Years of working for the Agency had taught him how to protect himself through layers of insulation. Once he had control of the artifact, the transfer would be made according to the prescribed procedures that Soraces had used before. Nothing would be left to chance and the item would not be surrendered until the appropriate amount of agreed-upon money had been deposited in Soraces’s Cayman Island account.
He slipped the credit and debit card into his wallet and stuffed the envelope into his duffel bag. Customs should be a breeze since he had no extra luggage. Since it was Saturday, a trip to the new law office for his appointment probably wouldn’t be until Monday, so today would be a shopping day for new outfits and equipment, plus the continuation of assembling his old team. Back in Belize, he’d left a message for Gunther, who was always the hardest to contact, but the son of a bitch still hadn’t responded, despite the suggested urgency. A few of the others had already texted him back that they were interested even though he hadn’t specified what the job entailed. Times were hard for wet work teams these days, which meant they’d be eager for a quick and easy payday, especially one that didn’t take them to some shithole on the other side of the globe.
As if reading his thoughts, his personal cell phone buzzed and he glanced down at the screen and smiled.
It was Werner Gunther, his favorite wet-works man and best adjuster.
Soraces hit the button and answered the phone with his standard greeting: “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
“I heard through my message service that you were looking for a few good men.” It was Gunther’s low, gravel-voice, all right. It was practically unmistakable.
“Always,” Soraces said. “Interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. How quickly can you get to Phoenix?”
Algiers’s Motel
Phoenix, Arizona
Cummins remained standing in the sleazy little motel room. He was worried about possibly catching bed bugs if he sat on the bed or in the one cushioned chair in the tiny room. Besides, Smith and Cherrie had already plopped down on the rickety bed when they’d all entered the room. Riley was shaving at the sink next to the closet-sized room that housed the toilet and Keller had stationed himself by the solitary window and kept pulling the drawn shade and curtains away to peep out in the parking lot. Riley’s kid was playing with some toy truck, pushing it around the musty-smelling carpet.
“What time you gotta check out of this dump?” Keller asked.
Riley scraped some of the shaving cream off the tip of his chin before he answered. He was wearing what appeared to be the same T-shirt from yesterday, with big half-moons of yellowish sweat stains under the arms.
“Check-out’s at noon but I paid for two nights already.”
Keller was still peering through the open sliver at the window.
“Have the bitch take the kid outta here,” he said.
Smith stiffened. “Hey, don’t you be calling her that.”
Cherrie placed a hand on his arm, shook her head, shrugged. She started to get up.
If Keller had heard, he didn’t show it. Instead, he snapped his fingers and said, “Hey, fat boy, give her the keys to the Malibu. I don’t want to take the chance on anybody seeing that piece of shit Caravan driving around.”
Fat boy? The words again stung Cummins but he knew better than to show a reaction. He glanced at Smith, who didn’t look too happy either. Maybe if those two alpha dogs got into it, he’d be able to grab the kid and run.
But where to and for how long?
And there was still Riley to worry about.
Cherrie, too, for that matter, he thought. Better to wait things out.
Besides, something was up. He could sense it. The stagnant air in the room smelled like sour sweat. The tension was palpable.
Cherrie shifted off the bed, leaning over to give Cummins another glimpse of her abundant cleavage. The move almost seemed intentional. Was she coming on to him? Not likely, with her hillbilly significant other sitting next to her.
No, he thought. She’s just a prick teaser.
“Come on, sugar,” Cherrie said to the kid. “Let’s go get us some ice cream.”
“I don’t want ice cream,” the kid said.
“Chad,” Riley yelled from the sink. “Do like she says, dammit.”
The reflection of his face in the mirror glared with imminent rage.
The kid grabbed his toy truck and stood.
“Leave the god damn toy here,” Riley said.
The kid looked like he was about ready to cry but he set the truck on the floor.
Riley looked at Cherrie. “Get that car seat outta the Caravan for him, would ya?”
