Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1)

by Michael A. Black

  He began to feel more assured. There would be no double-cross, at least not until everything was complete.

  But after that, Eagan knew he could very well become one of those loose ends that would have to be eventually tidied up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Cancun International Airport, Mexico

  The touchdown was smooth and uneventful. McNamara had slept through most of the relatively short flight, and Wolf felt reassured. Even though he’d been unable to grab a combat nap, it was a good sign that his mentor had sidelined his over eagerness and was regaining his combat legs. Nothing was more reassuring than seeing a troop flying into a hot zone so relaxed that he was dozing on the way there. It was the ultimate insouciance. Wolf shook him awake as the plane banked to make its final descent. A couple thousand feet below them, a mosaic of mostly white colored buildings on a thin ribbon of white sand bisected the azure water.

  “Damn,” McNamara said. “Looks mighty pretty, but so did the ‘Nam until we touched down.”

  Wolf thought about the Sandbox. It had never seemed very pretty to him.

  Neither was the touch-down that followed. The big jet bounced on the runway and then the grating sound of the brakes being applied sounded like a novice plumber tying to clamp shut a leaking faucet. Wolf put his hands up onto the back of the seat in front of him.

  McNamara laughed and said, “Don’t tell me you’re a nervous flyer.”

  “Just a nervous lander,” Wolf said.

  “Well, at least there’s nobody shooting at us.”

  Not yet, Wolf thought, but kept further repartee to himself.

  Since they’d traveled light, with only Mac’s carry-on and Wolf’s army backpack, they were able to bypass baggage pickup after getting their passports stamped and their ID’s checked. They each received a paper which the agent said had to remain with their passports at all times.

  “I don’t remember doing all this on my last trip to foreign soil,” McNamara said with a wry grin. “All I needed then was my military ID card.”

  Wolf nodded in agreement but noticed peripherally that the agent who’d stamped their passports reached for a phone as they walked toward the long line that led to the Mexican Customs.

  “Don’t tell me we got to stand in another line,” McNamara said. “This is getting more and more like the army by the minute.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll luck out and get the green light to go right through.”

  Wolf studied the congestion ahead. An array of uniformed men, each with an officious air about him, was seated behind large gunmetal gray desks. Each desk had a metallic box with two lenses on the front edge. The lenses were illuminated by either a red or a green light. The lines inched forward; the people near the front were separating into two distinct groups: those who got a green light signal to proceed through without being checked, and those who received the red light, which apparently meant that their possessions had to be inspected. The people in the red light section were forming up into a series of mini lines, each one halting as the man behind a desk went through the suitcases and paperwork of each tourist.

  A traffic signal for pedestrians, Wolf thought.

  The light on desk in front of their line was now a solid red, as the man behind it seemed to be moving with a particularly meticulous monotony.

  “Something tells me there’s more than a couple of red lights in our future,” McNamara said. “It’s a known fact that the line you’re not in always moves fastest.”

  Wolf said nothing as the man at the desk finally finished questioning the tourist, handed him back his paperwork, and motioned for him to proceed into the airport. He then reached out and tapped the top of the metallic block changing the red light to green momentarily.

  The person several people ahead of them walked to the desk and stood next to the red light. Wolf assumed the next available position in the line. He used the wait time to review the situation: the fugitive they were tracking was named Accondras, Thomas. He was thirty-three years old, five-ten, one hundred and eighty pounds, dark completion, and living at a sea-side resort with his parents. They had no picture or other information about him and were supposed to meet up with some private detective that Fallotti and Abraham had hired to locate him. The detective, Zerbe, was supposed to give them the rest of the details, including a map with the coordinates of where they were supposed to drop the fugitive for transport back to the States.

  Pass go and collect your two hundred dollars, Wolf thought, remembering his childhood experiences playing Monopoly.

  No matter how many times he played, he could never seem to win. Hopefully, this real-life game would be different.

