Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3)

by Michael A. Black

  Once again, Cummins was unsure of what to say but was beginning to get the feeling that if he gave the wrong response the consequences could be fatal. He felt the resurgence of the bile beginning to creep up his throat.

  Oh, no, he thought. To lose control here and now would probably get him shot. Still, what was the alternative?

  “Speechless?” Best said, his lips twisting into a grin and he laughed.

  Cummins was now feeling a growing pressure in his bladder as well.

  This madman’s either going to kiss me or kill me, he thought.

  “No,” Best continued. “Not Nazis. Do you think that I would besmirch our rich history of fighting for freedom by incorporating a symbol of our former enemies?”

  Cummins was sure his knees were trembling but hoped the table was blocking them for the Colonel’s view.

  Best started walking around on the podium, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Actually, the symbol of the swastika is very old, predating Hitler by many decades,” he said. “It was originally an Indian symbol and it has been a symbol of mysticism through the ages. Ours bears no resemblance to the Third Reich. The Nazi swastika has arms that run in a clockwise pattern, which is a mirror image of ours.”

  Cummins glanced upward and saw the distinction. The arms of the cross were pointing counterclockwise and the end of the horizontal middle one was in the shape of an arrow. Best stopped and gazed up at the banner. Out of the corner of his eye, Cummins saw Keller looking up at it, too.

  Christ, Cummins thought. A pair of fanatical lunatics.

  He felt as if he were going to lose control of both his bladder and his stomach simultaneously.

  “So the question remains,” Best said, still gazing at the banner. “When the bell of liberty rings, will you step up and answer its call?”

  “I will, sir,” Cummins managed to say, cognizant of the fact that the sweat was now beginning to pour down his face and neck.

  Best whirled to gaze down at him, his eyes widening.

  “Good,” he said. “The Brigade needs patriots, good soldiers, for make no mistake, the forces of darkness are nipping at our heels. We have to remain vigilant. And ready.”

  The pressure was almost unbearable but something told Cummins that if he did lose control now, and puked all over the table, he’d end up being disciplined by a bullet.

  “You will report back here tonight at nineteen-hundred hours,” Best said. “We will administer the oath to you and the other two civilians. As a prospective militia member, however, I expect you to present yourself in a proper military manner. Remove that unseemly patch of facial hair, and dress yourself in proper military attire. I will consider restoring your officer’s rank once you’ve been evaluated and have completed our training cycle.”

  The idiot was starting to ramble and Cummins felt like he might pass out.

  “Any questions?” Best said.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Cummins said. “But I have a medical condition that sometimes arises at inopportune moments and this is one of them. May I be excused momentarily?”

  Best didn’t answer immediately but seemed faintly amused. “Captain Keller, escort soon to be reinstated Lieutenant Cummins to the latrine.”

  Thank god, Cummins thought.

  They snapped to, did a left-face and Keller walked him to a door on the far wall below the big banner. Cummins was relieved to see the sign marked MEN. He rushed in and threw up in the sink. When he finished he straightened up, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and twisted the faucet.

  No water came out.

  He heard a chuckling behind him and turned to see Keller watching. He had a wicked grin on his face.

  “What did you say it was that causes you to blow chunks like that all the time?”

  “Dyspepsia,” Cummins said, already regretting that he hadn’t tried to make it to the toilet bowl instead.

  “There’s a bucket of water inside the stall,” Keller said. “Make sure you clean it real good and don’t leave no stink. Colonel Best sometimes uses this latrine.”

  He stepped out and the door softly closed behind him.

  Colonel Best, Cummins thought as he staggered to the urinal and relieved himself. Afterward, he retrieved the bucket from the stall, making sure to not let any of the water slosh over the side. The vomit was all spit and bile and easily dispersed down the drain. He poured a little bit in the urinal for good measure. As for the odor, he took out his lighter and lit a bit of rolled up toilet paper to consume any residual smell. When he finished, he wanted to rinse his mouth out to get rid of the sour taste but realized his only choice would be to use the water in the bucket. Using the back of his hand, he once again wiped off his lips and then replaced the bucket by the toilet.

