Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1)

by Michael A. Black

  “Me, too,” he said.

  “They still pretty far away,” Herc said. “They’ll cut us down we try to move across that space.”

  Wolf assessed the distance and decided Herc was right.

  “Let’s try to get at least one of them over here then,” he said.

  “How we gonna do that?” Herc said.

  “I’ll think of something,” Wolf said. “You guys hit the dirt when I make my move.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” Herc said. “You grab one and it’ll be enough of a distraction for me to rush ’em.”

  Wolf said nothing. It didn’t appear that a frontal rush would have much chance of success. But maybe, if the big man could move fast enough to take advantage of the diversion …

  “Hey,” Wolf said in a loud voice. “How about giving me one of them smokes?”

  “Fuck you,” the one called Newman said.

  “Come on,” Wolf said in a coaxing tone. “I’ll pay for it.”

  Reynolds glanced at the other two. He looked interested.

  “Pay with what?”

  “I got a couple thousand pesos in my pocket over here,” Wolf said. “Buy you some real good, grade-A, Mexican poontang when you get back in town.”

  Reynolds drew deeply on his cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. He wasn’t moving.

  Wolf debated whether to try and push it further.

  No, he told himself. Wait for it.

  Reynolds brought the cigarette to his lips once more and the tip glowed red. He exhaled with a laugh as he exchanged more conversation with his two compatriots.

  A nest of vipers, Wolf thought.

  He was about to say something more when Reynolds adjusted the shoulder strap of his AK-7 and began sauntering over toward the four captives.

  Wolf felt a surge of adrenaline flooding through every artery and vein.

  “Okay, pretty boy,” Reynolds was saying as he walked. “You better not by bullshitting me or I’ll take it out of your hide.”

  Wolf smiled and cast a quick look toward Herc, hoping he wouldn’t jump the gun.

  Struggling to get to his feet, and making it look like he was having a rough time of it, Wolf managed to straighten up, still holding his arms behind him.

  Reynolds was only a few feet away now, the cigarette’s ash a bright crimson, the AK-47 hanging loosely over his shoulder, the Glock pistol in his low-slung tactical holster and secured by a nylon strap.

  The pistol’s the best target, Wolf thought, noticing that gun was also held in a black polymer shell. It was level three—the kind where you had to hit the release button and then grip the weapon’s handle and twist slightly to free the trigger guard from the internal locking safety. That added at least another second or two to the snatch.

  “All I want’s a smoke,” Wolf said, stepping forward.

  Reynolds was only a foot or so away now and Wolf brought his right hand up, his fingers extended like a spear, and plunged them into the soft space beneath Reynolds’s Adam’s apple. He jerked forward, his arms rising toward his throat as Wolf grabbed and spun him around. Wolf’s right hand closed over the butt of the Glock.

  Press, twist, pull, lift, he thought, praying that the gun would come loose.

  It did.

  As he was bringing it up Herc rose and charged the other two guards. Newman whipped his rifle around and a quick burst of flame shot out of the end of the barrel looking like a flash of yellow in the dark night. The distinctive sound of the Kalashnikov echoed in Wolf’s ears, then he heard no sound. Everything proceeded in slow motion.

  He acquired sight acquisition, centering on the shooter’s face, and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun jerked back in his hand.

  Controlling the recoil, Wolf let the trigger return forward until he felt the trigger-pin do its little click, then he squeezed off another two rounds.

  The third guard had his rifle pointing at them and more fire erupted from it.

  Wolf felt the rounds zing by his head and directed the gun at him.

  Herc’s massive body was tumbling forward.

  Wolf aimed and shot at the third assailant.

  Newman was crumpling now.

  So was the third one.

  Reynolds struggling ceased and went limp. Wolf let him drop to the ground and then pointed the Glock at the man’s face and squeezed off another round.

  There was no sound, but he saw a round hole appear in Reynolds’s forehead, just an inch or so from the right temple. The man’s eyes stared vacuously with no reaction.

  Wolf immediately ran to the other two, his gun extended out in front of him, the handcuffs still dangling from his right wrist, and bent to check them.

