Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2)

by Michael A. Black

  The two FBI men exchanged glances.

  They have to be sort of suspicious at this point, Wolf thought. A dark house, me answering the door instead of Mac …

  “Where’s Mr. McNamara?” Franker asked.

  “He’s … Tied up,” Wolf said, hoping to sound evasive.

  “May we come in?” Franker asked. “We’d like to talk to you. Both of you.”

  “Ah, we’ve got company,” Wolf said. “It wouldn’t be a good idea right now.”

  Please, he thought. Let them detect the meaning I’m trying to convey.

  Franker’s brow furrowed. “Company, with the lights off?”

  Wolf caught a glimpse of Mac’s cane hanging on the grandfather clock on his left. There was a knife blade inside the cane and hopefully, Mac’s Glock inside the clock. Or had the police taken it due to the shooting? And even if it was in there, he’d have to reach up and hit the proper the button sequence to release the lock. It would take too long.

  Way too long.

  “Just what are you trying to hide, Wolf?” Franker asked. “You’re not making a lot of sense.”

  “It’d be best for you to cooperate,” Turner said. “Believe me, you don’t want to play hardball with the FBI.”

  “That’s the last thing on my mind right now,” Wolf said, trying desperately to remember if Mac had said the knife blade could be released with a right twist or a left twist.

  Mac’s right handed, Wolf thought. So it’s most likely a right twist … But what if for safety reasons, they made it a left twist so to guard against an inadvertent release?

  “You guys are this close,” Franker lifted his right hand and held his index finger and thumb a few millimeters apart. “This close to being charged with obstructing a federal investigation.”

  “That’s the least of my problems at the moment,” Wolf said, and shifted his body to allow his left hand to grip the lower portion of the cane.

  “Is that a fact?” Franker said, his head bobbing up and down. “Well, let me tell you something, mister.”

  Wolf’s fingers tightened around the base of the cane and he shifted again, stepping back slightly and saying, “Shut up.”

  Franker’s face registered surprise, then settled into a frown.

  “Why, you—”

  It’s now or never, Wolf thought, and yelled, “Gun!” as he stomped on Francois’s left hand as hard as he could while ducking and doing that right twist of the cane’s handle.

  The blade slipped free and Wolf rolled and slashed at Luan as the Glock he was holding exploded with a burst of flame, a puff of smoke, and a loud gunshot.

  Wolf felt the round’s trajectory sear his left side, but didn’t think it had penetrated his torso. He swung the knife blade downward, feeling it connect with something solid, roll off, and then imbed in a thick softness. Below him, Francois made a gurgling sound. The door smashed into Wolf’s leg, obviously being kicked by one of the feds. Wolf pulled out the blade and dove for Luan who was bringing up his Glock to point it straight at Wolf’s face. He grabbed for the weapon and slashed at Luan’s hands, feeling the edge of the blade connect with a hard flat surface. The Glock fired again and the round once more made a thunderous roar as its projectile zipped by Wolf’s face, so close that he felt the burning sensation once more.

  Both he and Luan fell to the floor in a tangle. Wolf gripped the other man’s hands in his own, but they were slick with blood. Then they both hit the floor hard and began rolling over and over, each struggling for dominance. Wolf caught a glimpse of movement farther back in the room and saw that Mac was engaged in some kind of struggle. The sound of another shot reverberated in the confines of the house and someone fell.

  God, I hope it’s not Mac, Wolf thought.

  He had his left hand wrapped around Luan’s two and partially on the slick metal of the gun. His right hand still held the knife blade and he began jamming it into the big South African’s side, working his way up like he was climbing a ladder, until he reached the neck. Luan released the Glock and grabbed Wolf’s right hand, and it was enough for Wolf to gain control of the Glock. Using his non-dominant left hand, he pressed the weapon against Luan’s abdomen, adjusted the muzzle slightly so as to stay in battery, and pulled the trigger.

  The other man’s body jerked as it absorbed the round.

  Wolf rolled off and stretched out on the floor, extending the Glock as he surveyed the scene in the living room about fifteen feet away. Late evening light streamed in behind him through the open door. Mac was straddling one of the South African’s on the floor and they both were wrestling for control of the gun. Zerbe held a small snub-nosed revolver and was pointing it at Mac. Wolf acquired sight picture as three tritium night sight dots appeared to frame Zerbe’s center mass. He squeezed the trigger this time, and Zerbe did a quick stutter-step and then looked over at Wolf, his mouth sagging open. He tried to raise the revolver again to point it in Wolf’s direction, but Wolf squeezed the trigger again, let it slip forward until he felt the slight click, and then fired a third time.

