Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1)

by Michael A. Black

  Wolf nodded.

  “Good,” McNamara said. “Now because Coyle and his moron partner, Remmy, both blew off their scheduled court appearances, the judge issued warrants and the bail bondsman is on the hook to pay out the bond, or ...”

  “Go looking for them.”

  “Exactly. But seeing as how the vast majority of his clients are less than reputable individuals, he contacts a bail enforcement agent, like me. It’s my job to track down these assholes and bring them in. If I can do that within thirty days, the bail bondsman is then off the hook for the full amount of the bail.”

  “And how does the bondsman make anything out of this?”

  “The arrestee puts up some kind of collateral.” McNamara jerked his thumb toward the door. “In this case, he’s got the titles for their Harleys. He’s sending a tow truck for them as we speak.”

  “Poetic justice.”

  “So, everybody’s happy. The bail bondsman’s saving money, keeping his insurance premiums down, and the two scumbags are in the hoosegow. He then pays me a recovery fee, usually ten percent of the bond amount, plus expenses in certain instances, for tracking them down.”

  “I’d hardly call what we did tracking them down.”

  “It’s all in how you look at it. We saw an opportunity, and we acted on it.”

  “So you’re based here in Kansas?”

  McNamara shook his head. “I’m based in Phoenix, Arizona, but I’ll operate in all fifty states, if need be, and then some.” He leaned close and whispered. “Been south of the border, down Mexico way, a time or two.”

  “You have arrest authority in Mexico?”

  McNamara smiled, shook his head. “Sure. You just have to make sure not to get caught.”

  “Or?”

  “Or you could end up on the bad side of a Mexicana jail, and them places makes the worst of ours look like Disneyland North.”

  “You carry a weapon on these missions?”

  “A Glock seventeen.” McNamara patted his side. “Wouldn’t leave home without it. Got me a concealed carry permit.”

  “Isn’t that only good for Arizona?”

  McNamara smirked and brought his finger to his lips. “Shhh, don’t tell nobody.”

  “So you could’ve pulled it back there when that biker pulled the knife on me?”

  “Coulda, woulda, shoulda. The story of my life.” McNamara grinned. “But I was watching through the window. I was ready to nail him if things got bad, believe me, but I had to see for myself.”

  “See what?”

  “If you could still handle yourself. I had to make an assessment.”

  “An assessment?”

  “Yep.” McNamara looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. “So how about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “How about going into business with me?”

  Wolf’s gaze went to the floor as he shook his head. “Mac, I appreciate the offer, but ...”

  “No buts about it. You’re a natural. Look how easy you took out those two shitheads.”

  “That was different.”

  “Different, my ass. Like I said, with your background―”

  “Background?” Wolf shook his head. “I’ve got a D.D and a prison record.”

  McNamara snorted. “You got a helluva lot more than that. You won the Silver Star, for Christ’s sake. And the Purple Heart and the D.S.M. They don’t give them to just anybody.”

  Wolf shook his head. “I lost all that when I went into Leavenworth, remember?”

  McNamara snorted. “Bullshit. You don’t lose who you are, or what you done, no matter what the damn record might be now. It don’t matter what those pencil-pushing, dickless assholes say.”

  It was Wolf’s turn to smirk. “Tell that to the Department of the Army.”

  “I don’t have to tell them shit. No matter what their fucking records say, it can’t take away what you have in here.” His fist thumped against his chest. “It don’t change what you did. Or who you are.”

  Wolf pursed his lips as he remembered how they’d used razor blades to slice the chevrons off the sleeves of his uniform while he stood at attention. Slick sleeves, stripped of his decorations. Was that who he was now?

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?” McNamara said. “It don’t change nothing. Nothing that really means something, anyway.”

  Wolf stared down at the dirty tiles on the floor thinking about an old schoolboy riddle about a person being more than the sum of his parts. Where did the intangibles like truth and honor fit into the equation? What really defined who you were? He thought about them pulling the three rows of ribbons from the front of his blouse and setting them on the table next to his severed chevrons. Slick sleeves, no medals.

