Two more paramedics came through the door pushing an extended gurney. They glanced around and pushed it next to the supine man on the table.
“Yeah,” Wolf said. “I’ve seen worse.”
Imperial Armored Car Service
Phoenix, Arizona
Cummins felt the sweat trickling down from his armpits as he watched the armored car pull out of the gate and head down the street in the opposite direction. His hands felt slick inside the latex gloves and for a second he worried that a layer of sweaty water would build up between the rubber and his skin impairing his ability to grip the steering wheel.
“That’s gotta be it,” Riley said. “The money run.”
Cummins nodded and pulled the van out to follow them.
He had a towel over the peeled steering column in the hopes that no one would notice that the van was recently stolen. At least it was tall enough that drivers in regular cars wouldn’t be able to look into the interior directly at stop lights and see the draped towel. But then again, he wouldn’t be driving this thing that long.
No longer than I have to, he thought.
Riley was gibbering into his cell phone now, talking to either Smith or Keller, who were in the stolen dump truck. It would be Keller most likely. Smith had done the deed on that vehicle, too, as he had on this one. The hillbilly’s talents had no end.
Two stolen vehicles, one of them a huge dumper, in less than twenty minutes. It had been phenomenal to watch him work. Less than sixty seconds breaking into and stealing the vehicle each time.
And here I am driving one of them, he thought.
But he was glad that was to be his only part in this venture. Keller had been a slave driver forcing them to go through rehearsal after rehearsal in the hot afternoon sun, imitating the steps they’d take in removing the money bags and placing them in the van. When it became evident that Cummins was not suited to being fleet of foot, Keller assigned him to be the driver. It was simple enough and ironically a role that he was intimately familiar with after his foray at the McNamara Ranch with Zerbe and company. He’d gotten away almost clean from that one and he’d made up a desperation plan for this one as well. If something went wrong, he’d simply take off and worry about the consequences later. It would mean giving up his chance to abduct the kid and make the bandito deal with Wolf, but like he’d planned, it was only to be used in dire circumstances. And from the way these three talked and planned, this operation should go down like clockwork. Cummins got the feeling that it wasn’t the first rodeo for any of them. And to make matters worse, the damn kid was nowhere around. Cherrie had him in the Malibu and was supposed to meet them at the assigned rendezvous point.
Still, Cummins thought. I do have a gun.
He felt the metal slide of the Glock biting into the fat of his belly.
It wasn’t a far stretch if this thing went totally south and he had to take off, that he could go to the rendezvous point and grab both Cherrie and the kid and take off. He imagined they’d both fit in the trunk of the Chevy. He could reach out to Wolf and make a quick demand: the bandito for the kid, no questions asked. And then he’d be free to make his own subsequent arrangement with Von Dien.
You want it, he imagined himself saying. I got it.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Riley was saying into his phone. “They’re going out now with the mother lode to start filling up all them ATMs.”
Cummins heard the loud roaring of the big diesel engine as the dump truck fell into view behind them and then soared past.
Riley was listening intently on his phone, then said, “Roger that,” and hung up. He dropped the phone into the lower right pocket of his BDU and buttoned it. Then he tapped the magazine of his AR-15 and pulled the mask up over the lower portion of his face. He was wearing the same latex gloves as Cummins. They all were. But Riley had his sleeves partially rolled up and Cummins could see the big bandage he had covering the pus-filled tattoo.
“Better mask up,” Riley said.
Cummins grunted and pulled his mask up, too, thankful that he was wearing his contacts and didn’t have to worry about the lenses of his glasses fogging up.
“They’re gonna slam ’em when they get to McArthur’s park like we planned,” Riley said. “So get ready. Won’t be long now.”
Cummins felt the surge of bile rise up and coalesce in his throat momentarily before edging back down.
Oh please, he thought, don’t let it happen now.
The Regency Arena
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf felt the butterflies diminishing as he walked down the catwalk alone and stopped for one of the refs to do the body grease check and mouthpiece verification on him. Reno, George, and Reno’s cut man, Clancy, joined him as the ref put a thin layer of Vaseline on Wolf’s face. After verifying that his corner-men had a second mouthpiece ready in case of damage to the one Wolf was wearing, they did their final, ceremonial hugs and Wolf stepped through the gate and into the cage. He paced around getting the soles of his bare feet used to the somewhat abrasive rub of the mat while waiting for de Silva to complete his own walk and inspection. As the more senior fighter, he had the advantage of coming into the cage second. Usually, it was a standard psychological tactic to make your opponent wait in the ring of the cage as long as possible to let the nerves continue to wear him down, but de Silva hardly took any time with this at all.
He must be as anxious to get to it as I am, Wolf thought.
After de Silva stepped through the gate, the announcer went into his spiel introducing both of them. The guy didn’t spare any fanfare as he went about the task, making it sound like he was calling the Kentucky Derby instead of barking into a microphone to an almost empty auditorium. But everything was being recorded and broadcast on a local sports channel so the enthusiasm had to look real. The same could be said about the fights, too. Wolf wondered about the kid he’d seen lying in that semi-conscious state in the locker room.