  This obviously wasn’t going to be a pleasant stay. He had to figure out an escape route and a chance to grab the kid if that would even be possible at this point.

  When he exited the latrine, Keller was nowhere to be seen. He stepped closer to the door leading to the big auditorium found it locked. He could hear voices speaking on the other side.

  Best and Keller, but the exact nature of the conversation was indistinguishable. Cummins walked down the long hallway, relishing the opportunity and excuse to look around a little and came to another door. This one was unlocked and led to a perpendicular hallway that seemed to lead back to the main one in front. He glanced around and saw no sign of Keller. After checking the knob to make sure the door wouldn’t lock behind him, Cummins went into the new hallway and strode down to the end, which had still another closed door. This one was unlocked as well and he pushed it slightly to allow a crack of visibility.

  Smith, Riley, and Cherrie were engaged in some kind of argument. Riley held his kid, who looked to be in a stupor, against his shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you done that last night?” Riley said. “You had no right not to.”

  “I told you,” Cherrie said. “It was a fucking accident, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Charlie,” Smith started to say.

  “You shut the hell up, Rog,” Riley said. “She’s wrong and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Will you just relax,” Smith said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “She didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “And fucking Keller told me to anyway,” Cherrie added.

  “Yeah,” Riley said. “Just like he told you to dump that other phone, huh? The one my ex gave him.”

  “I don’t know what happened to it,” she said.

  “I’m only gonna tell you this once,” Riley said, shifting the kid’s body so that he could hold him with just his left arm while shaking the extended right index finger in front of Cherrie’s face. “Don’t you never give Chad no more of that sleeping medicine shit. Never. Understand?”

  Smith grabbed Riley’s extended finger and did something that put the other man in a crouching position with a look of pain on his face. He struggled to maintain his footing.

  “And you understand,” Smith said in a calm but firm tone. “Don’t you never talk to her like that again or I’ll kick your ass so bad it’ll be all the way up around your fucking ears.” He held the grip a few seconds more, then asked, “Got it?”

  Just as Riley was about to reply Cummins heard some scuffling behind him and turned to see Keller.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Keller asked.

  Cummins felt a wave of panic but had his answer ready.

  “The hallway door was locked,” he said. “I heard you and the Colonel in conversation so I was trying to go around to the other door.”

  Keller’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded Cummins, then he said, “Come on with me. We ain’t got nothing at the quartermaster’s that’ll fit you, fat boy, so we gotta go into town to army surplus to see if we can find you some proper BDUs.”

  Into town? At least that sounded promising. Perhaps he would be able to figure out an escape plan sooner than he
thought. Maybe he’d even be able to contact Fallotti and Wolf.

  It was time to start playing both ends against the middle.

  Chapter Eight

  The FROZ

  Bendover, Oregon

  As they took the first pass by the Freedom Restricted Occupational Zone, Wolf observed the same crudely painted cement barriers in the street that he’d seen on Kasey’s presentation. A pair of 50-gallon oil drums, with a long two-by-four suspended between them, was stationed next to the substantial cement barriers. The make-shift gate looked flimsy by comparison and would definitely not be substantial enough to prevent a vehicle from barreling though and proceeding down the avenue. But two men clad in black, apparently some sort of gate guards, stood next to the oil drums and both were armed with AR-15s. They had scarves pulled over the lower portion of their faces, each making their visages look like a smiling skeleton. Beyond them, groups of people walked calmly in the early late afternoon sunshine. Wolf’s body still felt bruised and sore from the fight and he reflected that he wished he had a few more days to recover before venturing into what could be a hornet’s nest.

  “We’re passing by the front,” McNamara said into his blue tooth. He’d purposely gotten a nice Lexus RX350 from the car rental place at the airport. The P-Patrol had opted for a big Ford van with a sliding door on the side that Ms. Dolly said was tailor-made for an urban abduction.

  “And we’re coming up on your six,” Ms. Dolly said.