  The girl behind the Plexiglas pressed a button that amplified her voice. “Your booking slips are ready, sir.”

  McNamara stood up and went to the window. When he turned around, he held the papers out toward Wolf. “All that’s left now is for us to pass go and collect our money. We’ll split it fifty-fifty.” He looked askance at Wolf. “That is, if you’re in.”

  “Mac,” Wolf smiled up at his old mentor, “looks like you’ve got yourself a new partner.”

  McNamara’s laugh did little to reassure Wolf. Deep down he wondered if he could really pick up the pieces, begin again, after all that had happened. He knew he’d have to prove himself in this new arena, but if he did― once he did, once he got back his self-respect.

  And he pitied anybody who would ever try to take it away from him again.

  “Why Phoenix?” Wolf asked, stretching in the passenger seat. They were back on the freeway heading west with some money in their pockets and Wolf was feeling better than he had in a long time.

  “Easy,” McNamara said. “It’s within a road trip of two of my biggest markets, Vegas and L.A. And the weather’s always nice enough that I can get a flight out to New York or New Jersey or Miami if I need to.”

  “You go all those places on skip traces?”

  McNamara laughed. “One of the perks to being the best in the business. They need someone bad enough, they send me on an expense-paid trip to someplace nice.”

  “What if they send you to Detroit or Gary, Indiana?”

  “Yeah, sometimes to some not-so-nice places, too.” He laughed. “But hell, way back in the day I joined the Army to see the world, didn’t I? Now I’m doing this to see the good old U S of A.”

  Wolf smiled. “So how’d you get on to those two jokers back there?”

  “Tricks of the trade,” McNamara said. He pointed to the Thermos in the cup-holder between them. “Pour me another coffee, will you?”

  Wolf unscrewed the cap. “Want me to drive for a while?”

  “No way. Not till you get a license. You ain’t covered by that overseas troop deployment loophole no more.”

  Wolf nodded as he handed over the steaming cup. There was a lot he had to catch up on. “What about those two biker assholes?”

  McNamara sipped the hot brew and let out a satisfied “Ahhhh.” He took another quick sip. “Like I told you, after you been doing this a while, you get a knack for knowing who’s hot and who’s not, just like walking into a crowded village. Like I told you, bikers can usually be counted on for some outstanding warrants. Part of their lifestyle. I sized them up, then went outside and ran their license plates. Came back with the warrants attached.”

  “Ran their plates? How?”

  “Kasey did that.” McNamara drank some more coffee. “She’s got computer tie-ins to a bunch of information banks in different states. My little gal’s a wizard with that computer. She’s my ground support.”

  “Kasey?”

  “Yep. She’s in Phoenix.” He set the cup on the dashboard and leaned to the left, extracting his thick wallet out of his back pocket. After flipping open the laminated sections he held it over toward Wolf. A snapshot of a slender woman with angular features holding a baby. Her brownish-blonde hair was cut short around her fa
ce, looking almost like a helmet. The smile on her face looked somewhat forced.

  “Pretty,” Wolf said.

  McNamara snapped the wallet shut. “Don’t get no ideas. She’s my daughter.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yeah, once upon a time I had a life, too, you know.”

  “So that’s your grandbaby?”

  McNamara nodded and his grin grew wider. “Great little guy named Chad. Gonna be a good soldier someday.”

  “So I take it she’s married?”

  McNamara frowned. “The less said about her baby’s daddy, the better. He’s military. They’re separated, getting a divorce.” He leaned over and began working the wallet into back his pocket.

  Wolf figured it was a good time to change the subject. He adjusted the seat back and asked, “So you’re sure you don’t want me to drive, huh?”

  McNamara shook his head.

  “Okay,” Wolf said, closing his eyes. “I think I’ll get some shut-eye.”

  “There’s more good news.”

  Wolf looked over and saw McNamara pointing at a sign that said Welcome to Colorado.

  “We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto,” McNamara said. “We can stop and buy some marijuana in this state if you want.”