  The man behind the desk handed back the person’s passport and motioned them through. He pressed the button changing the red light to green momentarily.

  Almost time to start jumping through those hoops, Wolf thought.

  The three couples ahead of them looked like members of some kind of fraternal organization, and they all received a green light. They bustled toward the main terminal area in a flurry of laughing and back-slapping.

  “Finally,” McNamara said and started walking toward the exit. “I was getting pretty tired of standing behind those yo-yos.”

  The red light flashed and a uniformed policeman held up his hand and spoke to him in Spanish: “Espera. Tiene que ir ahí.”

  “Huh?” McNamara said.

  “Looks like one of those red lights just popped up,” Wolf said. “He’s telling you to over there.”

  A red light flashed for him also, and he put a hand on Mac’s shoulder to guide him toward the long metal tables where the luggage was inspected.

  McNamara started whistling the old Sinatra tune, “South of the Border.” Wolf recognized it from one of the CDs Mac had kept playing over and over on their way to Vegas.

  “I was hoping of another song,” Wolf said.

  “Which one?”

  “How about ‘Nice and Easy?’”

  McNamara chuckled. “Best to keep it in mind as we go through this.”

  “Does it every time,” Wolf said.

  One of the agents, a thin man in a tan uniform whose nametag read, PEREZ, motioned for them to place their bags on the table, then held his hand out for their passports and IDs.

  Wolf handed his over and McNamara did the same.

  “Gracias,” the man said, accepting both offerings. He squinted as his eyes swept back and forth, obviously comparing the photos on the ID’s to both of their faces.

  “It’s me,” McNamara said. “You might recognize me from Soldier of Fortune magazine.”

  “What?” Officer Perez said.

  “Lo siento. Mi amigo solemente estaba haciendo un chiste,” Wolf said, recalling the way the other guy had eyed them when they had just deplaned.

  Perez seemed taken aback at Wolf’s usage of Spanish. His reply was laced with sarcasm. “And obviously he especializes in telling jokes that are not funny. I speak English.”

  He motioned for them to open their suitcases.

  “And take that off as well,” he said, pointing to Wolf’s backpack.

  They complied and the customs agent went through their each of their bags with meticulous care, going so far as to call one of his assistants to take the empty luggage to be x-rayed.

  “Do you have any weapons?” Perez asked.

  “None to speak of,” McNamara said, flashing a grin and jerking an extended thumb in Wolf’s direction. “But he knows karate and his whole body’s a weapon.”

  “I am not amused,” Perez said. “Now answer my question.”

  “No, we don’t,” McNamara said, his expression turning serious. “What’s this all about?”

  Perez glared at him, ignoring the question. “And what is the purpose of your trip to Mexico, señor?”

  McNamara started to say something, but Wolf interceded and held up his hand.

  “Señor, let me apologize for my friend’s impatience,” he said. “We had a rather rough f
light. We’re only tourists to your great nation.”

  Perez appraised him, scrutinized the credentials again, and raised an eyebrow.

  “So you are here for pleasure? Not business?”

  “Sí,” Wolf said. “Solamente las actividades deversiones.”

  Perez frowned. “Speak in English, please. Have you been to my country before?”

  “Our first time,” Wolf said.

  “Nice place,” McNamara added. “Or so we’ve heard. Wouldn’t know it by this reception, though.”

  The agent’s mouth tightened into a frown. “Then let me acquaint you with our laws. We are very strict about bringing and carrying weapons in Mexico.”

  “Weapons?” Wolf said.

  Perez’s head rocked back and forth fractionally as he assessed both of them again. “I haf to tell you, you do not look like typical touristas. To me, you look more like alborotadores.”

  “What?” McNamara said.

  “Troublemakers,” Wolf said, smiling. “Nothing could be farther from the truth.”

  “Yeah, we’re only looking to see the sights,” McNamara said. “Maybe meet up with a couple of pretty señoritas.”