  Both of them were dead.

  As he turned back, he saw Mac writhing on the ground. Wolf shoved the Glock into the left side of his beltline and rushed over to him. Blood welled from a hole in his right side.

  Oh, please don’t let it have hit his liver, Wolf thought.

  He checked wound more closely. A ragged exit wound, bleeding copiously, was on the lower right side.

  A through-and-through, Wolf thought. Recoverable, depending on how much internal damage there was.

  And if I can get Mac to a hospital, he thought.

  He looked at Reno, who was grimacing as well, with two holes in his left thigh and calf. Herc lay about six feet away and was unmoving. Wolf saw a trio of holes stitched across the ample back.

  In through the chest, out through the back. Non-survivable wounds.

  As Wolf scanned the ground for the handcuff key his hearing began to return in stages, the initial sounds, moans from Reno and swearing from McNamara, were swathed in a persistent buzzing noise. They sounded far away. Gradually, as he uncuffed Mac and then Reno, the buzzing receded.

  “Looks like a through-and-through,” Wolf said, taking off his blouse and tying it around Mac’s waist.

  McNamara grunted in pain.

  “How bad’s Reno look?”

  Wolf cinched the knot and placed Mac’s hand over the front of the wound site. He pulled Reynolds’s body away and checked the bounty hunter. The blood was pouring out of both holes in his leg, but it didn’t look arterial.

  Reno grabbed his arm. “Herc,” he managed to say.

  Wolf shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Tears streamed down Reno’s face.

  Wolf went over and checked Herc’s body. His head was twisted to the left, eyes wide open, as if he was watching the rest of the scene unfold. No pulse, no breathing. Wolf closed the man’s eyelids and stood.

  He helped McNamara get to his feet and then reached down and snared his legs, lifting him up and carrying him in a run toward the van.

  “I can walk, dammit,” McNamara said.

  “Not fast enough. I got to get you two to a hospital. Plus, we don’t know if Eagan heard those shots.”

  “Eagan?”

  “That big fucker that was giving the orders,” Wolf said.

  “You know him?”

  “Yeah. He’s one of the guys that set me up in Iraq.”

  “Set me down here,” McNamara said. “By our buddy, Paco. Let me look for the keys. You go back and get Reno.”

  Rather than debate the issue, Wolf gently lowered Mac to the ground, feet first. Once he was certain that McNamara was capable of standing by leaning against the van, Wolf went back for Reno. He’d crawled over to his fallen partner.

  “Oh, God,” he was whimpering. “Oh, God.”

  “Come on, Reno,” Wolf said. “There’s nothing we can do for him now, and I got to get you guys to a hospital.”

  Reno grabbed Wolf’s forearm.

  “Don’t just leave him here. Please.”

  Wolf nodded and lifted the other man and they began skip-walking toward the van like two men in a three-legged race. Suddenly the vehicle came barreling toward them and screeched to a halt. McNamara was behind the wheel.

  Wolf moved to the still open side door and helped Reno through the door
. The big man flopped onto his back and howled in pain. Wolf pulled out his flashlight and checked Reno’s leg. The blood was still flowing. Glancing around, Wolf spotted the backpack that Accondras had been wearing. Grabbing it, he quickly tied the shoulder straps around Reno’s leg to staunch the bleeding and then placed the bag underneath his leg to elevate it.

  “Big Jim,” Reno said. “Herc.”

  “Herc’s dead, Reno,” McNamara said. “Ain’t no helping him now.”

  “You can’t leave him here,” Reno said. “Don’t. Please.”

  He coughed.

  McNamara glanced at Wolf and waved his arm.

  “I’ll pull this thing closer,” he said. “Can you lift him in here?”

  Wolf was about to protest but didn’t want to waste time arguing. He turned and ran back to Herc and began dragging him toward the advancing vehicle. McNamara came to a stop about five feet away and Wolf managed to lift the dead man into the back of the van, with Reno helping to pull the body inside.

