Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3)

by Michael A. Black

  Thank God for the colonel’s well-maintained generators, Cummins thought.

  This was it … The escape tunnel.

  And that meant that it was almost show time.

  Cummins knew the next few minutes meant life and death and he didn’t even have a weapon.

  “Get those duffle bags loaded onto the carts,” Best said.

  “You mean we’re going somewhere, Best?” Smith said, his voice taking on a mocking tone.

  “Watch your mouth, Smith,” Keller said. “That’s the colonel you’re talking to.”

  Smith held his hands up and shook them in theatrically exaggerated fashion.

  Keller stepped forward, balling up his fists, and Smith skipped closer executing a jumping kick that caught the bigger man in the chest. He fell backwards.

  Best reached down and withdrew his sidearm but Riley popped out of the door, a semi-automatic pistol in his extended right hand.

  Riley’s gun exploded, seeming to shoot a flame at least half a foot from the barrel.

  The back portion of Best’s head exploded like a melon hit by a baseball bat. As he did a pirouette to the floor Cummins caught sight of a small, black hole next to the ersatz colonel’s right eye.

  The gun’s thunder in the enclosed space had left Cummins temporarily deaf. He saw Cherrie’s lips peel back in a silent scream and an expression of surprise on the kid’s face with his mouth gaping open.

  Everything seemed to be occurring in slow motion.

  Riley stepped out of the vault, framed in the doorway. Suddenly he jerked forward like he’d been kicked in the back, the pistol tumbling from his hands as his fingers fluttered against the front of his blouse. He took two halting steps forward, twisting a bit to look behind him. Cummins, who was frozen in place, saw Keller standing behind Riley, the huge handgun in a two-handed grip, a trail of smoke rising from the muzzle.

  Then Smith fired his gun and Keller rolled forward and fell to the floor. Smith ran forward and kicked Keller’s gun to the far side of the room, grabbed the Kalashnikov, and knelt beside Riley. Cummins stumbled forward on unsteady legs, like a drunk sideling up to the bar for last call.

  His hearing came back in tiny increments and he heard Chad yelling, “Daddy, daddy.”

  Smith looked up and said something to Cherrie that sounded like, “Give him one of your pills.”

  Cummins turned and saw Cherrie grabbing the kid and pulling him away as she opened her purse. He looked back to Smith and Riley.

  “He dead?” Cummins asked. His own voice sounded distant, indistinct.

  Smith’s mouth twisted into a frown and he nodded and began going through Riley’s pockets. He found what appeared to be a set of car keys, stuffed them into his lower blouse pocket, and then picked up Riley’s gun, jamming it into his belt. Standing, he did the same with his own weapon and then ran to the array of duffel bags.

  “Come on, Jack,” he said. “We got to load these on the carts and get outta here.”

  His voice still sounded like it was being yelled down a tunnel.

  Defunct City of Leesville

  Southern Arizona

  They were operating on the assumption that if Cummins was with Smith and Riley, they were all still in the fort. Since Cummins’s last call had been over two and a half hours ago, Wolf also assumed that if they planned to go to Desolation City, they’d be coming here to Leesville first, via the tunnel. And they’d probably be coming soon. Wolf had received and not answered three calls from Franker, who left a series of progressively angry voice mails berating Wolf for what the agent termed violating their “mutual understanding agreement and endangered the situation.” Wolf felt slightly amused by Franker’s roundabout circumlocution but he also knew that once this was over he would have to get with the FBI man and try to set things straight, even if it meant being more forthcoming about what had actually happened down in Mexico. But if he could capture Cummins and drag him along, he could force his former lieutenant to give the FBI man some real answers.

  Answers … Those would be nice. Wolf had inadvertently gotten into this mess back in Iraq and had been stumbling around like a drunk, punching at shadows ever since. It was clear that the scope of it was way beyond his capabilities of handling it and he needed help … Governmental help … The FBI. His only condition for total cooperation would be to keep Mac out of it.

