Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3)

by Michael A. Black

  “You done good, Jack,” the hillbilly king said.

  Cummins grasped the man’s hand, jammed his right foot onto the rectangular metal guard attached to the rear frame, and managed to climb up into the bed of the truck. It was more like Smith had lifted him up but Cummins was still a bit winded and rolled back onto his haunches. Keller set the red plastic can on the floor of the van and removed a book of matches from his pocket. He broke one off, struck it against the striking board, and then lit the entire pack. Stepping back, he threw the blazing match pack inside the van and seconds later it ignited with an exploding, vacuous boom.

  Keller ran over to the U-Haul and ascended to the bed with a nimble vault. He motioned for Smith and Riley to get back and then reached up and grabbed the nylon rope to close the big door. As it started downward, he said, “I’m gonna ride up front.”

  “Hey,” Riley said. “How about letting me do that. I want to be with my kid.”

  “Check on him later when we switch cars,” Keller said and slammed the door all the way down.

  The three of them were suddenly plunged into total darkness.

  The Regency Arena

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Last round, thought Wolf as the air-horn blared once again.

  He felt that he’d won Round Two and Reno had agreed.

  “This one will decide it,” he said into Wolf’s ear as the command for seconds to vacate had been given. “Dig deep, Steve.”

  Wolf’s arms felt so heavy that it required an effort to hold them up. His breathing had almost returned to normal between rounds and he silently thanked all those mornings of early roadwork. Hopefully, he’d find that special reservoir of energy to marshal another commanding performance this time.

  Dig deep.

  The word rang in his ears.

  His opponent looked to be doing the same thing. He hadn’t come all this way to lose and probably had more riding on it than Wolf did.

  Only in it for the money? He asked himself as they met in the center of the cage and touched gloves as a sign of mutual respect.

  Wolf threw a quick jab and caught de Silva on the cheek. He lurched forward trying to throw a straight right over Wolf’s jab but was a tad slow and Wolf pivoted and delivered a straight right of his own.

  De Silva went down and Wolf hesitated a moment too long before making another move and didn’t follow him down to the mat. Instead, he stepped back and waited for his opponent to rise.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Reno’s voice yelled from the sidelines. “Go after him. Mount him. Ground and pound.”

  The thought of delivering punches to a semi-conscious man in a sporting event was anathema to Wolf, a holdover from his boxing days: You didn’t hit a man when he was down.

  “Christ,” Reno yelled again. “You got him.”

  But from the way de Silva quickly rolled to his feet, Wolf wasn’t so sure. He’d been stunned, sure, but he was also like a python on the mat. He could have been playing possum to lure Wolf down to the mat where the Brazilian definitely had the advantage. That added to Wolf’s decision to stay on his feet.

  Or try to, at least.

  De Silva sprang to his feet and charged. He and Wolf collided and went crashing into the black fencing, their arms locked around each other’s bodies. They danced together, twisting and turning, their bodies undulating, locked in a mocking imitation of lover’s embrace.

  More twisting and then they both tipped over. Wolf fell with his back against the fence. De Silva drew his arm back and delivered two solid punches to Wolf’s face. He was so adrenalized he barely felt the impact. He struck out with a punch of his own, a looping left, delivered from his semi-supine position.

  It was an arm-punch, with little power due to no thrust from his legs, but it caught de Silva squarely on the mouth.

  An eruption of blood spewed forth, spraying Wolf with the crimson mist. His opponent’s head jerked back slightly and Wolf slid forward, got his arms and legs planted, and straightened up. De Silva smashed an overhand right to Wolf’s temple and the black lights suddenly swarmed in front of his eyes, then vanished. He retaliated with a solid body blow that backed de Silva up a few steps. Wolf backpedaled to the center and waited as de Silva whirled and lumbered toward him.

  Wolf shot out a quick combination that stunned de Silva. He did a little stutter-step but when Wolf moved in to deliver another punch, his opponent lurched forward and encircled his waist, lifting him off the mat.

