Devil’s Brigade
Trackdown Series: Book 3
Michael A. Black
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Watch For Devil’s Advocate (Trackdown Series: Book Four)
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About the Author
Devil’s Brigade
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 Michael A. Black
All rights reserved.
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To all my brothers and sisters in law enforcement
who are under fire in these troubled times—Stay safe, stay strong.
Devil’s Brigade
My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred;
And I myself see not the bottom of it.
Troilus and Cressida
William Shakespeare
Chapter One
Phoenix, Arizona
Every time Wolf replayed the scene in his mind it turned out the same way, marred by death and the staccato blasts from automatic weapon fire and the explosions. It all came down to those missing eight minutes.
Today was no different.
On this early morning run, the velvety blackness had given way first to an encroaching orange glow and then a brilliant yellow as the orb edged its way over the eastern mountain range. Wolf had started out earlier than usual this morning to beat the heat of the day and also due to the special job that he and Mac had planned. But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy. Instead, he carried a five-pound weight in each hand and was feeling the burn in his shoulders, forearms, and right down to his fingertips. Work the hands, his boxing coach had told him long ago. Build them up so you can deliver the power. Wolf had done the same run for so many mornings over the past few weeks and his body knew the route by rote. His thoughts raced along those familiar pathways as well, going back four years ago to replay the incident in his mind once more. And still, the missing section remained cloudy in his thoughts, hidden by mocking shadows thicker than the fires that had erupted around him and his squad on that dusty Baghdad street.
Every time, it ends the same way, he thought. Every damn time.
It all came down to those missing eight minutes and today was no different.
Iraq … His last mission as an Army Ranger. A bogus mission set up by Lieutenant Jack Cummins, Military Intelligence. Meeting up with a PMC, the Vipers, led by a transplanted big cowboy named Eagan. Their simple objective: to assist in an interview of some locals.
Yeah, right. Simple was the word for it. Until the shit hit the fan and the lights went out.
He’d awoken to a haze of violence, betrayal, and death.
And the critical explanations were covered by a shroud of darkness. It was a translucent shroud, allowing certain facts and images to gradually reveal themselves, but overall, his complete recollection was indistinct. Like a jigsaw puzzle with some crucial pieces missing.
So, once again, it all came down to those missing eight minutes.
How many times had he asked himself, what had actually happened in that stinking, worthless shack on that Baghdad street?
And every time the answer was still the same: He didn’t know.
Or rather, he didn’t remember. That was more accurate. He knew that two Iraqi civilians had ended up dead and he’d gotten the blame for it. And one of his squad members, Spec-four Julio Martinez, had died, too, and another, Jeff Thompson, was severely injured by an IED blast. In his dreams, Wolf still saw their faces almost every night. He wasn’t the first time he’d seen members of his squad get hit but he felt doubly responsible for this one. It was tied to the shame of his dishonorable discharge and loss of rank and benefits, the court martial and subsequent prison term, and all the rest of it. He hadn’t even been able to mount a decent defense, all because of those missing eight minutes.
Now over four years and a host of dead bodies later, the circumstances still dogged him. Someone had set him up then and they continued to come after him now and he had nothing to go on except some persistently elusive memories, a few names remembered, and a cheap looking plaster bandito from south of the border that was somehow the key to everything. Exactly how or why the bandito fit into the equation was another mystery.
It was like having a key and not knowing what lock it fitted into.
Why was it so valuable that men would kill to possess it? And who was behind this serpentine conspiracy? What the hell did it all mean?
He wondered if he’d ever figure it out.
As Wolf reached the half-way point, the road marker that indicated the hiking trail up the mountain, he swung his body around to return to the ranch. That would give him a good four miles instead of the usual six. There was simply too much to do this morning.
And too much on his mind.
He’d gone about a mile or so on the way back when he saw another figure running toward him. From the size and lopsided gait he knew it was Mac. He’d been joining Wolf periodically on some of the morning runs although never for the full six or even the four-mile distances but that was okay. Not only was Mac a generation older than Wolf, he’d sustained more hits than any ten men put together and had enough shrapnel imbedded in his skin to set off an airport metal detector if he got within three feet of it. Plus, when their bounty hunting business took them down to Mexico a few months ago, Mac had taken a through-and-through and was still technically in the recovery stage, although he’d be the last to admit it.
No doubt about it, Wolf thought, Mac’s the toughest man I’ve ever known.
And the best one, too, he added mentally.
Slowing his pace to a near-stop Wolf held out his fist and McNamara brought his up and gave him a bump before pivoting and heading back toward the ranch.