  He groaned in pain and his head rocked back with a clunk, hitting the metal floor as he reeled from the effort.

  Wolf slammed the back doors then ran around to the right side and slid the other door closed. He then went to the driver’s door and pulled the handle, but it didn’t open.

  McNamara had locked it.

  “What are you doing?” Wolf said. “Let me drive.”

  “Like hell,” McNamara said.

  “I gotta get you guys to a hospital. Now move.”

  “Huh-un,” McNamara said. “I’m driving me and Reno there. You’re going after those sons of bitches and our pinch.”

  “What?”

  “You got to. Take José’s motorcycle. You know how to ride one of them things, don’t ya?”

  “The hell with them. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  “Then let go of that damn door and let me get going before we lose any more blood. It’s a straight shot back to the city. There’s got to be a hospital open there, as big as that place is. At the very least I’ll find the American Embassy.”

  “Mac, listen—”

  “No, you listen, dammit. You gotta find them guys. Two reasons. One, our fingerprints are on that duct tape. We get tied to a murder or two down here, they’ll lock us up and throw away the key.”

  “The Mexican police aren’t gonna know our fingerprints.”

  “No, but the feds will. Any time an American citizen dies on foreign soil, the Bureau gets involved.”

  Wolf started to protest but Mac cut him off again.

  “And two, this whole fucking thing’s tied somehow to what happened in Iraq. Ain’t it? That guy Eagan?”

  Wolf hesitated, then nodded.

  “Well it’s your last chance to catch him and clear your name.”

  “No way.” Wolf shook his head. “I’m going to get you two to a hospital first.”

  “Go.” Mac shifted the van into gear. “Find them. Grab that skip and turn yourselves in to the American Embassy.”

  “The embassy?” Wolf said.

  “No other option,” Mac said. “It’ll be up to the state department to turn that sorry asshole over for extradition.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “If you ever let me get outta here, I’ll get us some damn medical treatment.” Wolf felt the strong fingers press into his arm. “Now go. You’ll lose their trail.”

  “You do it, bro,” Reno shouted from the back. “Those fuckers killed Herc. Make ’em pay.”

  Wolf hesitated. He felt torn.

  “I told you,” Mac said. “We can make it. This is your chance to clear your name. Maybe your only chance.”

  Wolf knew that was true. If he lost the trail now, without knowing the whole story of why this had unfolded like it did, he’d probably never know.

  “But—”

  “No buts, dammit.” Mac grimaced. “Take that dead Mexican’s bike and go after those fuckers. Their tracks should be easy enough to follow on that dirt road. You can catch them before they take that plane back to the States. You know what to do. You’re a Ranger, dammit.”

  A Ranger. At least he was once.

  Yeah, Wolf knew that was what he had to do. And the longer he delayed, the less the chances that Mac and Reno would be able to make the drive, bleeding the way they were. Still, the thought of abandoning them still gnawed at him.

  No man left behind.

  He repeated the phrase out loud.

  “Shit,” Mac said. “You ain’t leaving us. We’re the ones leaving you. Now go do what you gotta do, Ranger.”

  Hearing the word reminded him of who he once was.

  “How far?” Mac asked.

  “All the way,” Wolf said, reciting the answer to the Ranger creed.

  “That’s what I wanted to hear.” Mac shifted into gear and the van took off leaving Wolf standing there watching the dwindling red taillights.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Cancun And North Of Puerto Morelos

  Eagan stood inside the small room with the ragged stone walls and dirt floor. The light from a portable lantern illuminated the dank space, casting shadows over the uneven surfaces of the structure. The little cavern in the largest pyramid had proven to be a perfect little interrogation chamber. And although it had been an enjoyable little torture session, it had taken Eagan longer than anticipated to break him, as well as a bit more force than was prudent. Accondras now lay in a tangled heap about three feet away, the odor of vomit, piss, and shit permeating the air. The smell of blood was there, too, rich and coppery, and Eagan hoped that what had finally been revealed was, in fact, the truth. If it was, his job had just gotten a whole lot simpler.

  The backpack. Hopefully, it was in that damn van.

