Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4)

by Michael A. Black

  “Yes,” Soraces said. “I did. I got the impression you were upset over the circumstances, so …”

  He let the explanation trail off.

  Von Dien stared at him. “You were aware that the statue you brought here was a useless fake?”

  Soraces had stayed for the unveiling, and the pathetic almost theatrical collapse of the rich bastard, but he felt it best not to mention the fat man’s foibles.

  “Yes,” Soraces said. He offered nothing further. An apology might be construed as a sign of culpability and he didn’t want that. “It was, however, the same one that I recovered from your man, Cummins.”

  “And you killed Cummins?” Von Dien asked.

  Soraces wasn’t about to reply in the affirmative when he was recording the conversation, and there was a distinct possibility that Von Dien was recording as well. Was that the fat man’s intention? Get him on video admitting to a murder?

  There were no indications of a camera system in this room but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. He recalled the video of Cummins relating his part in the framing of Wolf. Cummings probably hadn’t thought he was being recorded either. But then again, Von Dien would be a fool to record himself asking direct questions about a murder. He suddenly felt better.

  I’ve got to be the only one recording this now, he thought. As careful as this fat prick is, he’s not going to create a video record of anything implicating himself.

  “Actually,” Soraces said. “As I told you in my initial phone conversation, before I arrived, he was killed by my associate, Werner Gunther. In self-defense, I might add.”

  “Naturally,” the fat man said. He turned his head away. “So, we have no way of knowing where the artifact is now or even if Wolf ever had possession of it.”

  Soraces did a quick review of the options. If he wanted to extend this rather lucrative deal and get the rest of the money that had been agreed upon, it would be best to prolong things a bit, to feed the rich man’s vainglorious fantasy of obtaining the second half of the artifact.

  “I’m pretty certain he does,” Soraces said. “The bandito he gave to Cummins was a copy.”

  The fat man turned and looked at him, the rich man’s blue eyes almost piercing above the edge of the mask. “A copy? And you know this how?”

  Soraces took his time answering.

  Feed the fantasy, he thought, just like stoking a bonfire.

  “If you recall,” he said finally, “I was in negotiations with Wolf to obtain the statue when Cummins interceded. We’d paid Wolf a substantial amount of money, and I’d shown him that partial video clip that might clear him.”

  The fixed stare continued.

  Wait for it, Soraces thought. Wait for it …

  Finally, Von Dien broke the awkward silence by speaking first.

  “Of course, I recall that,” he said. “But what makes you think he still has it?”

  Again, Soraces took his time in answering.

  “I did a little digging through some informal sources to find out what exactly happened between Wolf and his partner and Cummins.” He paused to adjust himself in the chair before continuing. The fat bastard edged forward slightly, like a horny teenage boy about to get his first look at some female genitalia. His breathing was sounding a bit more sonorous.

  “Wolf was about to deal with me,” Soraces said. “Then he received a phone call and abruptly left. It turns out that call was from Cummins, who’d kidnapped Wolf’s partner’s grandson.” He was filling in some blanks with his own speculation now but figured it would suffice to advance the narrative. “Cummins then contacted you and claimed he would be in possession of the bandito, correct?”

  Von Dien nodded briskly.

  Soraces resisted the temptation to tell him to speak up so his response could be audible for the record. His lips stretched into a sly smile under the cloth of the mask. The camera would capture the nod.

  “So, Wolf obviously had a copy made beforehand,” Soraces said. “He used that to turn over to Cummins for the boy. Which most likely means, he still has the original because he intended to do business with me.”

  “Then he knows about the artifact?” Von Dien asked.

  Soraces shrugged. “Possibly. He hinted at its value during our negotiation but didn’t specifically name anything.”

  Von Dien blew out a heavy, frustrated breath that rattled his mask.

  “You’re saying he definitely knows then?” Fallotti asked, inserting himself into the conversation.

