I’m going to have to be careful in this, Cummins thought, as the previous assurances and promises came floating back to him from when he’d first been recruited into this operation. Christ, that had been over four years ago.
He’d been a young lawyer employed by what was then a credible law firm. Then, when he’d gotten called up by his reserve unit, things changed. He’d gone to his boss, Mr. Fallotti, the head of the firm and a man of well known and significant influence, and asked for help getting out of it. Fallotti said that he would look into it for him, and a couple of discreet favors later Cummins had a cushy job in Military Intelligence in Baghdad with the assurance that he take care of one small assignment over there for the firm and he’d be brought back early and be well compensated. And that was how he got entangled in this whole morass involving the Lion Attacking the Nubian, Eagan, those murders in Iraq, setting up Wolf, and the esteemed Mr. Dexter Von Dien. And becoming another expendable loose end.
Well compensated … Yeah, right.
And he was probably on a one-way trip to oblivion until this second chance popped up. He was going to have to play it for all it was worth and be careful.
Real careful.
“And while you’re out there,” Fallotti said, “Don’t forget to deal with that other loose end I told you about.”
“Not a problem,” Zerbe said. He winked at Cummins and blew another smoke ring.
“Loose end?” Cummins asked.
“Shemp. That lawyer who was looking into Wolf’s case,” Fallotti said. “McNamara must have put him up to it.”
Cummins nodded, recalling the inquiry had sparked an unsuccessful attempt to eliminate Wolf before he got out of Leavenworth. The man was nothing if not redoubtable, but his time was coming. He’d almost bought it in Mexico but he was indomitable. He was one major loose end that would need tidying up as well.
Loose ends, Cummins thought. The rich man’s obsession.
And Cummins was also more convinced than ever now that if he didn’t play it right, he’d be on the chopping block as well.
What’s another dead lawyer, he thought.
“One more thing.” Fallotti leaned forward, looking at Zerbe and then at Cummins. “I don’t have to stress how important is that we handle this discreetly and successfully. No mistakes. In other words, we can’t afford any fuck ups. Not like Mexico.”
No, Cummins thought. Not like Mexico.
Phoenix, Arizona
Mac had declined Wolf’s offer to drive the Escalade to the body shop and said he wanted to take Kasey and Chad into town anyway to buy them some ice cream.
“Besides,” McNamara said. “I got to get back in the saddle again soon. I want to get used to driving more.”
Wolf figured it had more to do with Kasey not wanting to have to drive Wolf back from the body shop in her car. That suited him just fine. The friction between him and Mac’s daughter was like constant sniper fire.
No, make that mortar fire. He could always see or hear her coming.
After the feds had left, he’d tried to caution Mac about playing it cool.
“They’re the FBI,” Wolf had said.
“What do you want me to do?” McNamara replied. “Genuflect?”
“No, but keep in mind trying to butt heads with federal agents is more like trading butts with a water buffalo. Just lying to them is a felony.”
“Shit, we’re already in hot water then.”
Mac laughed and Wolf smiled.
“Anyway,” McNamara said. “You think I can’t handle a couple of weak sisters like them two?”
“It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s Reno. He’s the weakest link.” Wolf paused and looked at him. “They had to see that this morning.”
McNamara considered this, then nodded.
“Yeah, I see what you mean. But what do you think we should do about it? We can’t very well tell them what really happened down there, can we?”
“No, that would be a disaster. We already gave them statements down in Mexico. If we contradict what we said now, they’ll have us for lying to federal agents.”
McNamara slowly nodded. “Guess one of us is gonna have to go see Reno and make sure he understands.”
“I’ll do it,” Wolf said. “Think I can borrow Kasey’s car when you get back?”
McNamara looked askance.
“I’ll see if the body shop can give us a loaner,” he said.
“Yeah, I get it. She’s not being real helpful on that Internet search, either.”
“I know, I know. I been trying to talk to her. This thing wasn’t your fault.” Mac shook his head. “Don’t know what’s wrong with that girl lately.”
Wolf did: she was resentful of her father’s relationship with him. Her words from back when they were first introduced still rung in his ear: He’s finally got the son he’s always wanted.
“Aw, hell,” McNamara said. “Maybe she’ll end up marrying that damn Shemp and move the hell outta here.”
“We’ll miss her computer skills.”
“Not really.” Mac grinned. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Yeah, right.”
Kasey had shot him one of her standard, Everything is your fault glares as she’d driven past him in her Honda, following Mac in the Escalade. He’d waved just to piss her off. Chad had waved back. At least her son liked him.
He hadn’t even inquired if she’d had the time to run checks on the names he’d given her, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of letting her know he was anxious about it.
Jason Zerbe, Jack Cummins, and Von Dien, whoever that was. He also tried to recall the name of that law firm that had hired them and realized he’d forgotten to check back with Manny if he found that card.
Maybe telling the FBI that they couldn’t remember shit wasn’t that far from the truth after all.
It was still too near the heat of the day for Wolf to tackle the mountain, but he wanted more than anything to go for a run. Mac’s place was close enough to the incline that he had made the daily assents part of his workout routine.