“Oh, we’ll be all right,” she said. “I’ll just fasten him in with the seatbelt.”
“The hell you will,” Keller said. “Get the fucking car seat and use it. I don’t want no cop pulling you over for no reason. Drive careful, too.”
Cherrie rolled her eyes as she accepted the keys from Cummins.
Smith stared at Keller, who turned from the window.
Cherrie and the kid moved to the door.
After they’d left, Keller once again checked the view through the sliver and stood.
“Okay, Roger D. Let’s go get the stuff so we can get ready.”
Smith shifted himself off the bed, which creaked like a set of rusty hinges.
Get ready for what?
Cummins watched as Riley wiped the residual shaving cream from his face and neck and studied himself in the mirror.
“How old’s your boy?” Cummins asked, trying to sound friendly. Actually, he couldn’t care less about the kid or Riley. But the more he knew about this potential bargaining chip, the better.
“Gonna be five come September,” Riley said. His tone had that similar-sounding twang as Smith’s.
Probably both came out of the same hillbilly mold, Cummins thought.
“Nice looking kid,” Cummins said, trying to fill the void.
And what he’d said was true enough, which wasn’t any real surprise. Riley actually was what you’d consider handsome, in a hillbilly sort of way. Sort of like a greasy, slicked up version of a young Elvis Presley. From what Cummins had seen of McNamara’s daughter, she was attractive and nice looking as well, so the kid had good genes, in the appearance department anyway.
This was all good. After all, he could hardly expect Wolf and McNamara to trade the bandito for an ugly kid.
“Yep.” Riley, who was still studying his reflection in the mirror, said, “He is at that.”
He leaned closer to his mirror image and brought both of his hand to his neck, probing with his fingers, apparently trying to pop open a pimple.
The door flew open and Smith and Keller came in carrying the same two old-style army duffel bags that Keller had kept by his bed last night. He slammed the door behind them and paused to set the security lock.
Like that would do much good, Cummins thought. But he found it both amusing and discomforting.
Why did he need to double-lock the door?
A few seconds later he found out.
Keller and Smith pulled out three rifles, two AR-15’s and one AK-47, along with several curved, banana-clip magazines. Keller laid the rifles out and then dumped out the rest of the contents from the two bags: four semi-auto handguns and numerous boxes of ammunition. It looked like enough to start a small war.
Keller grinned at Cummins, who wasn’t’ liking this at all.
This “Freedom Brigade” bullshit was turning into an armed revolution and Cummins wanted no part of it. But from the leering grin on Keller’s face, it didn’t look like there was going to be much choice on the matter.
Riley picked up the Kalashnikov. It had a metal folding stock and Cummins wondered if it was one of those Chinese knockoffs or an original.
“That one’s mine,” Keller said. “It’s full auto.”
Full auto?
Cummins wondered how Keller had gotte
n that one.
Riley handed him the Kalashnikov and Keller grinned as he pulled back the bolt and checked the chamber.
“Come on over here and help us start loading the magazines, fat boy,” he said. “Need us to show you how?”
“No,” Cummins said. “I was in the service.”
“Good,” Keller said. “We want to have everything loaded up and ready by the time Roger D’s lady gets back with the kid. Then we gotta go out and reconnoiter.”
Smith flashed a sullen look as he picked up one of the magazines along with a box of .223 ammunition.
“Okay,” Cummins said as he stepped toward the bed. He’d show them that he was no stranger to weapons and magazines. After all, he’d been in the army, too, but some clarification was needed. He wasn’t quite sure which way the bullets fit into the magazine. “So are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“Sure,” Keller said, shoving a box of cartridges toward him along with one of the magazines. “We’re loading up for bear and tonight we’re gonna bag us an armored car.”
