Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3)

by Michael A. Black

  “You got yourself a new fella, huh, Kase?” he said. “Who’re you?”

  Wolf wanted to say, “I’m the guy that’s going to kick your fucking ass up one side of this driveway and down the other,” but instead took a breath and said, “Your son doesn’t need to see this.”

  Riley tried to hold Wolf’s gaze, then blinked several times. He inched backward a few steps and reached his hand out toward his son.

  “I’ll make sure he calls you every night,” Riley said. “If that’s what you want.”

  “By seven o’clock,” Kasey said.

  Riley eyed her up and down and then turned his head toward Wolf. After trying to affect a solid stare, he averted his eyes again and gave a curt nod.

  Kasey squatted down and gave her son a kiss and another hug, telling him that he was going to spend two weeks with daddy and that if he needed her, all he had to do was press a button on that phone. The little boy nodded, but still looked less than contented.

  “Hey, sweetie, y’all got a charger for that thing?” Cherrie asked. “The flip-phone?”

  Kasey stood, said she’d be right back, and ran toward the house, leaving the four adults and the child standing in the middle of the driveway in front of the Caravan.

  “Mind if I smoke while we wait?” Cherrie asked, smiling at McNamara.

  Without waiting for him to answer, she reached into her bra and took out a pack of cigarettes and a plastic lighter. Wolf knew little about cigarettes but noticed the pack had a circular red and blue design, as did the cigarette. He couldn’t quite read the label.

  Cherrie shook out what must have been the last one, crinkled the pack up, and dropped it down by her foot as she fired one up and the sudden smell of the burning tobacco assailed Wolf’s nostrils.

  McNamara snorted in obvious irritation.

  “Put him in that car seat, would ya?” Riley said to her.

  Cherrie nodded and held her hand out for Chad. “Come on, honey.”

  “Remember what I told you about smoking near my grandson,” McNamara repeated.

  She wrinkled her nose, blew twin plumes of smoke out each nostril, and took one more copious drag on the cigarette before tossing it away. Chad glanced back at Wolf and his grandfather as he rounded the side of the Dodge. Kasey came walking out with a charger dangling from her fist. As she went by Riley, she thrust it into his hands and went to check on her son. Wolf watched through the front windshield as the two women secured Chad in the car seat. To his surprise, they seemed almost cordial as they secured the boy with the straps. Kasey leaned in and kissed him once more and stepped away from the vehicle. Cherrie opened the passenger door and got in.

  “Come on, will ya?” she yelled, cracking open the door and leaning halfway outside. “Get that air-conditioning turned on, for Christ’s sake. It’s hotter than a Texas whor—ah, hen house in here.”

  “I’ll take good care of him,” Riley said as Kasey rejoined her father and Wolf.

  “You’d better,” McNamara said.

  Wolf had no doubt that, despite the age difference, Mac could pound the other man into the ground.

  Riley stared at him and then turned and got into the vehicle. It started up and he said something to Cherrie as he backed it up, pulled forward, and then swung out toward the access road.

  Wolf noticed that the black Malibu was still idling over there. It looked like two people were inside but it was difficult to tell with the tinted windows. It did a wide turn and headed back toward the highway. The Caravan turned out of the driveway and followed. A procession of three dark sedans turned off the main highway and passed the two vehicles going the opposite direction. The trio of cars had a distinctly familiar look to them.

  “Aw, shit,” McNamara said. “Looks like the feds are coming back for that shooting team interview they told us about.”

  Wolf was thinking the same thing. He looked at Kasey.

  “I’m sure Chad will be all right,” he said, trying to reassure her. She looked about ready to cry. “Kids are pretty resilient at that age.”

  She nodded and pressed her lips together.

  “And as soon as we find another good lawyer,” McNamara said, “we’ll do something about this damn custody bullshit.”

  The dam broke and tears streamed out of Kasey’s eyes. She turned and ran toward the house. McNamara’s face twisted into a pained expression.

  “Cherrie.” McNamara blew out a puff of breath.

  “With an I E,” Wolf said.