  “At this point,” Soraces said. “More than likely he does. But that’s not such a bad thing. I think we still have the dominant hand.”

  “How so?” Fallotti asked.

  “We still have something he wants very badly,” Soraces said. “That video of Cummins admitting that he set Wolf up to take the fall back in Iraq. And you’ll note that even with his friend’s grandson at stake, he still didn’t want to give up the original bandito. That tells me he’ll still be willing to deal.”

  Fallotti and Von Dien exchanged glances. The fat man gave a fractional nod.

  “So you think that despite all that’s happened,” Fallotti said. “Wolf is still amenable to a deal?”

  Soraces smiled, then realized once again that the mask had obscured his expression.

  “I can bring him around,” he said. “But it’ll be tricky. At the moment, as I said, we’re both holding a pair of aces, and the joker’s wild.”

  “Spare us your inane metaphors,” Von Dien said. “Just get me that artifact, if he still has it.”

  “I can do that,” Soraces said. “But it’ll be a bit more convoluted and difficult than before. Not to mention some additional expenses.”

  “You want more money,” the rich bastard said. “Is that it?”

  Soraces hooded his eyes a bit, letting his silence and the visible portion of his face provide the answer without mentioning the money still owed to him. And not knowing if he’d get another face-to-face opportunity like this, he decided to stack the deck a bit more.

  “I’m worth it. Look at all the trouble you’ve gone to already,” Soraces said, holding up his hands and began ticking off one point after another with his gloved fingers, careful not to interfere with the view of the camera lens. “You originally hired Jack Cummings and Vince Eagan to get the artifact in Iraq almost five years ago, right?”

  Von Dien said nothing.

  Come on, come on, Soraces thought. Let’s speak up for the video, please.

  “And those jokers ended up killing some Iraqi nationals in getting you one half of the artifact,” Soraces continued. “The Lioness Attacking the Nubian. The female section. But the male second part, the more valuable part, was still missing.” He paused to allow for the dramatic tension to build. “And Cummings and Eagan managed to frame Wolf for the murders. Then four years later, the second half resurfaces, but that reprobate, Accondras, gets arrested before he can give it to you, and then absconds with it to Mexico.”

  “Which we already know,” Fallotti said. “You’re belaboring the obvious.”

  “Bear with me,” Soraces said, desperate to get Fallotti and Von Dien to incriminate themselves. “I’m trying to give you a proper perspective.” He took in a deep breath and continued talking as fast as he could, pulling the mask away from his face for better enunciation. “The Mexico venture ends up a complete fiasco, Wolf gets the artifact, and you then send Zerbe and his South African goon squad to Phoenix to get the artifact and kill Wolf. But that doesn’t work out either.”

  “That damn Wolf,” Von Dien said. “He’s proven to be a most formidable adversary.”

  Good, Soraces thought. At least I’ve got him in an admission of non-denial.

  “Like I told you before,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let’s offer him some money and the flashdrive and get it that way. Without any violence.”

  “Without any violence?” Fallotti broke in. “You say that after you killed Cummins and still didn’t get the artifact?”


  “I told you,” Soraces answered. “Werner Gunther killed him. And I did fulfill my end of the bargain by bringing you the bandito statue, did I not?”

  Fallotti snorted, causing his mask to bulge away from his face slightly. “You were also supposed to—”

  “Fine,” Von Dien said, his voice sounding angry as if struggling to burst free of the affixed prison. “Just get me that artifact. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

  Of course you will, Soraces thought. Through the nose, and then some, for stiffing me before.

  Von Dien’s words sounded wheezy and he began coughing, each intake of breath becoming more labored than the last. His hands fluttered at the elaborate mask and he frantically gestured to his bodyguard.

  The big man reached behind the ornamental, high-backed chair and came up with an oxygen tube and a translucent plastic mask. He twisted the valve-release on the top of the tube and the soft hiss of oxygen became audible. Von Dien ripped off his mask and placed the translucent, oxygenated one over his nose and mouth, taking in several deep breaths before trying to speak again.