Never skip on the roadwork, he told himself, remembering the legendary Joe Frazier’s cryptic statement about the fighter’s creed.
Nobody will know if you cheat on those morning runs under the nascent sky, Frazier had more or less said. Until you show up in the ring and can’t find your legs after the third round when you catch a blow to the liver.
Those weren’t Smokin’ Joe’s exact words, but they were close enough. The message was all that mattered. Staying in fighting shape was a daily battle waged over time. Skip the hard stuff now and you’ll end up regretting it later. One of the worst things about being in Leavenworth had been the inability to run. He compensated by doing push-ups, chin-ups, using the weights, sparring in the prison’s boxing ring, and taking an occasional trip or two around the exercise yard. It wasn’t until he’d resettled out here that he began the runs again and found the challenge and the pleasure of going up the mountain.
He usually accomplished those runs in the morning, at first light. But this day he’d been on that bounty surveillance since the middle of the night out of necessity.
And it had been a half-assed workout taking down that asshole, Luth. He felt bone tired and his side was still a bit sore, but the solitude and release of a lengthy run was still tempting him as he went to the mini-gym he and Mac had constructed in the bottom half of the garage. After pounding out two easy rounds on the speedbag and two more on his suspended, sand-filled duffel bag, he assessed his condition. His side, where Luth’s bullet had grazed him, stung slightly, but wasn’t what he considered debilitating. Stripping off the bag gloves, Wolf grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and held it against the bruise. The coolness eased the pain.
Maybe a run was in order, he thought, and headed out the door.
The prospect of being alone with his thoughts as he went up the mountain was attractive.
After smearing his face and ears with sunblock, Wol
f tied a handkerchief over his head, doused it liberally with water, and fitted the two water bottles into the nylon belt he always wore, making sure that the bottles were nowhere near the bruise. The belt came equipped with a fanny pack and he dropped in his keys. Mac had offered to give him the two-shot Bond Arms derringer to carry for self-protection but Wolf declined. An ex-con, even one in the bounty hunting business, getting caught carrying a gun was a sure-fire way to get an all-expense paid, one-way trip right back to the joint. And Wolf had no intention of going back.
Ever.
Clearing his name was another matter, however.
The unexpected visit by the feds had reinforced that.
He knew that somehow this whole convoluted mess was tied to that incident four years ago in the Sandbox but the particulars still evaded him. It was like a big jigsaw puzzle with some of the pieces missing.
But he was going to find them, no matter how long it took.
He made sure he’d locked the garage door and started his run, heading down the cement slab to the gravel road and then turning left onto the highway that wound through the mountains. The jarring motion felt like sandpaper rubbing over his ribcage.
Wolf gritted his teeth and continued onward, hoping when the endorphins would kick in the pain was vanish.
Back to the jigsaw puzzle.
Cummins … Eagan … Nasim … They’d all been in Iraq four years ago mixed up in something. And they’d reappeared down in Mexico for the finale. Toss in Zerbe, who’d met them down there, supposedly as the point man for that law firm looking for Thomas Accondras, who was also somehow involved.
But how?
And who the hell was Von Dien?
My worst nightmare, Wolf silently repeated to himself, remembering Eagan’s last words.
Eagan … a closed-mouthed prick to the last. He probably laughed all the way down to hell.
If only there were some answers to all these damn questions forthcoming.
Maybe cooperating with the feds would give him some. They could certainly find out more things than he could.
No, he thought. They’re in the business of getting information, not giving it out.
Especially to ex-cons under a cloud of suspicion.
The heat was fading but it was still hot enough to make him feel like he was running barefoot on a sizzling frying pan. And the pain in his side continued to escalate. Every step brought a new intensity. If he’d been in Iraq, or Afghanistan, he would have pushed through the pain, but this was getting too intense.
He slowed down, glanced up and down the highway and did a wide turn so he’d be facing any on-coming traffic on the way back.
On the way back to what?
Even though he was running outside, it felt like he was caught on a big treadmill: going through the motions as fast as he could, but not getting anywhere.
And scrounging for a buck.
Which brought him back to Reno Garth.
Maybe he could remember the name of that law firm.
It would be worth the time to ask him.
And maybe, Wolf thought. I can also ask him about getting me an MMA fight.
It would be a pleasure to get into a situation where he could strike back for a change.
After a few more steps the pain in his side hurt so much that he slowed to a walk.
He wondered about the prospects of stepping inside that octagon with his side like it was.
I guess I could always take a dive, he thought with a smile as the pain continued to grind that sandpaper over his ribcage.
The questions and the names still kept bombarding him with each step, like an invisible opponent giving him a systematic beat-down.
Chapter Four
Near Beli
Republic Of The Congo
His BDU’s were black and with the dark camo paint smeared over his face, Luan Preetorius could almost imagine himself as one of those big jungle predator cats that he had stalked in his youth in the game preserves. The mission was a simple one: Vinnige inskywing, vinnige uitgang—Quick entry, quick exit. Rescuing the hostages would, hopefully, fall somewhere in between. So would the recovery of the ransom money. But it was in CFA Francs anyway so not that it mattered much. Just so the Lion Team was paid in Euros or dollars so they could spend their R and R time in the best of places.
