It was a common tactic in the boxing ring: beat on your opponent’s arms until he has a hard time holding them up and then the head becomes more vulnerable. But it was, basically, a tactic meant for the long haul—a systematic beat-down meant to inflict damage over an expanse of rounds. Ford tossed a flurry of punches as he moved forward again.
A man in a hurry, Wolf thought.
He backpedaled away and only one of the punches landed, this time on his left shoulder.
Wolf concentrated on moving in a clockwise pattern, trying to keep his left foot on the far side of Ford’s leading right, placing more distance between his power side and Wolf. It required more conscious thought than was desirable and had a tendency to throw a fighter’s timing off. Even a fraction of a second could make a difference, as Wolf found out when Ford’s left foot shot out and smacked into Wolf’s left inner thigh.
It was too close for comfort and Wolf danced out of range instead of engaging. So far, he had yet to land a blow.
Apparently, thinking that his kick had hurt Wolf more than it had, Ford lumbered in and began tossing overhand punches. Wolf countered with a quick one-two punch of his own and then pushed the bigger man to the side. He slammed into the black cyclone fencing that had been strung between the octagon posts. Ford’s lips curled back in fury, displaying the vampire fangs on the painted mouthpiece once again. Bouncing off the cage, he rushed at Wolf who sent a quick jab to the other man’s jaw, then slammed home a right.
Ford shook his head and backed up a step. Wolf stepped in and delivered another combination, but the close proximity allowed Ford’s arms to snake outward and grab him. The man was strong and Wolf felt like he’d been snared by an anaconda. Reno had told Wolf beforehand to try and avoid being taken down to the mat by Ford so Wolf spread his feet apart and pushed back. The two of them danced around, each trying to throw the other, but Wolf judged that they were evenly matched as far as strength. If anything, being an inch or so shorter gave Wolf a lower center of gravity, thus making him harder to lift upward.
Ford tried to snare Wolf’s lower leg but Wolf sensed the bigger man had suddenly become off balance. Surging forward, Wolf pushed Ford into the fencing and then both of them tumbled to the mat. The impact broke the vise-like hold that Ford had on Wolf’s body when they landed on their sides. Both men kicked their legs, trying to gain a dominant position. Ford shoved away, rose to his knees, and then got an arm around Wolf’s neck, trying for a guillotine choke-hold. Wolf shifted his jaw downward, so Ford’s wrist wasn’t in the right position.
Wolf heard Reno’s frantic yell: “Get outta there, Steve.”
With only the sparse crowd Reno’s voice was strangely audible.
Wolf smashed two hard rights into Ford’s side, aiming for the liver. He felt the other man’s grip lessen slightly.
Two more rights … Ford’s grip slackened more.
Wolf gripped Ford’s encircling arm with both hands and pulled it away. Their sweat-slicked bodies came together and then rebounded allowing Wolf to get to his feet. Ford did the same but Wolf stepped in and sent a left hook to Ford’s temple. He dropped to his knees, recovered, and made a crab-like move toward Wolf’s leg, grabbing it with both hands and pulling.
Wolf felt himself slam down onto the mat on his back as Ford started to scramble over him raining down punches on Wolf’s body. He brought his left knee upward and interposed it between himself and Ford. Twisting to the side, Wolf slid out from under and rolled away. Ford was still on the mat on all fours. Wolf thought about delivering a kick to Ford’s side but hesitated, the thought of striking a downed opponent still anathema because of his boxing background.
The hesitation was costly.
Ford lashed out with a backhand blow that struck Wolf squarely in the groin. Hunching over, he stumbled backward, out of range of another blow, cognizant that Ford was now on his feet and coming toward him.
The nauseating pain was laced with anger.
So that’s the way it’s gonna be, huh?
Just as Ford was within striking distance, the ref was there between them, shoving the other man back.
“You fouled him, Marcus,” the ref said. “Get over there.”
