “You got any idea where they might be hiding the girl?” McNamara asked.

  “Probably in the Throne,” Wolf said. “But it’s most likely locked.”

  “We need a diversion of some sort,” McNamara said. “You know, I’m about twenty yards away from all their bikes. Maybe I can sneak over and disconnect a few gas lines, then toss in a match.”

  Before Wolf could comment, Python sent another crushing blow to Timmy’s body. This time the cry was diminished.

  “Wait,” Spike said. “Let’s bring out his little piece of ass and let her watch for a while before we pass her around.”

  That meant they were going to bring Glory out.

  This could be the break we need, Wolf thought.

  He looked over at the gas tanker and wondered how full it was. Even if it was a quarter full it would make a sizeable explosion. If he could time it with Mac blowing up the motorcycles, they might have something. He relayed his plan to McNamara, who agreed. As Wolf placed his palms down on the ground to push upward and move to the gas tanker, his fingers brushed something plastic attached by a braided leather thong to the round metal pole securing the winch.

  It was a remote for the machine.

  Another part of the diversion fell into place. The key would be to bring down the Rice Garden in conjunction with the two explosions. Then he could run up and grab Glory, once she was brought out. He’d have to do a quick job of convincing her, but that shouldn’t be too difficult unless she’d been overcome with the Stockholm Syndrome. The sight of her boyfriend being beaten to death would probably go a long way to securing her cooperation. He radioed his plan to Mac, who agreed. Wolf removed his knife, flipped open the blade, and sliced through the leather thong securing the remote. He then pocketed it and got ready to sprint toward the gasoline tanker.

  Something glinted in the moonlight, shiny in an errant patch of grass.

  Wolf reached down and found an empty whiskey bottle.

  Another break, he thought, making sure the bottle was intact.

  “Darling,” McNamara’s voice said over the radio. “Get ready to pull down that road toward the fireworks when we call you to pick us up.”

  “Y’all gonna pop some smoke for us, honey?” Ms. Dolly’s Southern twang said.

  “We’ll light your fire,” McNamara said.

  Wolf crawled past the foot-high grass and weeds by the Rice Garden. The tanker trailer was perhaps twenty-five feet away, but the ground was barren. Traversing the expanse with a low crawl would leave him too open and vulnerable. All it would take would be one of the bikers to turn and see his undulating figure and he’d be a sitting duck. But a quick sprint meant a more noticeable movement and that had its risks, too.

  “Here comes the princess,” Spike proclaimed. The crowd turned to see two of the bikers dragging Glory toward the semi-circle. A bunch of catcalls and whistles emanated from the group.

  I’m not going to get a better chance than this, Wolf thought as he sprinted over to the gasoline tanker and slid underneath it. The gas cap was on the left side near the bottom. Wolf tapped it slightly trying to judge how full it was. The taps sounded solid which led him to believe the tank was at least half-full.

  Good enough, he thought as he reached up to loosen the cap.

  A steady stream of liquid began to dribble downward
, giving off the unmistakable, searing odor of gasoline. Holding the empty bottle under the stream, Wolf let the gas trickle into it. When it was three-quarters full, he retightened the cap and set the bottle down. Pressing the blade of his knife into the soft, sandy earth, he then smeared dirt over the gasoline that had gotten on his hands. The underside of the tank felt solid, but not overly thick. After grinding the tip of the blade into the metal he managed to make a small hole in the surface. The noxious trickle began again in earnest, dripping down in a steady stream to begin forming a puddle on the ground beneath it.

  The bikers began their chant again.

  “Beat down, beat down, beat down …”

  Wolf shot a glance over and saw that Python now had Glory by both arms and was forcing her body over Timmy’s crumpled form. The crowd was laughing.

  Sadistic bastards, Wolf thought, determined to grab Timmy as well as Glory.

  The kid wasn’t an innocent, but he deserved better than that.

  “Go get us another case of booze,” Spike yelled.

  One of the bikers on the edge of the crowd turned and started shuffling off toward the barn.

  Shit, Wolf thought. The last thing I need is for him to see me.

  But instead of heading toward the door, the biker kept walking and disappeared.

  He must be going to the Throne, Wolf thought. Interesting.

  “Sit rep,” McNamara’s voice asked in Wolf’s earpiece.

  “Almost ready,” Wolf said, slicing off a long section of his BDU blouse and stuffing it into the top of the bottle. He then inverted it so that the material became immersed with fuel.

  “How about you?” he said, keying his mic once more and glancing toward the barn.

  “All systems are go,” McNamara said. “Even found me an old paper bag I can use as a fuse.”