  When his breathing had returned to normal, more or less, he pulled the mask from his face and said, “And after you do get it. I want you to kill Wolf. No loose ends. Understood?”

  Soraces nodded, thinking, Smile, you’re on candid camera. You’ve just given me everything I need.

  Chapter Two

  MCCARRAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Wolf noted that his right foot was somewhat swollen and tender as he slipped his running shoe back on, but that was the least of his concerns at the moment. The rest of him was pretty bruised and tender as well. During the fight he hadn’t been cognizant of Ford connecting with that many punches, but today he realized that he must have. Sitting down on the metal bench, Wolf waited as the TSA screener did a wand test and then a full-fledged pat-down of McNamara, who had set off the airport metal detector despite having emptied his pockets.

  “You ain’t gonna find nothing on me, sonny,” McNamara said. “It’s just a lot of residual shrapnel that they never picked outta me.”

  The TSA agent completed his task and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sir,’ sonny,” McNamara said. “I work for a living.”

  The TSA agent seemed confused and Mac grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

  The mask had concealed the smile Wolf knew had to be there. “It’s an old army saying.”

  “Army?” the TSA agent said, his head swiveling back and forth from McNamara to Wolf and then back again. “You were in the military?”

  “Back before you were born, sonny,” McNamara said. “And long after you were copping your first feel under the bleachers, too.”

  “Thank you for your service, sir,” the TSA agent said.

  McNamara grunted something, grabbed his carry-on luggage, and strode over to where Wolf was sitting.

  They’d declined Reno’s offer of a ride back to Phoenix in the van. With Reno’s girlfriend, Barbie, doing the driving, and trainer George and cut-man Willie both in the vehicle, Wolf and Mac had felt the crowded conditions would be too much. Plus, their celebration party with Ms. Dolly and the P-Patrol had extended into the wee hours. With an eleven o’clock flight to catch, they had barely made it through the security checkpoints.

  Wolf got to his feet and grabbed his two bags, one of which contained his newly awarded championship belt. It was thick black leather and handsomely adorned with a gold-plated crown and the words USA LIGHT HEAVYWEIGHT MMA CHAMPION. Wolf really had no place to display it so he figured he’d tell Reno that he could keep it in the gym to inspire the younger fighters. The way he was feeling, he didn’t even want it now. The fight had, more or less, been for the money and as a favor to Reno. It had been hard, and he’d taken a few lumps, some of which were expressing themselves more this morning than they had last night. But all things considered, it had been a cakewalk compared to some of his other battles.

  When you have a foe intent on putting a bullet between your eyes, or slicing your head off with a knife, getting into the octagon and facing a near-naked opponent was easy.

  But it had been what occurred after the fight, and after the celebration at the Peppermill, that had felt like a severe gut-punch to Wolf. In the wee hours, as he and Yolanda had lain in the tangle of damp sheets in his hotel room, she’d casually mentioned to him that she might be leaving the P-Patrol.

  “What?” he said. “Why?”

  She rolled over onto her side, the white sheet slipping off the dark skin of her exquisite shoulder.

  “I told you before, doing this bounty hunter stuff was just a pit-stop for me,” she said. “Didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, I believe you mentioned it.”

  “So back before I got hooked up with Ms. Dolly, I put in an application with the police department.”

  Wolf rotated his head on the pillow. “Las Vegas Metro?”

  “Right. I took the test, passed and got on a list.”

  “And your number came up?”

  She nodded. “I’m starting in the Police Academy Monday.”

  “Wow. Congratulations.”

  A slight smile graced her lips, but her eyes looked away.

  He considered the ramifications of this. He knew she had some college classes in law enforcement and she was a black female, which in today’s policing world put her in the prime candidate category. She knew how to handle herself, too, as an investigation into her bounty hunting background would surely show, which further enhanced her marketability. So why was she looking so glum? Then it dawned on him: her background investigation.