  “Hell,” McNamara said. “If she’s got a cherry she’s using it as a taillight.”

  Wolf smirked. “Could have been worse.”

  What he didn’t mention was his concern about the cut-off shorts that Riley had been wearing. The bright orange color, the absence of pockets, the elastic waistband devoid of belt-loops, no laces in his boots … It was all a familiar.

  Too familiar, he thought. Jail or prison pants, hacked off to look like a pair of shorts.

  “Better go tell her to stay in her room,” Wolf said. “The last thing she needs now is the FBI trying to grill her.”

  McNamara glanced toward the road, then nodded.

  “I got something else I need to talk to you about, too,” Wolf said, thinking of the orange-colored cut-off shorts.

  “What’s that?” McNamara asked.

  “It’ll keep,” Wolf said. “Go tell Kasey to lay low.”

  McNamara nodded and went into the house. Wolf walked over and stepped on the still-smoldering cigarette. After he’d ground it out, he bent over and picked up the two butts and the crumpled pack, unrolling it in his palm.

  UPTOWN BLUES MENTHOL, the label read. For those with sophisticated tastes.

  “I smell cop,” Smith said gunning the Malibu past the three navy-blue sedans. “What you all hunched down for?”

  “Those are feds,” Cummins said thankful that he’d been able to get the hell out of there before being spotted by Wolf or the FBI.

  “How you know that?” Smith asked.

  “Believe me, I can tell.”

  As well he could. Although he’d pulled the baseball cap down on his face and leaned forward as the FBI cars had passed, he managed to catch a glimpse of some of the drivers and passengers. Although he couldn’t be sure, Cummins was almost certain it was the same two agents he’d exchanged glances with when he’d escaped from the botched hostage situation here before. The feds had called in the plate on his rental van and he’d been subsequently stopped by Phoenix PD, which had led to his arrest after they’d found the snub-nose he’d tried to conceal under the seat after he’d tried to get away. That it was a totally bogus bust was beside the point. Cummins was confident he could have beaten the case in court. He was, after all, an attorney, and not a half-bad one at that. But he also knew sticking around to face charges and eventually getting sucked into the ongoing investigation of what had happened at McNamara’s and Wolf’s that night would put him on a one-way trip to the penitentiary.

  Ironic, he thought. Me and Fallotti and Eagan had all gone to such elaborate ends to set that son of a bitch, Wolf, up for those murders in Iraq, and afterwards in Mexico. Now, I’m the one sweating it.

  And that bastard, Fallotti, wasn’t even answering his calls or even calling him back. The prick.

  Everything that had happened after the Mexico trip tended to convince Cummins that he, too, had been placed on the “expendable’s list.” He’d come to suspect that Fallotti had told Zerbe and his South African mercenary band, to exterminate him as soon as he’d verified the artifact. That was all they needed him for at this point. They’d gotten him in so deep, used him, and now were ready to toss him away, like soiled toilet paper. At this point, he owed them nothing.

  But they owed him.

  The lot of them did. Fallotti, Von Dien, and anybody else associated with them.

  If only he could get some leverage on them, figure out some way to gain the upper hand.

  He glanced over at Smith, who was chatting with Cherri
e on his cell phone. Cummins paid no attention to the superfluous one-sided end to the conversation. Instead, he mentally reassessed his current predicament and situation.

  Wolf had something of value, the bandito containing the artifact and that was what old Von Dien wanted more than anything. And he was willing to pay just about anything for it. Wolf may or may not know that, at this point, but either way, he didn’t know how to contact Von Dien.

  But I do, Cummins thought. And I’m also in possession of something Wolf wants: the truth about Iraq and maybe a way to clear his name.

  Cummins placed a hand on his gut and pressed in slightly, trying to settle his stomach a bit. He didn’t think he was going to have another attack but couldn’t rule it out, either. He went back to his ruminations.

  How could he trade what he knew for the artifact? Once he had that, he could advise Fallotti and Von Dien of his possession and name his own price. He didn’t want much just a sure-fire way to stay out of jail, to never have work again, and have plenty of money to spend on wine, women, and more women.