Ford grunted something and walked to the other side of the cage.
The ref turned to Wolf and placed his hand on his shoulder.
“You okay?” he asked.
It was Wolf’s turn to grunt. The pain was subsiding but the accompanying nausea was still circulating in his gut.
“You got fouled,” the ref said. “You got up to five minutes to recover. Take all the time you need.”
Wolf grunted again. He knew he should take the full five but doing so would also give Ford a chance to recuperate, and Wolf was beginning to feel like the other man was getting arm-weary. The guys with the overinflated muscles usually did. He took a few steps around and heard Reno yelling once more.
“You go back out there and do the same to that motherfucker, Steve. Don’t let him get away with that. You had him.”
Wolf agreed somewhat. He had felt like he was on the verge of knocking Ford out. Ford must have felt it, too, which might mean that the foul was intentional, in which case, the man needed to be taught a lesson in sportsmanship. Wolf had been in a lot of matches, both in and out of the ring and octagon. Sporting events had rules for a reason. Violate those rules and things degenerated into a street fight.
He took a series of small steps, enlarging his stride with each one. The pain had pretty much dissipated now, but Wolf didn’t quite feel that the strength had fully returned to his legs. He glanced across the way and saw Ford taking in deep breaths, his cornerman yelling at him to “Concentrate on breathing.”
He was recuperating, getting his second wind.
Can’t let him do that, Wolf thought, and signaled to the ref that he was ready.
As the ref signaled for them to start fighting again, Wolf glanced up at the round clock, which had been activated again.
4:05.
Almost a minute to go before the round ended …
Fifty-five seconds of hell, Wolf thought, and his arms felt like they weighed fifty pounds each.
Ford took in another deep breath and moved forward, this time extending his long right arm in to signal he was apologizing for the foul.
Too little, too late, Wolf thought, but he slapped the other man’s hand anyway.
They circled one another and this time Wolf reversed his circular pattern, going counterclockwise. It put him in more danger of receiving one of Ford’s power-punches, but Wolf saw the other man’s breathing was still ragged, his punches a bit slow.
Ford threw a lazy right jab and Wolf slapped it away with his left, then went over the top of Ford’s arm to deliver a jab of his own to Ford’s nose. It was more of a snapping, annoyance punch than one to deliver maximum damage, but it served its purpose well. Ford’s head snapped back minutely and then a blast of crimson droplets spread over his dark face. The dribbling flow continued as he moved forward, and Wolf doubled up on the jab again.
More blood from Blood, Wolf thought, dancing to the side a bit.
Ford followed, angry and lurching now, swinging looping punches of his own which Wolf blocked with ease.
Ford took another step forward and Wolf shifted his weight to his right side and brought up an uppercut that connected with the tip of Ford’s jaw. He made an involuntary jerking motion and crumbled like a six-story building that had been imploded, his arms flailing at his sides, his legs twisting against each other as he collapsed to the mat.
“Follow him down, Steve,” Reno yelled. “You got him. Ground and pound him till the ref stops you.”
Reno’s voice sounded almost frantic but Wolf took a step back. He’d knocked out men before and knew the signs. Ford now lay on his side, eyes half-open slits, his mouth agape displaying the bloody mouthpiece with the painted-on vampire fangs.
There was no need for any ground and pound.
This one was over.
/>
THE VON DIEN WINTER ESTATE SOUTH
BELIZE
Two of the yellow-shirted security guards had ushered Soraces into one of the anterooms in the big brick mansion. This was different than the last time in that they both wore face masks and blue latex gloves. They did the same frisk search and metal detector wanding that he’d been subjected to the last time but this time they did something new. They told him to sit down and then one of them rammed what looked to be an extended Q-tip up Soraces’s nose, wiggled it around inside the nasal cavity, and then withdrew it and placed it in a plastic tube.
A fucking COVID test?
Soraces shook his head. It appeared as though the fat man had become a germaphobe.
