The blade sunk into the soft surface with a slick sounding thump.
But it was off to one side instead of dead center.
Not bad for first practice throw, he told himself as he strode over to retrieve it. The first of many.
Walking back to his original position, the pen-knife held vertically against the fleshy part of his palm, he rotated the blade downward into his fingers as he whirled suddenly and threw it. This one was a more traditional throw, taking the time to cock his arm back as he pivoted.
The blade had hit the center of the target.
Better, he thought. But still not perfect. Too much time on the positioning.
Soraces repeated the throwing for a solid twenty minutes, varying his stance and throwing techniques, but each time piercing the material with an intentional exactness until the Styrofoam was almost completely destroyed. Going to the whiteboard he pulled the long tapered steel from the mutilated whiteness and dropped the ruined packing material into the waste can next to the desk.
As he slipped the blade into the recesses of the metal sheath and held the contained weapon in his left hand, his burner phone rang.
It was one of the Shadows.
“They left the bail bondsman’s office, went through the drive-through at McDonald’s, and are now heading east on the seventeen toward the ten,” Charles Perkins said.
His inclusion of the definite article in front of the Interstate numerical designation reminded Soraces that the two of them were California boys … The ten … They talked like that out there. But the LA lifestyle had also allowed them to develop chameleon-like abilities to bend into whatever culture they were dropped into. The Shadows were Anglos but with dark hair and brown eyes. The deep California tans allowed them to pass for Latinos or even Arabs when the need arose. They had the noses for it. And they were multi-lingual as well; the Agency had seen to that. They were, as Shakespeare had put it, men of many humors.
“Looks like they’re heading south on the ten now,” Perkins said.
“All right. Continue surveillance. At a distance. And keep me posted.”
There was no reply, but Soraces had no doubt this Shadow was thinking, Don’t tell me how to do my job.
I wouldn’t dream of it, he thought to himself, as if replying, and smiled.
“Very good,” Soraces said, tossing in what he figured was just enough adequate praise to keep Charles Perkins mollified. In many ways the twins were like schoolboys, always needing positive reinforcement.
It must have worked because Perkins’s voice sounded lighter when he asked, “Dirk get there yet?”
“No,” Soraces said. “But he texted me. He’s on the way.”
“Let me know when he gets there. That son of a bitch still owes me twenty bucks from the last time we worked together.”
Soraces laughed and said he would, then terminated the call.
The mention of the fast-food drive-through tweaked his stomach. It was getting close to lunch and he might as well order himself some room service.
And maybe later, Soraces thought, when Dirk gets here and the Shadows return for the day, I’ll order us all some entertainment for the evening. Girls for him and Dirk. The Gemini twins preferred boys. Soraces wondered about that kind of availability in this city, or if any of the hookers were even working with all these god damn COVID restrictions.
The world’s oldest profession stymied by a virus.
At least it wasn’t impinging upon the world’s second oldest—spying.
In one smooth motion he whipped the blade from the metal sheath, and then whirled to throw it with a looping motion.
A millisecond later the thumping sound of metal cleaving wood reverberated back to him signifying a nice, solid hit. The blade was wedged into the narrow edge of the open bedroom door about three inches below the top hinge.
Virtually the exact equivalent of an eye-level hit.
Practice makes perfect, he thought.
INTERSTATE 10
JUST OUTSIDE OF MESA, ARIZONA
The navigation screen in the Escalade’s dashboard indicated which exit for them to take. They’d passed completely through the Mesa city limits and the surrounding built-up area and were proceeding to the more remote outskirts. Wolf, who was driving since Mac had downed both his and Wolf’s drinks at Manny’s, noticed the black Dodge Charger behind them was still there.
He slowed appreciably to see if it would pass.
The Charger changed lanes and zoomed past them. The windows were heavily tinted, and he noticed it had California plates.
“Hey, Mac,” he said. “Write down this plate.”