  The son of a bitch had it with him the whole time. But it made sense. Why stash something that’s not only your meal-ticket, but also your ultimate insurance policy?

  The fucking backpack …

  Cummins stuck his head in the doorway and recoiled quickly. “Oh, shit. He dead?”

  Eagan shook his head.

  “Christ, what’d you do to him?” Cummins nose wrinkled. “Smells like a hemorrhoid exploded in here.”

  “It’s a dirty job,” Eagan said. “But somebody’s got to enjoy it.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “Not yet,” Eagan said.

  “Well, I think something’s up. I heard what sounded like some distant gunshots. A whole bunch of them.”

  Shit, Eagan thought.

  He tried his radio. Several calls went unanswered.

  They may be out of range, he thought as he reached into his pocket for the burner phone. “Get that fucking Zerbe in here.”

  He dialed the number for Reynolds’s burner phone. It rang and rang with no answer.

  Eagan terminated the call and texted out a quick message to Reynolds: You ok. Call me ASAP.

  He sent the message and waited.

  No response.

  He had to check that damn van, find out for sure if the backpack was still inside.

  “What about the artifact?” Cummins asked. “Fallotti’s been texting me like mad.”

  Eagan looked at him. He was about to tell Cummins what Accondras had said, but then stopped. So far, he was the only one who knew the alleged whereabouts of the artifact. It wouldn’t hurt to sit on that for a while until he’d verified it.

  “Just get that fucker, Zerbe,” Eagan said.

  The obese lawyer disappeared from the crude threshold with an audible snort of disgust.

  Accondras moaned. “Please. Help me.”

  Eagan went over to him and knelt by his head, reaching out to pat the man’s shoulder.

  “Thomas, you did good.” Eagan gave him another pat. “Now are you sure about things?”

  “Help me.”

  “The backpack.” Eagan kept his voice even, somewhere between authoritative and nonthreatening. “You’re sure it’s in the van?”

  “It was in there the
last time I seen it.” His voice sounded raspy. “The one guy, the younger one, cut the straps and took it off me.”

  This concerned Eagan. Had Wolf and his partner found it?

  “Why?” Eagan asked. “Why did he take it off you?”

  Had Wolf somehow been able to put two and two together?

  Eagan prodded further. “Did you tell him what was in it?”

  “No.”

  Eagan spoke again, still keeping his voice soft and non-threatening: “Tom, are you sure that they didn’t know what it was? Did they open the backpack?”

  “They—” Accondras heaved out two gasping breaths, then made a hissing sound. “They don’t know. Nobody does. I sealed it in plastic and then had a local artist make the statue.”

  “The statue?”

  “Of a bandito. Plaster. A Mexican bandito.”

  Eagan took a moment to reflect on this. A priceless artifact encased in a seemingly worthless plaster statue, hiding in plain sight. It was almost laughable.

  Behind Eagan Cummins’s voice said, “That’s where it’s been the whole time? In a backpack?”

  Eagan turned and saw him standing in the doorway. He’d overheard everything.

  “I thought I told you to get Zerbe,” Eagan said.

  “He’s on his way. He was just down the hallway having a smoke.” Cummins blew out a breath and shook his head. “Where’s the backpack at now? That other van?”

  So he had overheard it.

  “He says it is.”

  “What the hell.” Cummins laughed. “Why the fuck didn’t we see it in there before and check it?”

  Eagan rolled his eyes. The fat fucker had been so worried about Wolf maybe having a gun that he wouldn’t even go by the vehicle.

  Cummins snorted another laugh. “Shit, what a fucking comedy or errors.”

  A comedy of errors for sure, Eagan thought.

  But it won’t be so funny if they couldn’t get the damn thing back. Or if Accondras hadn’t been straight with him. The son of a bitch was leaking a lot of blood and probably wouldn’t last much longer.

  Eagan tried to remember if he’d seen a backpack in the van when he’d surprised Wolf and his buddy. He thought he remembered seeing something like that but couldn’t be sure. Of course, he hadn’t known what he was looking for at that time.