  McNamara laughed and kept driving. The plan, after taking their chartered plane from Phoenix to here, renting the cars, and checking into a hotel on the outskirts of the city, was to get an idea of the dimensions of the FROZ. So far, Wolf was less than impressed.

  “Think those guys know the first thing about maintaining perimeter security?” he asked.

  McNamara snorted. “Shit, I probably forgot more than they ever learned.” He guided the Lexus down a side street and continued the slow roll.

  They still had to tag up with Dickie Deekins, as Manny had suggested, but so far, everything was going according to plan. However, Wolf couldn’t shake a feeling of uneasiness. It had started before they’d even gotten on the plane. Picking up the cloned bandito had gone smoothly but Garfield’s pronouncement had puzzled Wolf.

  “Here they are,” the old man said. “Betcha can’t tell which is which, right?”

  Wolf assessed the two identical banditos and had to agree. He told Garfield he’d earned the promised bonus.

  “Not quite yet I haven’t,” Garfield said. “Ever hear of Archimedes?”

  The name rang a faint bell with Wolf but he couldn’t quite recall why.

  “Eureka,” McNamara said. “That was him, right?”

  Garfield smiled and nodded, obviously impressed. “I see you paid attention in physics class.”

  “Hell,” McNamara said. “I slept through most of it and spent the rest of the time stealing glances at the pretty girl who sat next to me.”

  “How about you two scholars enlightening me?” Wolf said.

  “Archimedes was a Greek mathematician,” Garfield said. “The king ordered him to check to see if the crown they had was pure gold, as it was supposed to be, or a mixture of gold and silver.”

  “This was back in the day,” McNamara added.

  “I’ll bet,” Wolf said.

  “Well, the thing was,” Garfield continued, “the king forbade him to damage the crown, but how else was he going to tell? He knew if he displeased the king and didn’t deliver the answer, it would mean death, the same if he damaged the crown.”

  “Talk about being between the king and the hard place,” McNamara said.

  “You two ought to start working on a stand-up routine,” Wolf said. “What’s the point?”

  “Well,” Garfield said. “Let me finish the story. I used to be a teacher, after all.”

  Wolf rolled his eyes. “You know, we have a plane to catch.”

  “Okay.” Garfield took a deep breath and continued. “Archimedes was in a quandary, not knowing what to do, so he decided to take a bath. Well, when he got into the tub, he noticed that the water rose once he lowered himself into the water. He then realized he’d figured out a way to tell the if the composition of the crown was pure by placing it in a tub of water and seeing if it displaced the same amount of water as the exact amount of gold that was supposed to be in it. It’s called the theory of displacement.”

  “And he was so happy,” McNamara said, “that he jumped up and ran through the streets naked yelling, ‘Eureka, I’ve found it.’ ”

  “Was he arrested?” Wolf asked.

  “Not at all,” Garfield said. “The Greeks used to run their marathons in the nude.”

  “Sounds like a great way of showing off their shortcomings,” Wolf said.

  Both McNamara and Garfield laughed.

  Garfield picked up the closest statue and handed it to Wolf, who accepted it. After a moment, the old man took the statue back, set it down, and handed Wolf the second one.

  “Notice anything?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “They weigh a little different. So what?”

  Garfield shook his head. “Precisely. I noticed the difference, yet I was careful to use the exact same type of plaster for the duplicate. It’s called stone and is known for its sturdiness. It has a yellowish color.”

  Wolf nodded, wondering where this was going.

  “It was my Archimedes moment,” Garfield said. “The two statues should weigh exactly the same but they don’t. This one is slightly heavier.”

  “Which one is that?” Wolf asked.

  “The copy. I was curious as to why, so I ran the original over to the medical center. My son works there as an x-ray technician. He snuck it into the room and did a quick shot for me.” Garfield pulled open a drawer and removed a 10 x 14 envelope. After undoing the metallic clasps, he flipped up the paper flap and slid out a translucently dark photo. Holding it up to the light, he pointed. “There’s something buried inside of this statue. The plaster is very thick, so the image is not distinct, but there’s definitely something there. It looks to be about the size of half a grapefruit.”