  Not much to look forward to, he thought. But all that now paled in comparison to getting Chad back safe.

  That was his main and only focus now.

  With the information from Gus about the tunnel, they were able to narrow their search down to an approximated area on the eastern edge of the town. Wolf shut off his lights and drove slowly past crumbling houses, a dilapidated wooden framed church, a variety of smaller buildings along a walkway, and several brick buildings that had weathered the blowing winds better than their wooden compatriots. A slight wind had stirred up and Wolf hoped it would possibly bring some relief to the still oppressive heat, but no such luck. The air was hot and dry, like a breeze from hell.

  El viento del diablo, Wolf thought. The devil’s wind.

  Other than an occasional sporadic rustle, the place was blanketed with an ominous silence.

  The fort lay in the distance, beyond the glow of the FBI floodlights that lit up the area like a traveling carnival. The FBI had arrived and the siege had begun. Knowing the federal agent’s penchant for slow-speed negotiations, things were no doubt proceeding at a snail’s pace.

  But would it last long enough for them to find the tunnel and perhaps enter the compound and locate Chad?

  He assessed the distance to the glowing lights again. If the tunnel was still intact, it would be a hell of a jaunt through what was most likely a precise killing zone. Their adversaries wouldn’t even have to aim. He thought about Mac’s story about the tunnel rats in Nam.

  At least we’ve got more than just eight rounds from a .45 to throw back at them, he thought.

  But they couldn’t afford to let it get to that point.

  Wolf parked the Escalade out of sight at the end of the block and they got out to do the rest of the searching on foot. Wolf took point with the AR-15 and McNamara came after him on the opposite side carrying his Jammin’ Jenny M-16. Wolf knew that the nickname was an intentional misnomer. The early versions of the rifle did have a tendency to jam in the muddy rice paddies of Vietnam but Mac treated the weapon with respect and reverence, making sure the bolt was never without a light coating of oil and the parts all lubricated. It wouldn’t jam in a thousand years.

  Better make that a thousand rounds, he thought with a smile. Keep it light, keep it loose, keep it ready.

  Kasey, despite Mac’s admonishment to “Stay with the car,” trailed along behind them. Wolf hoped she’d inherited enough of Mac’s combat instinct to take cover if the shooting started. He didn’t even want to think about the prospect of McNamara possibly losing his grandson and his daughter in this op.

  McNamara emitted a low whistle and Wolf stopped.

  Mac had flattened against a wall and motioned toward the twenty-foot gap between two of the still-standing brick buildings. Wolf glanced toward Kasey, who was advancing rapidly toward her father. Moving across the street, Wolf intercepted her and whispered.

  “Easy. Abrupt movement will give you away.

  Her eyes widened and she nodded.

  They came up behind McNamara who gestured with his thumb.

  “There’s a car in between the buildings,” he said. “Covered with camouflaged netting.”

  Wolf told Kasey to stay where she was and to get down.

  He scanned the rooftops across the street and saw no solid perches where someone could take up a sniper’s position.

  McNamara crouched and did a quick peek around the side of the building.

  “Don’t see no trip wires,” he said. “But that don’t mean there ain’t none.”

  Wolf waited for McNamara to make the first move, advancing around with a quick, but cau
tious deftness until he got to the camouflaged vehicle. After doing another check they determined that the car, a Dodge Caravan, was empty.

  “Look familiar?” McNamara asked.

  Wolf nodded. It was Charles Riley’s car.

  “Guess we’re in the right place,” McNamara said. “He must’ve stashed the car here thinking he could slip out through the tunnel.”

  Wolf was thinking the same thing.

  McNamara bent down and pulled a knife out of his boot. After flicking open the blade, he jammed it into the soft rubber sidewall. As he stood the air hissed out in a slow, but steady stream.

  “I really hope to hell I get a chance to even things out with that son of a bitch,” McNamara said.

  Wolf nodded, thinking he’d settle for just breaking even and getting Chad. He was sure Mac would too, but he understood a father’s frustration.