“Queda aqui,” one of the guards said. “Ah, stay here.”
“Not a problem,” Soraces said. The man’s English was heavily accented.
“And you will put dis on, por favor,” the other guard said, handing him a mask.
Soraces thought about saying they were taking precautions to the extreme but saw two PTZ cameras mounted on the wall and figured he’d been under additional surveillance the whole time. He recalled them from his last trip and suddenly wondered if all of his activities had been videoed, including his bedroom interlude with the two Latin cuties.
Maybe I’m already a local porn star, he thought as he put on the mask. In which case, this thing will come in handy this time. He remembered the video of Cummins that he’d been shown, a fragment of which he’d shown Wolf back in Phoenix to get him to play ball. Von Dien seemed to have a habit of filming his employees without their knowledge or consent. It was like working for Big Brother or like being on assignment in the old Soviet Union or Mainland China—always wondering if there was a camera behind that bedroom mirror.
Which reminds me, he thought. This might be an opportune time to do some camera work of my own.
He turned away from the PTZ camera mounted on the ceiling and casually brought his right hand up to his breast pocket and flicked the tiny black cover down, exposing the pin-hole camera and activating it. The spy pen took excellent video and audio recordings.
Insurance, he told himself. Just in case.
The two guards left and Soraces found himself alone to admire the fat man’s art collection. It consisted of oil paintings, bronze and marble statues, and a glass case containing a variety of crude stone figures that looked like the products of a third-grade art class. There was a gold bowl with a blue sapphire jewel affixed to it and a black stone carved to resemble a duck.
He didn’t touch the cabinet, which Soraces assumed was alarmed, but one of the items near the top immediately caught his eye. It was a stone about the size of a halved cantaloupe with an intricate baroque design carved onto the outer shell. A mother-of-pearl inlay covered the flattened portion, upon which two black onyx figures, a man and a big jungle cat, struggled in a death match. But the rendering of the big cat showed no mane.
“This must be the lioness,” he said aloud for the benefit of the recording. “Obviously, the distaff portion of the most sought-after artifact, the Lion and the Lioness Attacking the Nubians.”
He’d only seen a photograph of the artifact on his last trip here, to give him an idea of what they were seeking. The other half of the intricately carved stone featured the male lion, which was considered the more valuable due to the head and neck intricacies.
It had supposedly been concealed in the plaster bandito which was now, allegedly, in the possession of Steven Wolf.
Although the intricate design of the figures did have a certain fascinating elegance, Soraces felt an amusement that someone as rich and powerful as Dexter Von Dien would go to such lengths to possess a couple of carved rocks that had been around since before the time of Christ.
But Soraces had seen men killed for less. He’d even dispatched a few of them himself, some in the service of his country, and the others, well …
He smirked. Who was he to question the motivation of the private sector? He shut off the spy pen and waited.
About fifteen minutes passed before the door opened and the same huge Hispanic in a butler’s uniform, whom Soraces recalled from the last time, stepped inside.
“Good evening, “Señor Soraces,” he said, entering the room. His words were muffled by the mask that he wore. He had on blue latex gloves as well.
“Buenas noches,” Soraces replied. “Está bien a verlo otra vez.”
The butler smiled, apparently appreciating the greeting in his native tongue.
“Señor Von Dien is ready to receive you now,” the butler said. “But first, por favor, you must put on your mask and gloves.”
Soraces nodded. The guy was so massive he looked almost like a gorilla in black tails, but he still had the familiar bulge under the left armpit of his jacket of a small-caliber semi-automatic pistol.
“Por supuesto,” Soraces said, and strung the mask attachments over his ears. Whether the butler was smiling was impossible to tell. “De donde es usted? Corozal?”
He’d mentioned one of the predominately Spanish speaking sections of Belize.
The butler shook his head slightly.
“Estoy de Guatemala.”
Another Guatemalan, Soraces thought.