  The mat slammed against Wolf’s back as he hit the floor, the wind expelling from his lungs. He tried to inhale but his chest ached. Fighting through the pain, he took shallow, rapid breaths as de Silva undulated against him trying to pin him down, his arms still encircling Wolf’s waist.

  A warm torrent of de Silva’s blood poured forth over Wolf’s abdomen, mixing with the sweat. Wolf felt almost unable to move but somehow managed to deliver a crisp punch to de Silva’s left temple. The punch had little effect.

  An arm punch, Wolf thought, still trying to work his legs to escape being mounted.

  De Silva’s body edged upward, his bloody mouth spewing forth a steady crimson flow.

  Wolf got his right foot under de Silva’s left hip. The Brazilian scissor-locked Wolf’s left leg.

  More struggling, more pain, more warm blood flowing over his heaving abdomen and pouring onto the mat.

  Wolf delivered another punch.

  De Silva did as well.

  After an interminable thirty seconds of pain, sweat, and blood, the air-horn sounded once more, signaling the end of Round Three. It was over.

  I finished on my ass instead of my feet, Wolf thought.

  But he was certain that he’d won.

  I-10 South of Phoenix

  Arizona

  Cummins could feel the big U-Haul truck slowing to a bumpy halt as he, Riley, and Smith bounced around in the darkness of the truck bed. It was insufferably hot and no one had thought to bring water. To make things worse, the two of them lit up cigarettes and the tobacco fumes filled the air.

  “Reminds me of the Sandbox, don’t it?” Smith said.

  Riley grunted. The red glow of the cigarette partially illuminated his face. He was clearly worried about his kid.

  Cummins was, too. His original hope that the robbery would go bad, allowing him to escape and leaving him open to drive to the rendezvous point and meet Cherrie and the kid hadn’t materialized. It was a hastily conceived option anyway. The snatch would have to be done with a bit of finesse, perhaps after building some trust between him and the boy and Riley.

  Mind if I take your son for ice cream?

  That could work. One thing was for sure, however, things had to be handled just right. After the way Keller had dispatched those two guards, and Smith and Riley going along with it, meant that any such move on his part would be fraught with danger … Extreme danger.

  Did he have the stones to carry it off?

  Good question, he thought.

  Then again, they were on the move now, to where he wasn’t exactly sure. But once they got there, an alternate plan would have him contacting Wolf and merely giving him the location of the kid in exchange for the bandito. That would take him out of the equation. Let Wolf and McNamara deal with the fanatical psychos while he sold the bandito to Fallotti and VD for a healthy retirement price.

  The rear door rose upward letting in a cool breeze and ambient lighting from some sort of parking lot. Cummins struggled to get to his feet. Smith and Riley were already jumping down. Riley disappeared around the side of the truck as Smith and Cherrie embraced.

  Cummins saw they were at a rest stop on the Interstate. A long building with glass walls was about twenty-five yards away.

  “Go on inside and use the facilities if you have to,” Keller said. “And anybody wants anything from them vending machines, get it now, cause we’re heading south shortly.”

  Riley was carrying the car seat with his kid inside, the boy’s leg dangling from the seat. He a
ppeared to be sound asleep.

  “You give him something?” Riley asked Keller.

  Keller shrugged.

  “Relax,” Cherrie said. “I give him half of one of my sleeping pills.”

  “What?” Riley’s mouth curled up in anger.

  “It was more like a quarter of one,” Cherrie added.

  “Don’t never do nothing like that again,” Riley shouted.

  “Hey,” Smith said. “Easy.”

  “Fuck easy,” Riley said.

  The two men glared at each other, Riley looking white hot with rage and Smith as cool as dry ice.

  Then Riley blinked and walked to Keller.

  “Gimme my keys,” he said.

  Keller stood there for several seconds not moving, then reached into his pants pocket and removed a set of keys.