Preetorius adjusted the volume on his radio and surveyed the scene before him.
The house was one of those old colonial-style mansions on a former rubber plantation. It was a remnant from the bygone era when the Europeans—the French, most likely, back in the last century, had been exploiting the natural resources of the continent. Back before the Africans had managed to kick the white, imperialistic assholes out. Not that Luan sympathized or felt any kinship toward the Congolese. They were just more negers to him. The same kind of low life fuckers who had ruined his own country when they seized power and were now slaughtering the South African whites and stealing their land with alacrity, just like they’d done in Zimbabwe after their transition to “majority rule.” And he had yet to hear any protest about that from the sanctimonious Americans or their hypocritical European cousins. Everything the blankes built up in Africa, the swarts were hell bent on stealing. Pretty soon even Cape Town would be ruined.
But back to the task at hand, he told himself.
Vinnige inskywing, vinnige uitgang.
“They’re almost here now,” Rensburg’s voice said over the radio.
He was operating the drone with the infrared, telescopic camera—a nifty little gadget that Preetorius wished they would have had back when he was in the military. But of course, these eyes in the sky made things a little less challenging.
A pair of headlamps glowed in the darkness on the road leading up to the palatial structure. It was a two-storied wooden frame multi-roomed house replete with four once-majestic pillars lining the front, each accompanied by a gable. A balcony was recessed over the front doors, with French-style windows on either side. Of course, the paint was now peeling badly and, through his night-vision equipped binoculars, Preetorius could ascertain that dry rot had afflicted several places along the front walls. He had no doubt the inside of the place was probably a decaying mess.
Much like an aging countess with a bad case of gonorrhea, he told himself, amused by his own metaphorical wit.
The vehicle kept on approaching and came to a stop in front of the place. It was a dandy black SUV. The light extinguished as it turned from the main road onto the drive that led up to the house.
I wouldn’t mind having one just like it to ride around in, Preetorius thought. Too bad we’re going to have to blow it up.
But given their location, he’d never be able to get it back to Cape Town. Not without a C-130 at his disposal. Besides, these M23 fuckers had most likely stunk it up.
Maybe someday, he told himself.
“Commo check,” he said, depressing the key button for the mic.
“Lima Charlie,” De Jager answered.
Henrico always was a stickler for proper radio etiquette.
The others responded with mostly inaudible grunts, but Preetorius was certain of each of them.
Down the line for his squad:
De Jager on point, about forty yards ahead of him in the thick shrubbery, Mulder and Loots on the left flank, Engelbrect and Haarhoff on the right, Coetzee and Moolman on the rear and Rensburg, his appointed sniper, with the Denel 14.5.
Amiri Moolman was the only swart on the team but not a bad man for one of them. He was well trained and knew how to follow orders, and why not? His Christian name meant the prince. A good soldaat, and after all, they were both members of the new South Africa.
Two men got out of the SUV, slung their rifles, both cheap-looking Kalashnikovs, over their shoulders and headed for the front door. One of them carried a briefcase.
Ah, Preetorius thought. The ransom has been paid, as agreed.
“Get ready to move in,” Preetorius said into his radio. “They’re taki
ng the money inside and will probably be killing the hostages next.”
Another round of muddled acknowledgments echoed in his earpiece.
Preetorius pushed himself erect, his muscular form accomplishing that task with ease. He adjusted the cross-sling so that his Heckler and Koch MP5 hung diagonally in front of his chest. That was the way he liked it, with the barrel canted upward and the pistol grip assessable, so he could grab and fire it in an instant.
Faster than one of those gunslinger cowboys in those stupid American movies of old.
What was that big fucker’s name?
John Wayne? Yeah, that was it.
Totally overblown and ridiculous, but the big son of a bitch had style.
Preetorius was a big guy, too. Not as big as the legendary actor and not bulky either. He was streamlined, but still all corded muscle and had a preternatural quickness, too. At one time he’d considered a career as a professional boxer until he entered the military and found his true skill was killing. And it was an enjoyable one, too. Only Loots and Haarhoff were bigger than he, but they both had German heritage.
Say what you want about those fucking Krauts, he thought, but they came from good breeding stock.
Not like the swarts.
Preetorius crept through the dense underbrush with the ease of a big jungle cat, coming up next to De Jager.
The two men paused and Preetorius hit the button to activate the long-range portion of his viewfinder again.
One of the men took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to his partner. The second one slipped it between his lips and the flickering of a lighter danced like a burning spark in Preetorius’s viewfinder. That would make an easy target for Rensburg with the big rifle, but the noise would tip off the others in the house.
He keyed his mic.
“Francois, are you close enough to take them out silently?”
“Affirmative,” Loots answered.
Preetorius stopped beside De Jager and said, “Do it. The rest of you move in after we hit the front door. Johannes, stand by.”
Again the successive, muted replies came through his earpiece.
Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2) Page 6