McNamara, who had been talking on the phone to his buddy, Buck, turned his head and said, “What plate?”
“On that Charger,” Wolf said. “The one that just passed us.”
McNamara told Buck they’d see him shortly and hung up. He reached into the inside pocket of his modified BDU vest and pulled out a pad of paper and a pen.
“Any particular reason?” McNamara asked.
“It’s been on our ass since we left Phoenix, is all.”
McNamara shrugged and peered at the diminishing vehicle ahead of them.
“You’re gonna have to get closer,” he said. “Unless you remember it.”
The Charger was a good distance ahead of them now and Wolf was no longer sure of the numbers and letters. He pressed down on the accelerator but the Charger continued to out-distance them. The automated voice abruptly told them to take the next exit and then turn right.
“Aw, hell,” Wolf said. “Never mind now.”
“Too bad I didn’t think to bring my ditty bag,” McNamara said. “Has my binoculars in it.”
Wolf slowed down as the exit became visible. “Probably nothing anyway.”
“You think it was somebody tailing us?” McNamara asked. “I was so busy gabbing with Buck that I wasn’t even watching.”
Wolf put on his turn signal and veered toward the exit ramp.
“Hard to say,” he said. “It might just be a coincidence. Maybe I’m being too suspicious.”
“Like hell. With all we been through the past couple of months, we can’t afford to be anything but suspicious.” He put the paper and pen back in his pocket. “Buck’s anxious for us to get there. Says the facility’s still under construction but it’s almost completed.”
Wolf said nothing, still mentally trying to evaluate the Charger’s lengthy presence.
But it was no longer in sight.
“So, what else is bugging you?” McNamara asked. “You didn’t look too happy when I volunteered us for that babysitting detail.”
“That’s an appropriate metaphor.”
McNamara clucked his tongue. “Man, those English classes are doing you a world of good, using two dollars words like that. Maybe you should consider writing a book.”
“Maybe,” Wolf said. “I could call it babysitting wayward teenage girls for dummies.”
McNamara barked out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, yeah, I know, but I figured it would pay dividends down the line, depending on how this bounty hunting business plays out after the election. And who knows, maybe seeing us two white knights out there will put the little girl on the road to the straight and narrow.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. Plus, I have a play to read and that English paper I have to write.”
“Hell, read it out loud to me. And take your laptop with you. I’ll be standing guard, and if the bunch of deplorables show up, I’ll let you know.”
Wolf grinned. “Deplorables?”
“Hey, I told you, you ain’t the only one who’s read a couple of books.”
The computerized voice told them their destination was “ahead on the right.”
Wolf slowed down and saw an asphalt road winding away from the highway and into a large, hilly area. A huge, metallic sign was fastened to two vertical cement pillars by the junction. The block-shaped, black shadowed letters stood out against a tan background: BEST IN THE WES
T—TACTICAL TRAINING INSTITUTE
The last three words were encased within the drawing of a Spartan helmet.
Clever advertising gimmick, Wolf thought as he steered down the serpentine roadway that wound through the series of little hills in a landscape dry and devoid of trees. Only the indomitable mesquite and a few cactuses seemed to have thrived. After about a quarter of a mile the road turned left and widened into two lanes with an empty gate shack in the middle. Another sign, a duplicate of the one by the highway, was posted in front of the gate shack. Just beyond it a twelve-foot cyclone fence topped by three strands of barbed wire extended in both directions for an interminable distance. Two large gates, one on each side of the roadway, stood open. About a hundred yards away, a cluster of other buildings was visible. There were five in total, with two being fairly large and the others a bit smaller. What looked to be an obstacle course ran along the fence-line. All of the buildings appeared to be pre-fab, except one of the larger ones, which was cinderblock and still under construction. A cement mixing machine buzzed alongside numerous stacks of bricks on wooden pallets as men worked on three scaffolds amongst the buzzing of saws and the pounding of hammers. The asphalt road wound around the structures and Wolf saw a series of man-made berms forming several consecutive rows of gun ranges, each with a series of flag poles. One of them had a half dozen old cars parked at spaced distances between two berms. Another had a square one-story structure situated in the center of what appeared to be another pistol range. The austerity of the set up almost reminded him of a few of the base camps he’d served at in Afghanistan and Iraq.