“Figured I’d join you on the last leg,” McNamara said. “Hope I don’t slow you down too much.”
“It’ll probably be the other way around,” Wolf said, grinning.
McNamara grinned too. The two of them glanced in unison over their left shoulders to check the roadway, before crossing the asphalt so they could face any oncoming traffic.
“You feeling ready?” McNamara asked.
“More or less.”
McNamara snorted, then spat.
“Now what kind of statement is that?” he asked. “Tomorrow night you’re gonna be getting into the ring with a guy who’s hoping to tear your head off if he gets the chance.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure I don’t give him one,” Wolf said and threw a couple of punches. “And they call it an octagon, not a ring.”
“Right. But that don’t lessen the danger none.” McNamara
took three long strides before adding, “You sure you want to go through with this thing?”
“You talking about the MMA match or the B and E we’ve got planned this morning?”
McNamara laughed but Wolf could tell he was breathing harder than usual. Perhaps it was time to slow the pace a bit more.
“Let’s do this last mile as a walk,” Wolf said.
“The hell you say.” McNamara elevated the speed of his shuffling steps. “Remember, you were just a Ranger while I was Special Forces.”
Just a Ranger, Wolf thought. But not anymore.
He adjusted his pace to catch McNamara, then slowed down again, hoping Mac would leave his pride behind them and modify his steps.
“The match,” McNamara said. “It’s not all holy-hell important, you know.”
“The money will put us back in the black, won’t it?”
McNamara nodded quickly but said nothing. The sweat was pouring off him now.
“And as far as the B and E,” Wolf said. “It’s long overdue. We should have done it right away.”
“Yeah.” McNamara’s word came out like he’d spat out a brick.
Wolf backed off on his speed a little more. “So let’s quit talking about it and do it.”
McNamara nodded. His slick face was looking pale in the early morning light.
“And one more thing,” Wolf said.
“What’s that?”
The gravel road that bisected the highway was only about fifty yards away now.
“Let’s do a cool-down and walk the rest of the way,” Wolf said as he slowed to a walk. “Since I was only just a Ranger.”
Mac smirked and fell into step beside him.
“One of these days,” he said, the words coming out between gasps for breath. “You’ll be able to keep up with me.”
Piccolo Mobile Home Park
Phoenix, Arizona
Jack Cummins studied his new image in the mobile home’s bathroom mirror. The mustache and goatee were filling in nicely and seemed to complement his shaved head. With the extended-wear contact lenses replacing his rather thick glasses, he looked suddenly more formidable, despite his actual lack of much substantial muscle tone and any substantive toughness. And despite the ten pounds he’d lost in the past week or so, his body was still on the borderline of morbid obesity. At least the constant dyspepsia and diarrhea had subsided a little. That was a good thing, too, because spending the time in the rather limited confines of this overrated mobile home, inaptly named The Majestic Model and getting up suddenly to rush to the narrow confines of the bathroom remained highly problematic. Adding to the discomfort was the presence of his two roommates, Roger D. and Cherrie. But that couldn’t be avoided either. They shared the main sleeping quarters which left him to bunk on the secondary room. It was less comfortable and commodious than the officer’s billets he’d stayed in during his brief deployment in Iraq but at least he felt safe—safe from the predators in the County Jail, and temporarily out of reach for Fallotti and Von Dien. He was convinced that they were going to kill him which was why he had to figure out an exit plan, a permanent one, and also why he had to stay in the good graces of Roger D. Smith.
It was one of those chance meetings that had turned out to be mutually beneficial for both of them. Cummins had been alone, white, and defenseless when the four blacks had approached him in the bullpen of the county jail. Up until the bond hearing, his brief incarceration had been an uneventful overnight stay in a small, one-man cell. He’d been charged with fleeing and eluding and a weapons violation—the loaded .38 that he’d discarded inside the car at the last minute. Both were misdemeanor charges which assured a low bond. And he’d stuffed his pockets with all the cash he could from the stash that his now deceased partner in crime, Zerbe, had kept in the van. Bonding out was not going to be a problem, of that he was certain, and he’d remained relatively confident until it happened.
The police transport van he was in pulled into the lower basement area of the courthouse. He’d been handcuffed and crammed into it along with six other prisoners, of whom he paid little attention. His goal was to post bond as quickly as he could before they connected him to whatever had happened at the McNamara Ranch. He assumed that either Zerbe and his South African friends had killed Wolf and the others or that Wolf had beaten the odds once again. All the prisoners had been unhandcuffed and herded into the huge fenced in area in the lower portion of the courthouse. The guards called it a bullpen and it was more reminiscent of a cattle pen. There were perhaps twenty-five or thirty men in there, most of them Hispanic or black. Cummins was suddenly aware that he was in the distinct minority and he wasn’t liking it one bit.