  Zerbe tumbled forward, just as Mac fired his weapon into the underside of the last assailant’s chin.

  Wolf twisted to check on what was going on behind him and saw that Luan and Francois were both unmoving. A narrow sliver of light had angled through the space between the open door and the jamb, draping over the upper portion of Luan’s face. His head was tilted slightly and his dead eyes stared vacantly at Wolf.

  “Drop you weapons and surrender,” Franker’s hearing distorted voice called from outside. “This is the FBI.”

  Wolf relaxed and let the Glock slip from his fingers and thump onto the floor in front of him.

  Epilogue

  FIRST FEDERAL PLAZA BANK

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Seventy-Two Hours Later

  Wolf reviewed the events of the past three days as he and McNamara stood in the cool, air-conditioned room while the pretty bank clerk put the finishing touches on the safety deposit box signature card. Mac had taken out his two South African foes Green Beret style and Zerbe, Luan, and Francois had all gone to that big game preserve in the sky as well. Both Franker and Turner were shaken, but unharmed. They were a bit perturbed at the professed ignorance by Wolf, Mac, and the rest about what the deadly group had been after, however.

  But that really wasn’t that far from the truth.

  There were still way too many missing pieces of this jigsaw puzzle, but now Wolf had the FBI on his side, at least as far as trying to trace down who was behind this. He’d given them the name Von Dien, and the law firm of Fallotti and Abraham, and Jason Zerbe, an associate of the law firm who had approached them about doing some illegal work during their “preplanned trip” to Mexico.

  “Luckily, we turned them down,” Wolf said.

  He knew he was getting into deep water, lying to the FBI, but the bullshit was flying fast and furiously, so he felt a small lie was necessary.

  Famous last words, he thought. They’ll probably come back to haunt me.

  But he also knew this was way too big for him to figure out on his own. It was somehow tied to Iraq, what happened there four years ago, the missing eight to ten minutes that he simply could not recall, and the debacle in Mexico. This time all the buzzards had come to Phoenix to roost.

  No, not buzzards, lions.

  At least some of them were, anyway.

  And best of all, Cummins had been picked up by Phoenix PD in the van that Franker and Turner had seen fleeing the scene.

  Maybe that would shed some light on the situation.

  “So you’re sure you two are the only ones to be on the card?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” McNamara said with a smile. “But we might be putting my daughter on when she gets back from her trip. She’s visiting her mama’s folks back East for a week or two.”

  The clerk made a perfunctory, lips-only smile and said, “All right, here are the two keys. Make sure you don’t lose them because they must be re
turned when you close out the box. And if they’re lost, there’s an additional fee because it’s very expensive to replace the locks.”

  “I’ll keep mine close to my heart,” McNamara said. “Right next to my dog tags.”

  The woman smiled again, less perfunctorily this time. “Are you both going to go into the room?”

  “We are,” Wolf said.

  The three of them walked together into the vault and the woman placed Wolf’s key, and then the bank’s key into the two slots. After twisted each, the door of the box opened and she pulled out the substantial metal box.

  “This is the largest one available,” she said, handing it to McNamara.

  “Looks fine to me, ma’am,” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, her smile growing warmer. “The review rooms are over there and I’ll be waiting until you’re done.”

  Once inside the confines of the review room, Wolf removed the bundle from the canvas bag he’d been carrying. He slowly unwrapped the newspapers exposing the smiling face and body of the bandito. He and Mac looked at each other without saying a word, but Wolf knew they were both thinking the same thing.

  How in the hell did this thing figure into all this?

  He replaced some of the wrappings, leaving the face of the bandito exposed, and carefully set the bandito inside the box and closed the lid.

  “Think that asshole Cummins will spill his guts?” McNamara asked.

  “After trying to get away and leading the cops on a pursuit,” Wolf said, “I’d say no. He is a lawyer, after all.”

  McNamara blew out a heavy breath. “I sure hope he doesn’t spill his guts about what he knows about what happened down in Mexico. If he does, we could be up shit creek without a paddle with the feds.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Wolf said. “At the moment, they really don’t have him on anything more than state charges of fleeing and eluding and unlawful firearms possession. Franker and Turner and the cops will be trying to unravel this one till next Christmas.”

  “And they can’t do that without our little buddy here.” McNamara patted the box. “But I still got a bad feeling about that Cummins asshole.”

  “Me too. I asked Manny to look into posting bond for him once they charge him.”

  “You did?”