  “No thanks,” Wolf said. “Let’s head south and get into New Mexico as fast as possible.”

  “Damn straight. Glad you said that.”

  Wolf chuckled and shut his eyes again.

  They were not in Kansas anymore.

  Chapter Three

  Three Months Later

  The Law Offices Of Fallotti And Abraham, New York City, The Borough Of Manhattan

  Lance Eagan sat in the outer office waiting area and evaluated the shape of the secretary’s breasts, which were visible through the fabric of her white blouse and wondered what she’d look like naked. She was a bit on the dark side, obviously mixed race, reminding him of Halle Berry. Her caramel-colored skin brought back memories of his missions in Central and South America. Lots of good times down there, all those caramel-colored girls waiting in line, eager to please him.

  But this bitch had hardly looked at him twice.

  Probably a dyke, he thought.

  He glanced at his watch and ran his tongue over his teeth. Leave it to the rich prick of a lawyer to keep him waiting. Like his time was so much more valuable than everyone else’s. He decided to push the envelope a bit and stood up. The woman’s dark eyes glanced toward him.

  Eagan shot her one of his Don’t fuck with me looks.

  She quickly looked away, which amused him, but he still felt uncomfortable. Having his damn collar buttoned for this long bothered him, as did the damn necktie. He hated wearing shit like that. It went against his honed survival instincts: wearing a ready-made noose around your neck for some adversary to grab. But this wasn’t the battlefield.

  This was the civilian world and there were certain protocols that had to be followed, especially with a rich asshole like Von Dien. Looking professional, or at least what passed for professional in this world, was part of it. He had to look and sound good explaining away the latest glitch in the current plan, and it wasn’t even his fault.

  If only his former boss, that asshole Stu Novak, hadn’t taken the easy way out by blowing his head off, leaving the rest of the Vipers without any financial parachutes. No reserve money. Nothing.

  But Eagan was determined to land on his feet. With a few more big scores, like this one, and a little luck, he’d be forming his own PMC in a few months. And this time, he’d be the one sitting in a comfortable office and sending some other ex-grunts over to some foreign land to shed blood and get shot at.

  It was a matter of building his credibility. Plus, he still had his Viper contacts. Yeah, he needed to explain away the botched hit on that slippery asshole Wolf at Leavenworth that Novak’s stooge had fucked up, but hell, it had been a last-minute play that Von Dien had insisted upon. The guy suddenly got a hair up his ass about eliminating all the “loose ends” from the Iraq mission four years ago now that the second half of his precious Iraqi artifact had resurfaced. It fit with the old, rich prick’s supposed obsessive/compulsive nature, but why had he felt it had been necessary at this late juncture? Hell, that thing in Iraq was like ancient history now.

  Eagan considered this and came up with his own conjecture. Back then they’d only recovered half of that fucking “treasure” and the rich asshole had been drooling ever since ... So now that the other half had finally surfaced, Von Dien didn’t want to take the chance that somebody working on an appeal of Wolf’s case might take a look at what happened in Iraq and be able to somehow connect the dots.

  No loose ends, even one as remote as a half-Indian grunt they’d framed getting out of prison. Eagan knew the sorry fucker didn’t have a pot to piss in. He’d probably go back to whatever reservation he’d crawled out of and take refuge in a bottle. Indians were good for that. He looked over at the girl again and caught her stealing a glance at him, and that made him feel better.

  Who knows, he thought. Maybe she digs the swing after all.

  “Is it going to be much longer?” Eagan asked.

  He didn’t add that he could come back later, but they both knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. He’d spent his life working for rich bastards who held all the cards. And the money. But just maybe, after this little caper, all that would change.

  “Let me see, sir.” The caramel-colored honey picked up the phone and spoke into the receiver in a voice too low for Eagan to hear. When she hung up, she smiled at him and said, “Mr. Fallotti says for you to go right in.”

  Eagan nodded a thanks and strode to the door: solid looking wood, with a carved pattern of ornate flourishes. A metal plaque in the center was adorned with the lawyer’s name. This guy went first class. Eagan took note of the arabesque design, thinking he’d have a similar one put on his door once he was in the money.