He pulled up in front of one of the smaller buildings with an OFFICE sign posted by the door. A third BEST IN THE WEST sign was set up next to the three steps that led to the office. Two metal picnic tables and a dozen or so chairs sat along the front of the building.
“Not a bad set up,” McNamara said.
Wolf pulled up next to a tan-colored GMC and three other vehicles. The GMC had two red and yellow bumpers stickers affixed on either side of the license plate. One was the Marine Corps emblem and the other simply said, Semper Fi.
As they were getting out of the car, the door to the office burst open and a medium-sized, wiry guy with a well-trimmed beard descended the steps. As McNamara approached the two embraced and slapped each other’s backs.
“Buck,” McNamara said. “You old son of a gun, how the hell you been?”
“Who you calling old?” Buck said, his grin widening.
Wolf stood by and sized the man up. He looked to be Mac’s junior by a dozen or so years and appeared to be in good shape. McNamara stepped back and introduced Wolf.
“Glad to meet you,” Buck said, offering his hand.
“Same here,” Wolf said as the two men shook.
“Let me introduce you to my partners,” Buck said just as a trio of men exited the office building. One was a black guy who looked to be the size of a pro football linebacker.
“Joe Barnes, Force Recon,” Buck said as Barnes and Wolf shook hands. The man’s massive hand was like a catcher’s mitt. He appeared to be around the same age as Buck.
Next was Ron Corbin, a middle-aged white guy, whom Buck said was the best damn helicopter pilot in the U.S. Army.
“Too bad he didn’t have sense enough to join the Corps instead,” said the third guy, Pete Thornton, a slender, waspish man who moved with a slight awkwardness of gait. Wolf saw that the man’s left pant-leg ballooned over a hook-shaped titanium prosthesis.
“We all met in Bethesda,” Buck said. “Me and Joe were getting some tightening-up as we got set to retire, and Ron’s got so many replacement parts in him that he’ll set off a metal detector at twenty-five feet.” He paused and winked. “And Pete here was the best damn marine in my squad till he had the misfortune of getting hit by an IED.”
The memory of Wolf’s own encounter with one of those came rushing back to him and his lips tightened as he thought of Martinez and Thompson. Thompson had lost a leg and Martinez had been killed. The remembrance of their bloody bodies in the ruined Humvee had been indelibly stamped in Wolf’s mind. It was something he wished he could forget like those missing eight minutes in Iraq that still eluded him. But he was closer now to remembering or at least to figuring out what had actually happened. It was a matter of arranging all the pieces and connecting the dots.
“Mac says you spent some time in the Rangers,” Pete said. “Not quite Force Recon, but a good outfit.”
Wolf forced a smile. The inter-service rivalry was nothing new to him.
“Same side, different team,” he said, wondering if he should also tell them that he’d been busted down, given a DD, and served time in Leavenworth.
“Well,” McNamara said, jumping in and rapping Ron on the chest. “At least you three jarheads had sense enough to invite an army man here to join you and put some brains in the outfit.”
This was punctuated by laughter all around and Buck told the two of them to pile into his GMC and he’d give them the tour.
“Just let me grab three beers from the cooler,” he said.
“None for me,” Wolf said. He’d pretty much given up drinking altogether, especially during his training regimens.
Buck’s eyebrows rose. “A Ranger that don’t drink? Now that’s a rarity.”
“He’s also a professional fighter,” McNamara said. “Mixed martial arts. USA Light-Heavyweight Champion, no less.”
“No shit?” Buck nodded his head appreciably. “Maybe you can do some self-defense teaching here, once we get things rolling.”