Ain’t gonna happen to me, he thought. Ain’t gonna happen to me.
Reno was standing there next to him and George was massaging his neck and shoulders.
Across the open expanse, his opponent bounced on his toes. Marco de Silva’s body was covered with a network of tattoos and his skin was stretched taut over a network of chiseled muscles. The man looked very fit and then some. His arms and legs were long and loose looking.
A grappler who can bang, Wolf thought.
He glanced up into the stands and although the rest of the auditorium was in semi-darkness due to the bright lights surrounding the fighting area, he was able to make out Ms. Dolly, Brenda, Yolanda, and Mac. Mac sat with one arm around Ms. Dolly and the other around Brenda. Yolanda sat a few feet away from them. He wondered if she was as nervous as he was.
“Seconds out,” the ref yelled.
Reno winked at him and said, “Kick his ass.”
Everyone else left through the gate leaving only Wolf, de Silva, and the ref.
The fence around the eight-sided ring was jet black and had a black barrier along the top. Sixteen periodic padded posts held the fencing in place.
“Are you ready here?” the ref yelled, glancing at Wolf.
He nodded.
“Are you ready here?” the ref repeated to de Silva.
He nodded as well.
“Then let’s get it on!”
Wolf moved to the center of the ring and held up his open palm inviting de Silva to touch-up before they got down to trying to kick each other’s asses.
The acknowledging slap felt solid and quick.
McArthur’s Park
Phoenix, Arizona
They were approaching the far end of the park now, the same route that Riley said they’d go. He said he’d driven it over a hundred times at the planning session and his prognostication had now come to fruition.
Habitual behavior is the faithful ally of the ambush, Cummins remembered hearing from his military days. Not that he’d ever been on either side of an ambush.
; He heard the accelerating diesel whine of the dump truck and looked through the windshield at the unfolding scene, the accident to be.
Seconds later, he heard the crunch of metal striking metal as the front bumper of the bigger vehicle, the dump trunk, smashed into the side of the armored car right by the driver’s door. Sparks flew from the impact and the grinding of the big truck’s gears squealed with a high-pitched radiance. The cab of the armored car crinkled like an accordion as the dump truck pushed it off the street and over the empty parking spaces and over the sidewalk.
Cummins pulled up next to the crash site and Riley was already leaping out of the door, his rifle held against his shoulder at the ready, a ring of keys jingling in his left hand. He rushed over to the undamaged right side of the armored truck’s cab. The driver was not visible and Cummins assumed he’d been knocked over by the impact. Keller was there now tearing open the door, his Kalashnikov held with his right hand in firing position.
“Open the fucking back door,” Keller yelled, the mask slightly muffling his words.
“Do it, Thompson,” Riley shouted. “Do it, or he’ll shoot ya.”
A few seconds later Keller’s rifle exploded with a staccato burst and he stepped back yelling, “You do it now, idiot, and use your damn key. That’s what you stole it for, ain’t it?”
Cummins strained his eyes to try and see what had just happened.
Did Keller execute the driver?
Riley looked stunned for a moment and then reached inside the cab of the truck. He did something, which Cummins assumed was the flipping of the security switch to disengage the rear doors and then ran around to the back. Smith was already standing by the rear of the armored truck, training his weapon on the door. All the windows were bulletproof and there were three gun ports on the back and side portions. If the guard inside had recovered from the stress of the crash, there could be more shooting.
Cummins shifted into reverse and backed the van up and swung it around so the side door, which Riley had left open, was now adjacent to the rear of the truck. The intention was to afford them an easy transfer of the money bags from the armored truck into the van. Riley grasped the door handle and twisted it.
It was apparently still locked.
Cummins saw him swear and then bring the ring of keys up to the lock. He inserted one.
Keller was next to him now, pointing the Kalashnikov at the door.
Riley twisted the handle again and this time the door popped open. Smith edged the end of his rifle into the open door and yelled something. Seconds later a guard stumbled forward out of the rear section, his hands raised. Smith pulled the man all the way out, stripped the pistol from his belt holster, and pushed the guard all the way to the street and away from the opening. Riley slung his rifle over his shoulder and hopped up into the truck. Keller motioned for Smith to shoulder his rifle as well as one of the heavily laden canvas bags was tossed out of the rear section of the armored truck.
Smith grabbed it and heaved it into the van. It landed with a clunk.
Riley tossed another bag and Smith caught it and flung it into the van as well.
The impact made a jarring thud and Cummins felt a flood of bile rush up and settle in his mouth. He clenched his jaws, trying like hell not to lose control.
The two of them, Riley and Smith, moved like two automatons in tandem: toss, catch, throw, toss, catch, throw …
Cummins watched the process continue for the better part of a minute as the stack of canvas bags continued to grow behind him.
“That’s it,” Riley yelled, popping his head out of the rear door.
“Go,” Keller shouted and motioned for both him and Smith to enter the van. They both did, the foul sweat pouring off both of them. Smith slammed the door shut.