  Wolf studied the picture.

  Was this what everybody was after?

  The bandito was a Trojan Horse of sorts. Or rather a riddle wrapped in an enigma.

  “I didn’t want to break it open to see what it was,” Garfield said. “Because you were so explicit that I not damage the statue. But I couldn’t help feeling a bit like Archimedes.”

  “Eureka,” Wolf said.

  The Pittsfield Building

  Phoenix, Arizona

  At the Bailey and Lugget Law Firm, Soraces settled into the office cubicle of one of the junior partners who was in court. Scrolling through the numbers on his phone, he found the one he needed for Trackdown, Inc. and dialed. A woman answered with a crisp, business-like greeting. From what he’d gathered from the report that the PI, Jason Zerbe, had filed before his untimely demise, it was most likely Kasey Riley, the daughter of Wolf’s bounty hunting partner.

  “Yes,” Soraces said, putting on his most cordial and professional tone. “I’m trying to get hold of Mr. Steven Wolf please.”

  The woman hesitated and asked, “Who’s calling please?”

  “My name is Richard Soraces and I work for the Bailey and Lugget Law Firm.” He spelled out his last name.

  “And what’s this in reference to?”

  Soraces assumed the air of a busy attorney and answered with a standard sounding spiel. “I have a legal matter that I wish to speak to him about. Is he available?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not in the office at the moment.”

  The office?

  From what he’d read in the report, Trackdown, Inc. operated out of McNamara’s ranch house.

  Who was she trying to kid?

  She was being as evasive as he was but he was prepared for this. It was imperative that he make sure his ruse held up under scrutiny.

  “Well,” he
said. “I can leave my number and if you could have him call me at his convenience I would appreciate it.” He rattled off the law firm’s number and figured it would be better not to give out the cell phone just yet. It was a burner and if they had the capabilities, they might be able to trace it, which might arouse suspicion.

  No, for now, I’m a simple lawyer working for a ho-hum law firm, negotiating a tricky deal for an anonymous but generous client.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll give him the message when he comes in. And what did you say this is in reference to again?”

  “I didn’t say,” he said, trying to come off sounding both amused and insouciant. “I’m afraid I’ll have to discuss that with Mr. Wolf.”

  After terminating the call, he walked out into the main office and stopped at the receptionist’s desk. Soraces explained that he was going out for the day but he was expecting a call back from a prospective client and if it should come through, roll it over to his voice mail and notify him on his cell.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Soraces,” she said.

  Now all he had to do was wait for a call back. So far this was going about how he expected.

  But that could always change.

  Flying Tigers Army/Navy Surplus

  Desolation City, Arizona

  Cummins was delighted when Keller had said to follow him in the U-Haul truck, which had to be returned to the renting place in Desolation City. According to Keller, the town was about ten miles west of Base Freedom. He got into a black pickup truck and pulled ahead of him. They went through a back checkpoint adjacent to the big brick building that housed the auditorium. Another guard pulled back the long cyclone fence gate and waved them through.

  Alone at last, Cummins thought.

  It was the perfect opportunity to make that quick phone call to Fallotti but when he took out the phone his signal reception was spotty. Additionally, he didn’t want Keller to spot him in the rearview mirror on the phone. The eavesdropping in the auditorium had been a close call. He didn’t want to give Keller another reason to be suspicious. He kept monitoring the signal bars as they traveled down the asphalt road toward the highway. Earlier Cummins had spotted something else of interest: row after row of dilapidated wooden and brick buildings. As he looked closer, he saw a maze of crumbling walls and caving roofs amongst some more sturdy structures that had seemed to have withstood the ravages of desert winds and time. It was what appeared to be an old abandoned ghost town about half a mile or so from the west side of the base. At one time, when the base was in operation, it must have housed the typical attractions of such places—shops, restaurants, bars, barber shops, tattoo parlors, and who knew what else. Now it was just a ramshackle collection of old, crumbling buildings.