“Hey, white boy,” one of the blacks said. “You look like you got titties. How’d you like to be my girlfriend when we get down to the County?”
The other prisoner was a lean looking black guy. The whiteness of his smile was marred by a missing front tooth. Three others immediately filled in next to him and Cummins found himself being shuffled to the back of the big pen. Bodies seemed to coagulate in front of him forming a human wall of sorts. A hand reached out and slapped his face. He jerked back, raising his hands, but knowing it was obvious he knew next to nothing about fighting. Another hand pushed him closer to the rear wall, this time coming from a large black man. His face was a set mask of menace. More of them moved in, punching his sides and forcing him down to his knees.
Voices mumbled in harsh whispers about the things they were going to do to him and someone tore his glasses from his face. He heard the plastic frame bounce on the hard concrete floor. He fell forward, curling into a fetal position as they began to kick him. His hand sought and luckily closed around his fallen glasses.
Just when he thought the worst was inevitable, a strong voice broke through the cacophony of jeers.
“Leave him alone, you black-ass motherfuckers,” the voice said. It had a Southern twang to it.
A figure pushed through the crowd, chopping and punching, and Cummins looked up to see a widespread pair of legs in front of him. His savior was a muscular white man with a buzz cut. The man’s fists were balled up and there was a tattoo of a triangle with a circle of stars on his right forearm. The outer edge of the triangle was framed in red and blue.
“Who you?” one of the tormentors started to say.
The white man’s foot shot upward so quickly that Cummins barely could discern the snapping kick that caught the underside of the other man’s chin. A flurry of punches and kicks followed, the motion so rapid that Cummins was barely able to follow it in the blur of his myopic gaze. Suddenly, the human wall dissolved leaving the four men lying on the floor oozing blood from torn lips and ruptured nostrils. Another black man rushed the white guy from behind just as Cummins was struggling to his feet. He collided with the on-rusher and the man bounced off. It sent Cummins sprawling onto his side again. The white guy whirled and smashed his fist against the stunned black man’s jaw, dropping him.
Cummins felt strong fingers grab his arm and lift him to his feet, the savior’s face showing a grin as he said, “Thanks, brother. But we better get to the front before the guards see us.” As they shuffled through the now parting crowd, the man whispered, “Name’s Smith. Roger D. Smith.”
“Jack Cummins.”
And so the friendship began.
Cummins had enough cash in his personal property to post bond for both himself and Smith, who was in for attempted grand larceny.
They were picked up outside the courthouse by a cigarette smoking woman named Cherrie Engel whose peroxided hair showed substantial black roots, in a beat-up Chevy Malibu that belched out an effluvium of haze every time she stepped on the gas.
“Honey-pot,” Smith said. “This is my friend, Jack. He posted bond for me. Me and him got into a fight with a bunch of niggers in the lockup. He’s gonna be staying with us for a few days.”
“Pleased to meet cha,” Cherrie said popping her gum.
Ordinarily, these were the
kind of people Cummins would walk across the street to avoid but the accidental circumstances being what they were, he began to see the possibility of an opportunity. They both obviously had room temperature IQ’s so manipulating them would be no problem. And their mundane banality could prove to be an asset.
Being on the lam myself now, or at least planning to be, Cummins thought, who’d think to look for me with these two?
Some knuckles rapped on the wooden door of the toilet area.
“You almost done in there?” Cherrie’s whiny voice asked. “I gotta pee and do number two, too.”
Cummins felt a wave of revulsion at the thought of that as he opened the door. She stood there in a flimsy nightgown that was so translucent he could tell she was naked beneath it. Although her armpits had noticeable stubble and he could discern a dark pubic thatch through the diaphanous material, the sight of her like this did kind of arouse him. He had to admit that her body wasn’t half-bad.
He averted his eyes immediately. He didn’t want to think of what might happen if Smith caught him sneaking a peek. From the way her lips curled back into a smile, he could tell she’d enjoyed giving him the show.
“Sorry,” he said, turning sideways and edging past her. “Rog around?”
“He’s outside doing his kung fu shit.” She took a drag on her cigarette as she slid the door closed.
Cummins went to the door and down the steps to the outside.
Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 1