  The custom agent’s frown deepened and he was silent for a few more seconds, then said, “There are many americanos who come down here for such purposes. But they usually bring more clothing than a mere change of clothes.”

  “We heard you got good tailors down here,” McNamara said. “And cheap, too.”

  Perez’s nostrils flared. “I ask you again. What es your purpose for coming here?”

  Something had alerted the officials. Did they stand out that much?

  Wolf kept his expression neutral. “Just what we told you.”

  “Well, let me repeat that bit of advice.” His eyes went from Wolf to McNamara. “We haf very strict laws here in my country. If you haf come here to cause trouble, or to engage in some illegal activities, consider this very carefully. Actions haf consequences.”

  “They always do,” Wolf said.

  This wasn’t going very well already. He felt like turning around and getting on a plane back to the States.

  A man brought both of the backpack and suitcase back, set them down, and shook his head.

  “Such es life,” Perez said. He handed them back their passports and paperwork. “Enjoy your stay in Mexico.”

  “If everybody’s as friendly as you,” McNamara said, “I can see that this trip’s gonna be a real blast.”

  “A poor choice of words, señor.” The agent looked askance. “Just remember what I told you about obeying our laws. Okay?”

  “No nos olvidaremos,” Wolf said.

  McNamara grinned and cocked his thumb toward his own chest. “Whatever he just said, goes double for me. You’ve been real muy lindo.”

  The agent recoiled slightly and handed their ID’s back then stepped aside but pointed to his eye. “Tenga cuidado, señores. Vamos a estar mirando.”

  “I wonder what that dude’s problem was?” McNamara asked as they walked into the main terminal.

  “It almost sounded like somebody tipped them off we were coming,” Wolf said.

  “Who’d do that?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Maybe somebody who’s setting us up to fail?”

  The question lingered between them like a pending debt.

  “Say, where’d you learn that Spanish?” Wolf asked. “Muy lindo.”

  McNamara snorted a laugh. “I was quizzing Brenda back in Vegas on how to say some stuff in Spanish. Pretty slick, huh?”

  “Real slick,” Wolf said. “Officer Perez was very impressed. You told him he was very pretty.”

  “Oh, shit. I did?”

  Wolf chuckled. “Well, you probably weren’t his type anyway. Now what’s this guy Zerbe supposed to be wearing again?”

  “A white Panama hat and sunglasses.” McNamara blew out a quick breath and glanced behind him. “I hope that guy didn’t get the wrong idea.”

  The description fit at least a dozen or so men in the vicinity. The area was crowded and lines of uniformed limo and bus drivers stood waving signs with various names printed on them. Off to the side Wolf spied two people: a slender, waspish looking Mexican, with several days’ growth of beard, next to a heavyset Caucasian in a Panama hat, sunglasses, and an off-white sport coat. The Mexican’s eyes were darting around the crowd and locked onto Wolf’s.

  Bingo, he thought, as he saw the Mexican slap the guy in the Panama hat.

  Wolf and McNamara approached the ungainly pair, the man in the sunglasses showing no acknowledgement, the Mexican grinning broadly.

  “You are el lobo?” he asked. “De wolf?”

  “I am,” Wolf said. He looked at the man in the Panama hat. “You Zerbe?”

  The man gave a barely perceptible nod, and then motioned for them to accompany him. He turned and began pushing through the crowd toward the front entrance. Wolf and McNamara followed, the little Mexican falling into step next to them.

  “Bienvenido a Mexico,” he said. “Me llamo José.”

  “Well, Josie,” McNamara said, obviously mispronouncing the man’s name. “It’s been more like malovenido so far.”

  The little man’s eyebrows rose in unison. “You espeak Spanish?”

  “Pepino,” McNamara said with a wink.

  José’s brow wrinkled and he looked confused.

  “He means pequito,” Wolf said.

  Mac glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Brenda taught me a little bit more than I let on,” he said.

  “I’ll bet she did,” Wolf said with a smile. “Pepino means cucumber.”