  Wolf smiled. “And once he’s out, we can grab him and do some of our own interrogation.”

  “Minus Miranda and all that jazz,” McNamara said. “I like the way you think.”

  “Maybe we can—”

  Wolf’s cell phone rang and he answered it.

  “Hey, Wolfman,” Manny said. “If you’re through getting in shootouts for the week, I got some skips for you guys to work.”

  “We’ll be right over,” Wolf said.

  “Good. Hey guess what.” Manny paused and let out a long belch. “You know that guy, Cummins you wanted me to look into bonding out?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said. “What about him?”

  “Well, I checked into it. Funny thing is, he’s gone. Somehow, somebody already posted bond for him or something. He’s in the wind, so to speak.”

  Wolf let his arm with the phone sink to his side. He could hear Manny’s voice saying, “Hey, you still there?”

  “Yeah,” Wolf said, bringing the phone back up to his mouth to say goodbye. He looked at Mac, who shrugged, then smiled.

  “Well, there ain’t nobody better than us at tracking people down,” he said. “And we might as well start with him and that other guy we got on the list. Von Dam.”

  “Von Dien,” Wolf said as he opened the lid of the box and stared down into the opening.

  The bandito’s smile was reminiscent of mockery once more, just like the first time he’d seen it.

  You can run, Cummins, Wolf thought, but you can’t hide. And I’m coming after you no matter how far you run or how long it takes.

  The old airborne refrain echoed in his mind:

  How far?

  All the way.

  How long?

  As long as it takes.

  Yeah, Wolf thought. As long as it takes.

  A Look At: Devil’s Brigade (Trackdown Series: Book Three)

  By Michael A. Black

  A LIFE HANGS IN THE BALANCE, AND THE STAKES ARE DEADLY.

  After having been court-martialed and sent to prison for a war crime he didn’t commit, former Army Ranger Steve Wolf has taken up bounty hunting with his friend, mentor, ex-Green Beret Big Jim McNamara. Having survived a brutal confrontation south of the border and a recent attack by mercenaries hired by his mysterious and incredibly wealthy foe, Wolf also finds himself being badgered by the FBI.

  A lucrative bounty takes him and Mac to a lawless encampment inside a large city in the Pacific Northwest, but the same powerful, rich man who set Wolf up years ago is still shadowing him hoping to gain possession of a priceless artifact that is in Wolf’s unknowing possession. To accomplish this end, the sinister rich man employs still another professional killer, a former CIA fixer who is set to come at Wolf with unrelenting efficiency. Just when it seems things couldn’t get worse, Wolf and McNamara must suddenly rescue Mac’s grandson who has been taken to a militia compound and held hostage. Facing CIA killers, crazed militia forces, and overwhelming odds, Wolf once again finds himself outnumbered and outgunned.

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  Michael A. Black

  About the Author

  Michael A. Black is the author of 36 books and over 100 short stories and articles. A decorated police officer in the south suburbs of Chicago, he worked for over thirty-two years in various capacities including patrol supervisor, SWAT team leader, investigations and tactical operations before retiring in April of 2011.

  A long time practitioner of the martial arts, Black holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do from Ki Ka Won Academy in Seoul, Korea. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Northern Illinois University and a Master of Fine Arts in Fiction Writing from Columbia College, Chicago. In 2010 he was awarded the Cook County Medal of Merit by Cook County Sheriff Tom Dart. Black wrote his first short story in the sixth grade, and credits his then teacher for instilling him with determination to keep writing when she told him never to try writing again.

  Black has since been published in several genres including mystery, thriller, sci-fi, westerns, police procedurals, mainstream, pulp fiction, horror, and historical fiction. His Ron Shade series featuring the Chicago-based kickboxing private eye, has won several awards, as has his police procedural series featuring Frank Leal and Olivia Hart. He also wrote two novels with television star Richard Belzer, I Am Not a Cop and I Am Not a Psychic. Black writes under numerous pseudonyms and pens The Executioner series under the name Don Pendleton. His Executioner novel, Fatal Prescription, won the Best Original Novel Scribe Award given by the International Media Tie-In Writers Association in 2018.

  His current books are Blood Trails, a cutting edge police procedural in the tradition of the late Michael Crichton, and Legends of the West, which features a fictionalized account of the legendary and real life lawman, Bass Reeves. His newest Executioner novels are Dying Art, Stealth Assassins, and Cold Fury, all of which were nominees and finalists for Best Novel Scribe Awards. He is very active in animal rescue and animal welfare issues and has several cats.

  Website: www.MichaelABlack.com.