Wolf, slightly embarrassed by Mac’s pronouncement, just nodded and said he’d be glad to.
The three of them got into the GMC as Buck’s partners went back inside the building.
“Besides the office and the two classroom buildings,” Buck said, starting the vehicle. “I’ve got a pretty good gym in that one over there.” He pointed to the large cinderblock structure. “You’ll feel right at home, Steve. I’ve got a bunch of punching bags, some free-weights and machines, and a couple of basketball hoops. And we got a firing house with blacked out windows on one range that we can use for night-vision live-fire training.”
He twisted the key in the ignition and the truck came to life.
“That one over there’s gonna be a hotel, if and when I can get the license for it,” he said, indicating the building under construction. “That way I can eventually offer extended classes where people can stay right here and get tortured the way they did it in Boot Camp and Basic Training. You know, getting them up in the middle of the night to do push-ups and run the track.”
McNamara laughed. “Why the hell would somebody want to pay to stay and go through that kind of abuse?”
“You’d be surprised what some of these jokers will do,” Buck said. “I’m thinking of offering like an Outward Bound type of confidence course, too. Once we can offer lodging, we’ll be raking it in, and we won’t lose out to any of the hotels in Mesa.”
Wolf had his doubts about prospects of that but again he kept silent.
Let Buck have his fantasy, he thought. He didn’t see how they were going to turn a profit.
“You mentioned something about a class coming up,” McNamara said.
“Right. We’re trying to get this four-day urban combat and dignitary protection class set up for the end of the week,” Buck said. “Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and graduation on Sunday. We’ll toss in a little celebration party, too.”
“Trying?” McNamara asked. “It ain’t set up yet?”
Buck shook his head. “So far we got eleven men registered. Well, ten men and a female who wants to be GI Jane. We need an even dozen to make it fiscally sound.”
“Well, Steve and me will be glad to sign up,” McNamara said. “That’ll put you over the top.”
Buck shook his head again. “Nah, it won’t.”
“Why not?” McNamara said. “With us two that’ll give you a baker’s dozen?”
“Caus
e I’m already counting you two as part of the eleven.” Buck grinned. “We take Visa, Master Card, or cash, by the way.”
McNamara snorted a laugh. “Ain’t that just like a jarhead?” He turned to Wolf. “I ever tell you how we met?”
Wolf shook his head.
“It was in Somalia,” McNamara said. “A couple of weeks after the Battle of Mogadishu.”
“We got dropped into some shit neighborhood,” Buck said. “All six foot piles of rotting garbage, junk all over the streets, and tin can houses. Supposed to evac some U.N. aid workers that this one war lord was supposedly threatening. Well, we found ’em and were trying to load them all into their vehicles right before morning prayers. Then, all of a sudden these damn bells start going off signaling fajr, the Muslim morning prayer, and then a bunch of fuckers popped out of the fucking woodwork and started shooting. They’d obviously knew we were coming and sprung a trap. We got pinned down and were ushering all the aid workers back into this building that offered about as much cover as a silk nightgown. Rounds were going right through the damn walls. I was in the process of radioing for help when all at once I hear something and a bunch of voices on the radio start barking like dogs and asking, ‘Where are you at?’ Shit, it was music to this marine’s ears.” He paused, glanced at McNamara, and grinned widely. “I gave our location and popped some smoke right in front of our building. A couple of seconds later a bunch of explosions start going off, right and left. Bodies of the bad guys are flying around in the street right in front of us. Hell, I thought it was a fucking air strike at first and then, when my hearing come back, I heard the sound of the choppers, army choppers, coming in still barking like dogs. Then those fucking skinnies started scattering like cockroaches when the lights come on. We picked off a bunch of them and then this one chopper starts hovering over us. This big son of a bitch wearing a green beret and five of his buddies come swooping down on a repelling lines, land, shoot a couple more Somali stragglers that us and the Blackhawks didn’t get, and then comes waltzing over to us and says, ‘I heard you might need a ride.’”
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