  McNamara grimaced. “I hope he didn’t get the wrong idea either. But it wouldn’t be the first time I made an ass out of myself trying to speak a foreign language.”

  After pushing through the crowd of people they got to a set of glass doors. As soon as they were out of the air-conditioning of the airport the heat and humidity embraced them like a moist cloak. Wolf felt the familiar surge of adrenaline as it somehow reminded him of his first touchdown in Iraq. The heat had been different there. Dryer. No moisture in the air. This was more tropical, and he wondered if this was how Mac had felt when he’d touched down in Southeast Asia many years before. Zerbe stepped to the curb and pressed a button on his cell phone. As he whispered into it Wolf noticed the phone appeared to be a burner. The same type of burner that Reynolds had given them.

  After a brief conversation that Wolf couldn’t discern, the PI stuck the burner into his pocket and began walking down the sidewalk, waving for them to follow. A long line of lime green taxis, mostly old Volkswagen beetles, sat along the curb. Zerbe walked at a brisk pace, which was surprising for a man of his bulk. When he stopped Wolf noticed a heavy wet ring of sweat seeping through the underarms of his sport jacket. He lifted his arm, waggled his fingers, and an orange and white Volkswagen van with tinted windows pulled forward, honking at a few pedestrians to get out of its way. The people walking scattered and the van came to a stop.

  Zerbe pulled open the front passenger door and got in. José pulled open the sliding side door and told Wolf and McNamara to get inside. He then grabbed their suitcases and moved around to the rear of the vehicle and lifted the trap. José appeared and said, “I do. I do for you.”

  Wolf and McNamara got into the rear seat area of the van and waited.

  José finished jamming the two suitcases into the back, slammed the lid shut, and then squeezed into the seat next to Wolf. The man’s body odor was pungent.

  It quickly became apparent that the vehicle’s air conditioning was fighting a losing battle against the omnipresent humidity. Zerbe leaned back in his seat, took off his hat, and began fanning himself.

  “Welcome to the hottest fucking place in the world,” he said as the van took off. He had a distinct accent that Wolf had trouble placing. It almost sounded British, but Wolf didn’t think it was, nor did he want to ask.

  “We both been in hotter places,” McNamara said
. “A lot hotter.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Zerbe said.

  “Reynolds tell you that?” McNamara asked.

  “Who?”

  “Reynolds. The guy we met in Vegas. Works investigations for the law firm.”

  Zerbe stuck his index finger along the underside of his nose, then nodded.

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” He patted his pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, then placed it between his lips.

  Zerbe flicked a lighter and the oppressive stench of cigarette smoke filled the interior.

  I hope this is going to be a short ride, Wolf thought.

  The driver accelerated and used his horn almost constantly until they reached a busy street and pulled out into traffic.

  “This is Paco,” Zerbe said, pointing to the driver as a smoky breath escaped with his words. “Him and José here are my two right hands.”

  “You can never have too many of those,” McNamara said.

  “Especially down in this place.” Zerbe drew deeply on the cigarette and then said, “So we got you in a hotel down the way here. It’ll serve as your base of operations. As soon as we get there, we can go over things.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” McNamara said.

  Wolf said nothing. The noxious odors and irritating smoke were bothering him, but he was trapped in the middle of the seat and couldn’t crack a window. He hoped it wouldn’t take long to reach where they were going.

  After about five minutes of speeding, honking, abrupt braking, and quick turns, they arrived in front of a tall high-rise building. The van pulled underneath a long overhang which offered a welcome bit of shade from the bright afternoon sun. Zerbe slid out of the door and said, “The guys’ll get your bags. Give ’em a tip, would ya?”

  He walked toward the revolving glass doors. The sign over them said, Bienvenido al Hotel Casa Blanca.

  Wolf could hardly wait to get out of the vehicle and breathe some fresh air. As he tried to shake off the remnants of the interior of the stuffy van, he caught a whiff of something else: the salt air. It smelled fresh and clean and he took in a deep breath.