  And a grandfather’s as well, he thought.

  Mac pierced a second tire.

  They went out and briefed Kasey, whose eyes widened, looking glossy with tears in the moonlight.

  “Does that mean he’s bringing Chad here?” she asked.

  “Hopefully,” Wolf said.

  They resumed their search and Wolf traversed the street once more.

  He passed the rickety church with many of the boards missing from the side and front. It somehow reminded him of a star hockey player’s gap-toothed smile that he’d seen at a USO show a few years back. They’d brought a group of celebrities, singers, movie stars, sports figures over to Afghanistan as a morale booster for the troops. Wolf remembered thinking with all the money the guy must be making, he should have gotten his teeth fixed. He later heard that hockey players didn’t make all that much compared to other professional sports. Then he thought again about seeing all those professional players kneeling for the National Anthem and figured they were making way too much as it was.

  The church’s large wooden cross had tumbled from its perch on the front area of the roof and was now imbedded in the sandy earth in front of the structure.

  An upside-down cross … Was that emblematic of something?

  An upside-down flag meant distress. Perhaps the church symbol meant something very bad was about to happen … something without goodness and mercy.

  Every sound, every movement seemed heightened and magnified.

  A tumbleweed skittered past him. The moon shone so brightly that he didn’t even need the flashlight that he carried with him in his left hand. His right rested on the hard, plastic pistol grip of the rifle.

  Movement on the side of the building—

  He stopped and in an instant realized it was a lizard of some sort.

  They’d had large spiders in Iraq that used to skitter about in odd places. This walk was starting to remind him of the Sandbox. The night patrols on his first tour were the worst. You never knew who or what was waiting for you behind one of those doors you were sent to break down.

  He came to the last building on the block, a huge three-storied affair, and wondered if it had been a hotel or office building in the town’s heyday. Glancing over to check on Mac, Wolf saw him wave an, “I’m okay.”

  Wolf rotated some more and spotted Kasey, walking along as cautiously as she could, the flashlight in one hand, the Beretta in the other.

  He hoped she wouldn’t end up firing it and questioned Mac’s decision to give her a weapon in the first place. But this was her kid that they were after.

  A mother’s love, he thought. There’s no holding her back.

  Then something else caught his eye: a cigarette butt lying on the cracked and dusty sidewalk in front of a solid-looking wooden door. And not just any cigarette butt … He switched on the mini-mag flashlight and shone the powerful beam over the distinctive, then red and blue rings that encircled the base at the top end of the filter.

  Uptown Blues Menthol, he thought. For those with sophisticated tastes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fort Lemand

  Southern Arizona

  Cummins left the FBI cell phone on the floor next to the vault. He figured the thing might have some kind of tracking device inside it and didn’t want to risk bringing it along. He and Smith managed to carry all of the duffel bags to the golf carts, with Smith carting three and Cummins two. Cherrie held both arms around the struggling kid, who was screaming in an almost hysterical manner.

  Smith glared at her.

  “You give him one of them damn pills?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Had to shove it down his throat. The little bastard bit my finger, but, shit, I hope he’s okay.”

  Cummins wondered how soon the tranquilizer would kick in and what the effect would be. He got the answer to the first question as they were starting up the carts. The kid’s breathing slowed and the screaming stopped. He was still crying and his breathing seemed labored.

  Another advantage falling into my lap, Cummins thought.

  He didn’t have to deliver the kid unharmed to Wolf, only keep him alive enough to hand off in a trade. At this point, he’d most likely have to cut Smith in on the deal but would he go for it? But the hillbilly queen might balk at the prospect of leaving the little son a bitch. Perhaps he was bringing out her maternal side.

  Smith jammed the AK-47 under the top duffel bag and jumped into the driver’s seat. Cherrie, still holding the now quiescent kid, squeezed into the seat next to him.