  He needed a bargaining chip, something of value.

  The artifact obviously was the trump card but how could he obtain it?

  And then the idea came to him. The leverage he needed was right there in front of him: the kid.

  He was McNamara’s grandson and McNamara was Wolf’s friend and mentor, letting Wolf live on the ranch, taking him on as a partner in the family business … What better bargaining chip could anyone ask for? Wolf and McNamara would certainly give up the bandito for the safe return of the brat. Now all he had to do was figure out a way to get the kid away from the hillbilly gang. All he’d need would be the right opportunity. Stash the kid in a motel room or even let one of the morons hold him. Once he’d accomplished that, it would be a small matter of contacting Wolf and arranging a trade. Once the bandito was secured, Cummins could re-contact Fallotti and VD and this time he’d be the one calling the shots.

  I’ve got the artifact and it’s genuine, he imagined himself saying on the phone to his former employers. And if you ever want to see it, I’ll expect just compensation for all that I’ve been through.

  The particulars would take a bit of time to work out but at the moment he had a bit of time. Smith seemed in no rush to evict him from his temporary bedroom in The Majestic Model and him paying the impound fee for moron number two would certainly buy him a few more days. Smith had mentioned that Riley lived in the trailer next door, so the kid would no doubt be close by. Cummins knew that all he had to do was befriend the bastard so that the little tike wouldn’t throw a hissy-fit when kindly, old honorary Uncle Jack took him for some ice cream or something. There was a slim danger that the kid might recognize him. He had been in McNamara’s house, albeit briefly, when Zerbe and his South African goons were holding them all at gunpoint.

  But hell, I look different now, he thought. The beard, the contacts, the buzz cut … I’ve even lost some weight.

  Plus, to a little punk that age, all adults probably look the same.

  It would work, kindly “Uncle Jack.” He’d have to give the kid a candy bar when they got back to the trailer park or something.

  Yeah, that would work.

  In the meantime, re-contacting Fallotti could wait. It could wait until the escape plan had been worked out and was ready to go.

  Wolf watched as the procession of federal vehicles pulled into the driveway spreading out so as to form a blockade. He felt a wave of amusement as he saw they all waited for a command to exit their vehicles so they all got out at the same time, almost in unison. It was obviously designed to instill mild intimidation into the hearts and minds of the regular citizenry but Wolf was unimpressed. After all, he’d forgotten more about tactics and intimidation than this group had ever learned.

  Two familiar faces, Special Agents Franker and Turner, stood by the first car along with a woman dressed in a sharp-looking blue pants-suit. Her hair was dark brown and pulled back into a tight bun behind her head. She carried no purse and Wolf immediately noticed the gold badge affixed to her belt and the conspicuous bulge on her right hip. Both Franker and Turner seemed to be giving her a wide berth. Obviously, she was the boss. Two sets of three men exited the other vehicles. Half of them were wearing the standard Bureau outfits of blue suits and neckties and the other three wearing khaki-colored Royal Robbin, 5.11 cargo pants and blue and yellow FBI nylon Raid Jackets. The guys in khaki pants looked vaguely familiar. They stationed themselves by the other two sedans. One carried a rather large valise and the other a brown briefcase.

  Wolf continued to watch them as Franker leaned over to the female agent and whispered something. She gave a slight nod and moved forward, her lips tightening into a lips-only smile as she approached with an extended open palm.

  “Mr. Wolf,” she said. “I’m Special Agent in Charge, Shelia Rappaport. How are you, sir?”

  Wolf accepted her hand, noting that her grip seemed pleasantly strong. He then shook hands with Agents Franker and Turner.

  “We’re here as part of an FBI Shooting Investigation Team,” Agent Rappaport said. “In reference to the incident that took place on—”

  “I remember,” Wolf said deciding to seize the initiative. “The police have already done all the processing, I think some of your guys were out here the other night, as well. We gave our statements then.”

  “To the local police,” she said. “But not to the Bureau.”