  Riley shifted the car seat with his son and grabbed the keys.

  The movement stirred the boy awake.

  “Where we going, daddy?” the kid asked.

  “To a place where we can get a new start,” Riley said as he walked toward the building.

  Keller tossed a set of keys to Smith, who caught them.

  Cummins assumed they were going to the Malibu, which was parked on the other side of the building next to the Caravan in the Cars Only section. The king and queen of the hillbilly royalty sauntered their way toward the building, arms around each other and looking joined at the hip.

  “That leaves you riding with me, fat boy,” Keller said. “I might even let you drive.”

  Cummins nodded, reviewing his options, which were few and far between. He had little choice to go along with the ride. But he felt he was still entitled to a few answers.

  “Where we going?” he asked.

  Keller lifted an eyebrow and then winked.

  “You heard the man,” he said. “To a place where we can get a new start.”

  Chapter Seven

  Former Fort Lemand

  Southern Arizona

  They’d driven for a couple of hours into the settling darkness bound for their new destination. Cummins hadn’t had the slightest idea of what that was or even where they were. He only knew that Keller, who was beside him in the U-Haul truck, kept saying just to follow the other two vehicles. The stop for gas and to use the washroom facilities was coordinated by cell phone. It had been a tedious and boring trip, with Keller continually checking the truck’s side-view mirror and spouting off some nonsense about the coming social revolution and how the Brigade would find him ready. A few times he mentioned something about the “Colonel,” but didn’t go into details. After a while, he quit talking and just told Cummins to keep driving and follow Smith’s Malibu.

  “He knows the way,” Keller said. “And we shouldn’t oughta have to stop for gas again.”

  Cummins wondered about a personal relief stop but didn’t ask.

  He knew they were more or less heading south but they’d exited the freeway and began a circuitous trek on some side roads. When they finally turned onto a paved road that seemed to cut between two small hills, Cummins thought he saw several pinpoints of reddish light up ahead in the distance which quickly disappeared. Peripherally, he caught sight of some movement to his right and realized Keller had dozed off.

  The big man stretched and yawned.

  “Nothing like a good combat nap,” he said.

  “Where the hell are we?” Cummins asked.

  “Close,” Keller replied. He turned toward him. “Past the point of no return.”

  Cummins didn’t ask what that meant. He was afraid to ask. Once again, he found himself in a tricky and perilous situation but he still had the Glock 43 that Keller had given him before the robbery. The big goon had made no attempt to get it back.

  Trust … What a wonderful thing. But how long would it last?

  Apparently, his participation in the robbery had been sufficient enough to engender a place in “the Brigade.” His plan was to go along with the program, figure out a way to get the kid out of there and contact Wolf about a trade.

  Keller took out his cell phone and made a call. It seemed to go through without a problem, which meant Cummins’s own cell, the burner phone to contact Fallotti, probably had reception out this way, too.

  More good news, he thought.

  He’d need to somehow find Wolf’s cell phone number so the trade could be set up when the time was right. But it was going to take some planning.

  “Let us pull ahead,” Keller said into his phone. “Tell Riley to pull behind you.”

  Cummins heard a muffled reply and Keller pressed a button to dial again. This time his voice had a ring of command authority when he spoke.

  “This is Captain Keller,” he said. “Myself and two other vehicles are approaching the main gate. I’m in the U-Haul.”

  A muffled response came, sounding militarily crisp and totally obedient.

  Captain Keller?

  Cummins thought Keller had all the earmarks of a lowly enlisted man. Now, he’d made himself into an officer. Or at least, somebody had.

  Up ahead, Cummins saw the Malibu pull over to the right, followed by the Caravan. He glanced at Keller, who told him to drive around them. His headlights washed over both vehicles and then he saw the red lights flash again in the distance. It was just a brief illuminated dot, gone in a second, but something was out there. He could sense it. Shapes were getting more distinct in the distance. He flicked on his high beams hoping to get a better fix.