  Taking up most of the seat in his cart, Cummins adjusted his bulk to a degree of comfort and shifted into gear. He’d driven one a few times and didn’t have to familiarize himself with the controls. Smith seemed to be adept as well and he took off down the ramp. Cummins was secretly glad that Riley wasn’t in the equation anymore. Getting him to give up his kid would have been a difficult obstacle that had been fortuitously eliminated.

  Yeah, he thought. With a couple more breaks, things will definitely fall my way.

  He followed Smith down the ramp and into the tunnel.

  The walls, floor, and ceiling were smooth concrete and the periodic lights seemed sturdily affixed, for the most part. The long, heavy-duty electrical cord sagged lugubriously in a few places but all things considered, the passageway was in pretty good shape. The top speed of the carts was about 5 miles per hour and there was only an occasional bump in the flooring. The tunnel veered slightly to the left and then straightened out again. Cummins felt it getting harder to breathe and he couldn’t shake the feeling of something gritty in his mouth. The air seemed dusty and exceptionally foul. The possibility of some kind of noxious underground gas occurred to him, but he dismissed the idea.

  This was fucking Arizona, not Iraq or Afghanistan. The only thing lurking in this tunnel was the miniscule sand particles that had seeped inside over the course of several decades.

  After what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than ten or twelve minutes, he saw a more substantial brightness ahead. Smith slowed slightly and they pulled into a wider area with another ramp, this one winding around in an inclining hairpin curve that led upward to a flat platform and an overhead door. It had to be the loading dock that Smith had mentioned. A Ford Windstar van was parked in the flat area by the overhead door.

  The colonel and Keller’s escape vehicle, no doubt.

  Smith must have gotten the same impression. He jumped out of the golf cart and said, “Them fuckers was planning on leaving all the rest of us high and dry.”

  Cummins shut his cart down and slid off of the seat.

  “I wonder if the keys are in it?” he said.

  “Wouldn’t do us no good,” Smith said. “We ain’t got keys for the overhead. I shoulda checked their pockets more but who knows when them FBI motherfuckers will come barreling in.”

  Cummins estimated that they still had a slight margin of time. He glanced at Chad, whose head was now slumped over to the side. His eyes were closed and his breathing looked shallow.

  “How’s the kid?” Cummins asked.

  Cherrie brushed some o
f the boy’s hair back from his forehead and held her hand there.

  “I hope I didn’t give him too much,” she said. “One of them pills usually knocks me out pretty good but I’m a lot bigger than him.”

  Not to mention the systematic tolerance factor, Cummins thought, but once again kept his mouth shut. There was room for all four of them in Riley’s old Caravan and once they were safely in Desolation City, they could divide up the loot and he could rent a car. If they gave up the kid to him, fine. If not, he could try cutting them in on the trade with Wolf, or maybe convince them to drop the kid at a hospital. At this point, he was both a bargaining chip and a liability.

  “I don’t got no keys for that door, neither,” Smith said, gesturing toward a solid metal door at the top of a six-foot stairway. “It’s got a deadbolt and leads to the inside of the old whorehouse. Remember?”

  Cummins did recall seeing it on their earlier trip.

  “So what are we gonna do?” he asked.

  Smith pulled out the AK-47 and set it on the driver’s seat of the cart. He then grabbed the bags and motioned for Cummins and Cherrie to accompany him over to a ladder that was built into the wall adjacent to the stairway leading up to the metal door. Cummins grabbed the two duffel bags and followed him. Smith dropped the bags down at the base of the ladder and looked upward.

  “See that lever there?” he asked. “On the trap door.”

  Cummins looked up and saw a handle attached to a framework of levers.

  He nodded.

  “Climb up there and pull them latches back,” Smith said. Then pull and then push on that lever and it’ll open the hatch. Got it?”

  Cummins did. It seemed relatively simple, the hardest part being trying to get his heavy frame up the ladder and through the hatch. He climbed upward and when he got to the top, tried his best to push back the securing latches, but they seemed frozen in place.