  Her tone was a bit officious and it set Wolf on edge. It reminded him of trying to explain the intricacies of a mission to a butterbean lieutenant in the army.

  “I wasn’t aware that this was a Bureau case,” he said. “Besides, all the bad guys that hit us are dead and the missing guy that took off got busted by Phoenix PD on a gun charge. I gave you people all the names I recalled.”

  “And we appreciate that, sir,” she said. “Nevertheless, we still have to conduct our investigation.”

  The six other agents had closed ranks behind her, Franker, and Turner. Their faces had that vacuous expression of automatons on an assembly line.

  Mac exited the house and came sauntering up.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “Are you guys collecting for the FBI charity fund or something?”

  Special Agent Rappaport cast a quick glance at Franker, who nodded.

  “Ah, you must be Mr. McNamara,” she said and introduced herself to him, using her full title once again.

  “Just what are you investigating?” McNamara asked. “It was pretty cut and dried. A bunch of thugs broke in here and threatened us. We took their guns away from them and kicked their asses all the way to hell. The police already investigated it and cleared us.”

  Special Agent Rappaport’s expression reminded Wolf of his sixth-grade teacher listening to a substandard student reciting a lesson.

  “Mr. McNamara,” she said. “Any time an agent fires his or her weapon, a shooting investigation team is dispatched to do a thorough investigation of the incident.”

  McNamara raised both eyebrows and cast quick looks at both Franker and Turner.

  “You know,” he said. “It’s funny but I don’t recall your two G-men here doing any of the shooting.”

  “Special Agent Franker had an AD,” she said.

  Franker blushed.

  Mac grinned. “Well, I’m glad he missed his foot.”

  “Hey,” Wolf said. “Let’s all take a breath.” He turned back to Special Agent Rappaport and smiled. “Listen, Ms. Rappaport, the whole incident was very traumatic for us. Several people died. It’s really hard for us to discuss it, at this point. I mean, the police responded and cleared us of any wrongdoing. We were just defending ourselves.”

  “That’s Special Agent Rappaport,” she said. “And I appreciate that it was a traumatic incident for you. I’ve read the FD-three-oh-twos—”

  “The what?” McNamara said.

  “Standard Interview Report Forms,” she said. “And I have a few more questions. Additionall
y, our team needs to take some more pictures and we need to interview all of the victims. Is your daughter home, Mr. McNamara?”

  “She’s sedated,” Mac said. “The whole thing was doubly bad for her. You see, her fiancé was murdered recently.”

  Rappaport seemed generally unfazed.

  “Have you talked to Bonnie Murphy?” Wolf asked, trying to get some information out of the tight-lipped fed. “She’s our teenage babysitter or at least she used to be. Poor kid was here when they broke in. Luckily she wasn’t hurt.”

  He happened to know that poor Bonnie had been so traumatized that her parents had forbidden her to do any more babysitting and placed the girl under the care of a therapist. Wolf doubted that she would be answering any questions without her doctor present and what could she say anyway? Kasey had told him and Mac that the girl had totally blocked out recollection of the incident.

  Sort of like me and those missing eight minutes, he thought.

  “It goes a lot better if we ask the questions, Mr. Wolf,” Special Agent Rappaport said.

  “Say,” McNamara said flashing an ingratiating grin. “Since you’re so into formal titles, maybe you should address him as Staff Sergeant Wolf. You can just call me Sergeant Major if you want. Command Sergeant Major.”

  Rappaport canted her head and her lips parted slightly showing a modicum of irritation.

  “I’d be glad to,” she said, then directed her gaze at Wolf. “But didn’t he get stripped of all rank and privileges after his court martial?”

  McNamara’s grin faded replaced by an expression of simmering anger.

  “Lady, or Special Agent, or whatever the hell you want to be called,” he said. “This man here’s a combat veteran and he’s given more, suffered more, done more than the whole lot of you. And I will not tolerate you coming onto my property and insulting a man who’s been there and fought and bled for his country. You all can leave. This interview is finished.”

  “Mr. McNamara,” she said. “Please, we have to file a report regarding this shooting incident. We just need to ask you a few questions.”