And a very trusted employee. Specially imported. It would be good to stay on this big fucker’s good side, impress upon him that we’re both part of the brotherhood of workers, the imported help.
“Coma se llama?” Soraces asked, slipping the gloves over his hands, then pretending to scratch an itch while he activated the spy pen again.
“My name is Gordo, Señor. Please, step this way and please keep your mask on in the presence of Señor Von Dien. Is that clear?”
Not knowing how to say, “Crystal,” in Spanish, Soraces instead said, “Claro.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Su patron es muy cuidadoso, eh?”
The butler said nothing, but Soraces caught sight wrinkling around the eyes. Nothing overt, nothing stated, but still a tell. He wondered if it would show up on his recording. The loyalty of the crew depended on Von Dien paying them well, which opened up the possibility, should the need ever arise, that they could be bribed. It also called into question the degree of fidelity that they would be willing to provide in an emergency.
Soraces followed the man down a hallway and into another room with a large stone fireplace. Bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes lined both walls and a long mahogany table with similarly fashioned chairs sat in the middle. The chair at the head of the table, however, was a huge black sofa-cushion type and in it sat the fat man himself, his massive bald head sitting atop his expansive, soft-looking body, which was encased in a light blue terrycloth robe, which matched the blue gloves. Despite the mild temperature, Von Dien had a scarf around his throat and the room smelled faintly medicinal. He also had on one of the most elaborate masks that Soraces had ever seen. It was rubber and had what appeared to be two breathing filters on each side. His equally massive, but exquisitely proportioned bodyguard stood next to the chair in his usual tight-fitting black T-shirt and black cargo pants. His mask was solid black and fit over his nose and jutting chin. Soraces saw the man was also wearing that Walther Q4 Steel Frame semi-auto. The bodyguard wore the same blue plastic gloves, but Soraces didn’t think they would interfere with his ability to draw and shoot.
Soraces let his fingers trace over the ninja pen ever so slightly. He’d forgotten about the bodyguard’s big tanto knife, positioned for easy withdrawal, that he wore on the left side of his belt.
Across the table and several feet away from the fat man, in one of the regular wooden library chairs, sat the lawyer, Anthony Marco Fallotti. He was clad in a double-filtered mask similar to his boss’s, a tan polo shirt, and, of course, the ubiquitous blue latex gloves.
The butler halted and pulled out a chair at the opposite end of the table. Soraces glanced at the chair, shrugged, and sat in it. He didn’t like the fact that he was now seated with his back to the door, but he al
so figured that he’d be safe enough for the time being. If Von Dien had planned to kill him, he’d had plenty of opportunities prior to this. Plus, the seating arrangement gave his spy pen’s camera an unimpeded view.
Anyway, he thought. The fat son of a bitch wants something … The other half of that Iraqi artifact and he knows I’m his best bet at getting it for him.
“Nice to see you all again,” he said and added, “That is, what I can see of you.” He realized that none of them could see his grin beneath the mask.
Von Dien’s brows knotted together slightly, but he said nothing. His big head was hairless and resembled an enormous egg that, despite being down here in sunny Belize, hadn’t seen the sun in ages.
Fallotti spoke first.
“Richard, so glad you agreed to come down. How’ve you been?”
“You tell me,” Soraces said. He was conscious of the mask slightly muffling his words and hoped they’d be audible on the recording. “I assume my virus test came back negative?”
The lawyer laughed. “Well, you know. One can’t be too careful nowadays.”
Soraces gave a slight nod. In reality, he’d been in so many tense situations, faced death so many times, that the thought of some new virus hardly bothered him. He’d noticed that same tendency among people who were accustomed to putting it all on the line. But he filed the information away for future use. It was definitely a crack in the Von Dien foundation that might be exploited, should the need arise.
Fallotti seemed ready to engage in more small talk, but the fat man was having none of that. He leaned forward slightly and spoke.
“You left rather abruptly the last time.”
Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4) Page 2