  Entering the room, he saw three men inside. Marco Fallotti was seated behind a large mahogany desk. His charcoal gray suit matched the gray flecks in the guy’s black hair. Eagan estimated Fallotti was in his late fifties, intelligent looking, orderly, and methodical. Each stack of paper was meticulously placed so they formed three even stacks, equidistant from each other and all the same height.

  Eagan knew the type. One of those orderly freaks with an attention to detail. Not such a bad trait for a rich man’s lawyer. He watched as Fallotti stood and smiled, coming around the desk to offer his hand. The guy was going soft around the middle. Eagan shook it, making sure he exerted just enough pressure to project the latent power in his grip.

  “Mr. Eagan, we’re glad to finally meet you in person,” Fallotti said. “May I present Mr. Dexter Von Dien, the Third.” He motioned toward an enormous man seated in a leather chair in front of the desk. The guy looked like a scaled down version of one of those Buddhas Eagan had seen in the Far East. A head the size of a basketball set on top of a body of fat. He looked even softer than the lawyer.

  Richer, too, thought Eagan.

  Still he had to remember above all else that this soft, rich freak was the connection to more money than Eagan could ever dream about. Play his cards right and he’d be one step closer to setting up Vipers II and running it from someplace warm and sunny. Preferably foreign, too, and without an extradition agreement with the U.S.

  The third man, obviously some kind of bodyguard, stood next to Von Dien. At least the guy had that formidable look about him. The kind you get from walking the walk and talking the talk. His upper body was sufficiently broad, but Eagan knew that he could take him, if push came to shove. Guarding a rich prick was sure to put a few burrs on the sharpest blade, and this son of a bitch probably had to wipe the rich man’s ass after he took a shit.

  At any rate, he was certainly no undercover cop or customs agent. Plus, as careful as Von Dien had been about checking references, Eagan didn’t figure the rich bastard would get caught up in any law enforcement sting, even as anxious a
s he was to get his hands on the treasures.

  Fallotti adjusted his necktie. “Dexter, perhaps we should have Harland wait outside?” The bodyguard’s head cocked downward, waiting for his master’s voice.

  Von Dien’s massive upper body swelled as he inhaled a deep breath, then he nodded, dismissing his man with a minimal gesture with his fingers. Maybe the guy was more of gofer than bodyguard. What kind of name was Harland for a tough guy? Whatever he was, moved to the door and closed it quietly behind him.

  “Please, Mr. Eagan, sit down.” Fallotti indicated a chair opposite them. Out of the corner of his eye, Eagan caught the guy watching him, but it was a like a fat meat merchant eyeing a tiger through the bars of a bamboo cage.

  Good, he thought. There’s a bit of fear there.

  He looked at the lawyer, who had a fatuous smile plastered over his face. “Dex, this is Lance Eagan, the guy who did that work for you a few years ago in Iraq. Remember we used Stu Novak’s PMC, the Vipers?” He turned to Eagan. “Lance was Novak’s right-hand man.”

  Eagan nodded.

  The Buddha made no acknowledgement.

  Eagan kept his expression neutral.

  They both know that I could break them in half if I wanted, he thought.

  He was still standing so he towered over them, knowing his size was intimidating to potential employers as well as potential adversaries. He just had to be careful not to overplay his hand if he wanted to snare this good paying gig. The elephant in the room was the ill-conceived and failed attempt to tie up that loose end at Leavenworth, but Eagan could hardly be blamed for that. It hadn’t been his gig.

  “Sit down, Lance,” the lawyer said.

  Eagan kept his expression neutral and extended his hand toward the still recumbent fat man. The slug made no move to accept it.

  “Ahh, Mr. Von Dien prefers to avoid any contact with people in a non-clinical setting,” Fallotti added.

  A non-clinical setting? Afraid of germs? Eagan cocked a grin as he let his arm fall to his side. Or just too good to touch the hired help?