Chapter Six
The Regency Arena
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf watched as the gauze was wound around his open hand. George seemed to know the exact degree of pressure to assure both comfort and tightness. Occasionally he would pause and instruct Wolf to make a fist. Reno stood off to the side of the table along with an official and a member of the opposing fighter’s camp. This was to assure no foreign substance, like plaster of Paris, was sprinkled over the gauze and tape. It was an old-time boxing rule brought about by the abuses of unscrupulous trainers and handlers and had made an occasional reappearance in more modern times. The rule had primarily originated from an unsubstantiated claim that the great heavyweight, Jack Dempsey, had “loaded gloves” when he’d fought Jess Willard for the championship on July 4th, 1919. Dempsey had annihilated the much bigger Willard in the first round, fracturing his jaw in thirteen places, his cheekbone, several of his ribs, and knocking out a slew of his teeth. Willard staggered around for three more rounds before it was mercifully stopped. Ironic, too, that in those days Dempsey, aka the Manassas Mauler, was allowed to hover over his fallen foe and clobber him as he tried to get back up which was very similar to the loose rules of today’s MMA. There’d been a few other examples of loaded gloves in recent years that Wolf recalled and he hoped the observer from Reno’s gym, who was monitoring Marcos de Silva’s preparation, would be diligent.
I’m going to have my hands full as it is, Wolf thought.
At the weigh-in, de Silva had seemed both aloof and professional. He also looked sleek and very much in shape. Wolf had wondered if the guy’s only job was keeping in shape and fighting down in Brazil or if he held down a job as well.
Reno had told him he didn’t know but Wolf also wondered if Reno was trying not to undermine Wolf’s confidence.
No, de Silva’s a professional fighter who trains twenty-four-seven.
Words best left unspoken?
I’ll find out soon enough, Wolf thought.
“Make a fist,” George said.
Wolf did and George grunted an approval. He clipped the end of the gauze off and picked up a roll of white medical tape, pulling off and cutting eight pieces and clipping them to a specific length of about four inches each.
They were in the red team’s dressing room on the first floor. The other group, to which de Silva was assigned, was in the blue team room. Wolf silently hoped that the appellation, red, wasn’t a sign of things to come. The case of the nerves hadn’t faded yet. It was like waiting to do a big performance and knowing if you didn’t perform up to par, you could literally get carried out on a stretcher. The building was a big auditorium that was initially designed to house sporting events of all types. The locker room had a set of lockers where Wolf had hung his clothes, a shower room off to one side, a long metal table, and several chairs along the wall. The place was eerily silent, given that there were other fights on the undercard going on at this time in the central auditorium, with a very limited audience viewing them. Wolf didn’t know if that was an advantage or a disadvantage. Usually, the size of the crowd was a distraction only until that opening bell rang. Then everything else, the noise, the cheering, the boos, got blocked out in favor of concentrating on the opponent standing in front of you trying to knock your block off. The ambient noise at times made it virtually impossible to hear any instructions from your corner during the fight. Of course competing in a prison boxing match was a whole different animal: Scores of convicts yelling and screaming and virtually no competent corner-men to advise you one way or another.
This time it would be different. He had both Reno and George in his corner and both of them knew what they were doing. Wolf hoped he would, too.
But, he reminded himself, it’s only for the money. Win, lose, or draw.
The indistinct sound of the announcer’s amplified voice drifted through the closed door. The preceding fight must have been over with. There was no applause, no cheering. Wolf tried to make out the words but decided it required too much effort.
“What you thinking?” Reno asked.
“About what’s gonna happen once I finish that long walk into the octagon,” Wolf said.
Reno clapped him on his shoulder.
“You’ll be all right. After what I seen you do, it’s De Silva that oughta be worried.”
Before Wolf could reply the door opened and McNamara came in wearing a wide grin.
He sauntered over to the table, nodded to the others, and then leaned over toward Wolf.
“Looks like you’ll be up in a minute or two,” McNamara said. “Last fight ended in about sixty seconds.”
“Shit,” Reno said. “Hurry up with that taping, George. I don’t want Steve going in there cold, without warming up.”