  “Shut them damn things down,” Keller said. “Low beams only. And roll down your window all the way.”

  Cummins complied and suddenly a long cyclone fence became visible. The top of it was adorned with a roll of concertina wire. It ran along both sides of the roadway. Then straight ahead he saw the fence lines fold perpendicularly together forming a large gate with a cement guard post building in the center. A red light flashed inside the guard shack and a man ambled out holding what looked like an AR-15. He wore a set of blackish BDUs and had a thick nylon pistol belt with a leather holster hooked on the right side. His black baseball cap was centered low on his forehead. He walked to the left front of the vehicle, standing off to the side so as not to be illuminated by the headlights, holding the rifle at port-arms.

  “Halt. Who is there?” he shouted.

  “A friend of the Brigade,” Keller shouted.

  The guard stiffened, then said, “Identify yourself.”

  “Captain Louis Keller.” He then rattled off a series of numbers that had the same ring as an Army serial number. “Returning from mission.”

  The guard snapped his rifle into a salute position, held it for several seconds, and then ran back toward the gate. He flipped up a big metallic latch and walked the gate back.

  “Well, go on in, fat boy,” Keller said. “We’re home.”

  Cummins hit the gas ever so slightly and crept forward, feeling the big truck’s gears grinding in slow motion.

  Ahead, he could see an array of buildings, some two- and three-story brick, others rows of half-moon structures. He could hear the thrumming sounds of a couple of motors—generators, most likely. Several vehicles, cars and pickup trucks, were parked in lots off to the left, and piles of debris—bricks, broken lumber, and various boxes sat in quiet repose along another street. The lights of the truck illuminated an uprooted metallic sign leaning against one of the brick buildings, its two long, horizontal metal poles showing remnants of broken concrete and clusters of dried earth on the lower portions. Three metallic arches were affixed between the two poles that had once been implanted in the ground but were now uprooted and apparently discarded. He could discern peeling paint and black lettering on the arching signs: a white background upon which were some once bold black letters:

  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING

  FORT LEMAND

  U.S. ARMY BASE.

  Fort Lemand? Cummins had never heard of it. The writing on the strips of metal looked time-worn and ancient.

  The place must have been closed
down decades ago.

  But from the looks of it, a new army had taken it over.

  “Straight ahead to the orderly building,” Keller said. “We got to report in.”

  “What the hell is this place?” Cummins asked as he lights swept over another guard post, this one housing two more men in uniform along with what appeared to be an M-60 machine gun.

  An M-60, Cummins thought. My God. Where the hell did they get that kind of ordinance?

  Again, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Keller smiling.

  “Welcome to Base Freedom,” he said.

  The McNamara Ranch

  Phoenix, Arizona

  The jarring vibration stirred Wolf out of his slumber. Initially, it was just a vague disturbance to a nonsensical dream but his old combat acuity snapped into place awakening him, and he saw the cell phone on the bedside table. As he reached for it Yolanda stirred awake as well and murmured something unintelligible.

  “It’s my phone,” he said, noticing the time.

  Who the hell would be calling him at seven-thirty-five on a Sunday morning after his big fight?

  It was an unknown cell phone number.

  He contemplated the possibilities, figuring that it was probably either something really bad or really good.

  “Steve?” Kasey’s voice asked, sounding a bit tentative. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  Resisting the temptation to reply with a smart-ass comeback, he told her no.

  “What’s up?” he then asked.

  “Um, how’d it go last night?” Her voice was sounding extra tentative, which given the often-contentious nature of their relationship, didn’t surprise him. He was still trying to fathom why she’d called him when she quickly added. “Did you win?”

  “No,” he said. “It was a draw.”

  Memories of the cage announcement came flooding back to him like the rerunning of a bad commercial: the announcer saying there was a split decision, his voice highlighting the scores, the final judge’s being even, making the match a draw. Reno had been more disappointed than Wolf had been.