They waited for Keller who was still standing over the prone guard. Keller stooped and retrieved the guard’s pistol, looked at it, then shoved it on the side of his pistol-belt.
Smith ripped off his mask and yelled, “Let’s go, dammit!”
Keller glanced at him through the windshield, then rotated his head back toward the ground.
The sound of another staccato burst tore through the air and a spray of ejected shells poured through the Kalashnikov’s ejection port.
It was too much for Cummins. He pulled off his mask, pushed open the door, leaned out, and vomited. By the time he’d pulled himself back fully behind the wheel, Keller was in the front passenger seat with his rifle resting between his legs. A trail of acrid smoke rose from the barrel.
“If you’re done, fat boy,” he said, holding his mask away from his face. “I suggest we get the fuck out of here.”
The Regency Arena
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf plopped down on the stool as George placed an icepack against the back of Wolf’s neck. The instant chill revived him somewhat but his breaths still came in gasps. Round one had gone pretty much as expected with both fighters tentative at first, throwing jabs and kicks. As the round progressed, Wolf began to connect with a few punches and then was taken down after de Silva grabbed him. They struggled together on their knees at first. Wolf vaguely remembered Reno yelling for Wolf to “Get back up, dammit.”
I can’t let him keep me on the ground, Wolf remembered thinking, and tried to maintain his hold on his opponent’s body. Wolf had his arms around de Silva’s chest and had one leg in a scissor-lock. The Brazilian felt slippery and the pungency of his scent seemed to overwhelm everything else. They flopped together like ungainly lovers until de Silva managed to attain a mounted position and began raining punches down on Wolf. He managed to block a number of them with his arms, vaguely cognizant of Reno’s shouting. His words were indecipherable as they mixed with the heavy sounds of his own breathing and the shouts in Portuguese from de Silva’s corner on the opposite side of the cage.
Each blow seemed like a hammer coming down, and not just any hammer, a sledge hammer. When de Silva leaned back a little too far to take in a deeper breath, Wolf somehow managed to flip onto his side and then onto his front. This proved a dangerous move in that de Silva immediately went for a naked-rear-choke. Luckily, Wolf was able to grab hold of the other man’s arms and avoid the encirclement of his neck. And just as he thought de Silva had finally managed to slip his forearm into the proper place, the air-horn sounded signaling the end of the first round.
Saved by the bell, Wolf thought as he got to his feet. His arms and legs felt like lead.
It had only been five minutes but Wolf felt like it had been five hours. He struggled to get his breathing under control now as Reno’s voice suddenly became understandable.
“You listening?” Reno placed a hand on Wolf’s shoulder. “You gotta pick it up this round. He won the last one. He gets this next one, it’s over, understand?”
Wolf understood all right. One round down, two to go. He had to do better, stay on his feet, find the range.
“Seconds out,” the ref called.
Had it already been a full minute?
Wolf stood and George grabbed the stool and he and Reno headed out of the cage. De Silva’s corner-men followed.
The air-horn sounded again.
Time for Round Two.
Underneath the I-94 Overpass
Phoenix, Arizona
They were under a cement overpass with the traffic whizzing by on the freeway about forty feet above them. Cummins had driven the van to the place where Cherrie had been waiting with the U-Haul. The kid was in the car seat in the cab. While Cummins had been driving, Riley, Smith, and Keller had used the keys Riley had stolen from his former employer to unlock and open the metal clasp-locks securing the bags. The material was so tough, Riley had explained, that they couldn’t be cut with a regular knife. They’d emptied each bag into open cardboard moving boxes and secured them with packing tape. Riley pointed out the GPS monitors that each bag contained.
“Want me to smash ’em?” Smith asked.
“Just toss ’em,” Keller said. “And
hurry up and get us on the freeway, fat boy.”
Keller’s continuing use of that pejorative angered Cummins but he kept his mouth shut. This guy Keller was a fucking psycho. The capricious way he’d killed those two guards, without the slightest compunction, clearly exemplified sociopathic tendencies. Cummins could put nothing to chance with this guy.
Got to keep my mouth shut and bide my time, he thought. Wait for the right moment to bail.
And he still needed to grab the kid, too. Although it would be dangerous, it was his only way out, his only trump card, his only chance of getting the bandito.
“Get the boxes transferred while I douse this sucker,” Keller said. He jumped out of the van with the duffel bag containing the rifles and ran to the rear of the parked U-Haul truck. He twisted the securing hatch and raised the door. The bed was filled with various pieces of furniture that they’d taken from Smith and Riley’s trailers.
Keller tossed the bag containing the rifles into the back.
Riley and Smith carried two boxes each and ran to the open rear of the U-Haul. Cummins grabbed a couple of boxes and joined in. Keller retrieved a red, plastic, three-gallon can of gasoline from the truck and splashed some of the contents around inside the van. Riley and Smith returned for the remaining boxes. Cummins was out of breath and panting by the rear of the U-Haul.
“That’s all of them,” Smith said as he shoved the two boxes he’d been carrying into the bed of the U-Haul.
He hopped up into the rear, as did Riley, and Smith extended his open hand down toward Cummins.
Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 13