George grabbed the pieces of tape and began fitting them between Wolf’s fingers.
“How you feeling?” McNamara asked. “Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Wolf said.
“He’s ready,” Reno said. “Count on it, Mac.”
“I am,” McNamara said. “Not only have I seen him in action but he’s also a Ranger, and they don’t quit.”
“A Ranger,” Wolf said, trying to ease his tension by flashing a smile. “That’s almost as good as Green Beret.”
“Almost,” McNamara said.
“Who’s up there in the stands?” Wolf asked.
McNamara took a deep breath and smiled.
“Well, Kase decided not to come,” he said. “She’s got to finish up a term paper or something for school.”
That eased Wolf’s mind slightly. He hadn’t wanted her to be there anyway, unsure if she would be rooting for him or secretly for his opponent.
“And after I dropped you off, I picked up my gals at the airport. They’re all three here and as excited as all get out to see their hero in action.”
Wolf smirked. “They’ve already seen me in action,”
“Not without your shirt off,” McNamara said. “Well, I guess one of them has.”
Wolf thought about Yolanda, her beautiful dark face, her stunning figure … He wondered what she’d think if he really took a drubbing tonight, which reminded him once again that he’d specifically told Mac not to bring them here.
“I thought I told you—”
“Aw, hell,” McNamara said, interrupting him. “You did. But that was before we got this new gig coming up. We’re on a time constraint, remember? This is sorta like a pre-mission briefing.”
“What you guys got going?” Reno asked.
McNamara’s eyes glanced around the room and then at Reno.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Reno nodded.
“Just as well,” he said. “We got other things to worry about now. Right Steve?”
Wolf didn’t reply.
Lots of other things, he thought.
George finished lacing up the gloves and securing them with the band of
red-colored tape, signifying the corner designation. Reno told him to get up and do some shadow boxing.
“Worst thing in the world’s to walk into that octagon cold,” he said. “Break a sweat.”
Wolf got up and began dancing around the room, throwing punches and bobbing and weaving. McNamara stood there smiling.
The door burst open and three men came in, two of them on either side, supporting and almost dragging the third man in the middle. His body was slick with perspiration and glistened from a residual layer of wiped off blood. The man’s head hung downward and red droplets splashed on the floor from his mouth and nose.
“Clear the table,” one of the carriers shouted.
Everyone cleared away and the two men helped the injured fighter onto the metal table. He groaned with each movement.
More men came into the room. Two appeared to be paramedics, from the look of their uniforms, and another was clad in a polo shirt with Dr. Jay embroidered on the left breast area. He held a black bag in his left hand.
“What the hell?” Reno said. “What you doing, bringing him here? Shoulda taken him to triage.”
“He was in triage,” the guy with Dr. Jay on his shirt said. “He declined treatment and then collapsed on the way here.”
“We got a stretcher crew coming,” one of the paramedics said.
They helped the man stretch out on the table and Wolf saw the guy’s breathing was rapid and shallow. His color looked a bit off, too, and the left side of his face was a bloody, swollen mass.
The guy from the opposing camp made a huffing sound and said something Wolf assumed was Portuguese.
Maybe he was commiserating or maybe he was insinuating that Wolf was going to suffer a similar fate.
Reno stepped over, blocking Wolf’s view.
“Don’t look at him, Steve,” he said. “That don’t mean nothing unless it happens to you.”
Unless it happens to me, Wolf thought momentarily.
“Don’t worry about it,” McNamara said. “He’s seen worse.”
And Wolf had, too. A lot worse.
His thoughts went back to the carnage he’d seen overseas on deployments … GI’s with their arms and legs blown off by enemy fire or IED’s. Or worse, their bodies riddled and gut-shot. Iraqis and Afghanis, both tangos and civilians, blown apart or curled up in fetal positions nursing a plethora of bullet wounds. The way to not let it affect you was just to not let it affect you, to keep mentally reciting the sacred oath: Ain’t gonna happen to me. Better them than us.
Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 12