  Everything would be put under a microscope as they looked at her personal life. They’d do a comprehensive investigation, and finding her being involved with an ex-con with a dishonorable discharge who was under investigation by the FBI wouldn’t exactly be listed in the plus column.

  So this isn’t just a talk, he thought. It’s the talk.

  Wolf got up on one elbow. The movement caused a wave of pain to sweep upward along his torso. It appeared that Ford had landed more than just a few of those body blows he hadn’t felt during the actual match.

  “What’s wrong?” Yolanda asked.

  “Just a bit of soreness from the fight,” he said.

  Her forehead crinkled with concern, so he forced a smile.

  The pain he was feeling in his heart was the real clincher. The prospect of not seeing her again was devastating. But what did he expect? He couldn’t very well ask her to give up her dream, if that’s what it was, of becoming a police officer, of a new career choice where she could go someplace, and he was like a twenty-pound dumbbell around her neck in a triathlon.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “In the rare instance they might come knocking on my door, I’ll tell them that our relationship was strictly professional.”

  She frowned. “I’m not worried about that.”

  “You should be.”

  “Hey, if they can’t accept that I have special people in my life, then that’s too bad.”

  “Special people aren’t ex-cons with dishonorable discharges.”

  “Oh, babe, I didn’t want to tell you, but I figured I had to—”

  He reached up and put a finger to her lips. Her eyes closed and a tear wound its way down her cheek. He drew her to him and kissed her softly.

  “I think you’re going to make a dynamite cop,” he said.

  The memory of their second turn of lovemaking drifted through his memory as they walked toward their gate.

  “What you so glum about?” McNamara asked. “You won, didn’t you? The championship. And you hardly broke a sweat. I ain’t never seen a guy beat up another one so bad, even on the street.”

  Wolf snorted and shook his head. Mac was making it sound a hell of a lot easier than it had been.

  “What fight were you watching?” he asked. “I feel like the kissing cousin to a punching bag.”

  McN
amara laughed. “The way you kicked his ass was a work of art. And that walk-away after he went down for the count … Pure class.”

  Wolf thought about the end of the fight and was again glad he hadn’t chosen to follow Ford down to the mat to inflict more punishment. It was one aspect of the MMA sport that he didn’t like.

  “It was just like the Frenchies say,” McNamara continued. “Insouciance. Swag without the fucking conceit. Pardon my French.”

  Wolf glanced at his friend. “I’m impressed. I didn’t know you were bilingual.”

  McNamara laughed. “Nah, I’m not. I just picked up a few phrases here and there, mostly from my time in Nam. The French were there damn near as long as we were, until they got their asses handed to them at Dien Ben Phu.”

  Wolf remembered reading about that battle in the history books. It effectively ended their involvement in what had been known as French Indo-China.

  “And we had some French Foreign Legion guys attending some of our training when I was in one of them damn police actions in the Middle East. Those guys were pretty good. Turns out their white hats, the kepi, are held in pretty high regard. They get them in a special ceremony, just like we get our berets.”

  Wolf recalled a similar ceremony when he’d completed ranger training. It meant something, and he understood what Mac was talking about. As they passed one of the shops, McNamara slowed and bumped Wolf’s arm.

  “Let’s stop in there,” he said. “I want to buy a couple of souvenirs for Chad and Kasey.”

  They went in, with Wolf checking his watch. They were cutting it close to get to their gate on time, but he knew Mac wouldn’t go home empty handed.

  “Pick out a sweatshirt for Kase while I get something for my grandson,” McNamara said.

  Instead of a sweatshirt, which would have about as much use in Arizona as a lead-lined jockstrap, Wolf instead picked out a purple T-shirt that said Whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. He thought about Mac spending the night with both Ms. Dolly and Brenda in one of their customary hook-ups and put that T-shirt aside in favor of one with the Las Vegas sign on the front. He remembered reading that the woman who’d designed it never applied for a copyright.