Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1)

by Michael A. Black

  Wolf found Accondras dead in the van, although it didn’t appear that he’d been shot.

  Beaten to death was a more likely diagnosis, Wolf had surmised as he used the Bali-song knife to strip away all the incriminating duct tape as Mac had directed.

  Two other men in black BDU’s lay by the van, their bodies perforated during the firefight.

  There were signs of a makeshift LZ in the area adjacent to the beach. As far as he could tell, the helicopter had flown south. He didn’t think it was going to return and didn’t intend to wait around to find out.

  After weighting all the weapons, the severed duct tape, and the ragged blouse with some of the errant rocks from the crumbling wall, Wolf had moved to the edge of a strange opening he’d almost fallen into. It was a hole about twenty feet deep, with waterfalls on each side and a murky pool at the bottom. The water roiled in a swirling gyre and gave off a briny odor. A thick layer of climbing shrubbery had attached itself to the cavern’s walls. Wolf didn’t know how deep the pool was at the bottom, but he figured it would have to do. He dropped each weighted bundle over the side and then slowly walked to the beach and immersed himself in the frothy waves.

  When he’d felt that he’d cleansed himself enough, he made his way back to the motorcycle and proceeded to town.

  Finding the hospital was relatively easy. A mini fleet of Mexican police cars lined the front entrance. Inside, the staff was eager enough to direct him to the injured americanos. A police guard stood outside the door and Wolf gave him a Coca Cola along with a roll of money to gain entrance to McNamara’s room.

  “Un regalo,” Wolf said, curling the pesos around the can.

  The cop smiled and nodded, turning away from the door.

  Inside the room, Mac was Mac. He held up his hand making a thumbs-up gesture along with a questioning expression.

  Wolf did a thumbs-up as well. “How you doing?”

  “Shit,” Mac said. “I been hurt worse falling off a barstool. Can you believe that they won’t let me outta here until I pay them off? Just because I don’t have any damn Mexican insurance.”

  “How about Reno?”

  “Aw, that tough son of a bitch is all right. Except for his case of amnesia.” McNamara winked. “The cops asked him what happened, but the poor guy’s got CRS.”

  “CRS?”

  Mac grinned. “Can’t Remember Shit.”

  “How about you?” Wolf asked. “What did you remember?”

  “Not much,” Mac said with a mock sigh. “We went out for a drive and some bad ass banditos stopped me and Reno and Herc on the road somewhere. Robbed us, shot us up, and took off. Musta stole their passports as well. Other than that, I don’t remember nothing.” He paused and smiled. “You’re mighty lucky you weren’t with us.”

  Wolf chuckled. “Want me to call Kasey to wire the money?”

  McNamara shook his head. “No need. I called Ms. Dolly and the P-Patrol are coming down here on a chartered plane to pay the bill and fly me back to the U.S. Should be here later today. Want me to save you a seat?”

  “Absolutely,” Wolf said.

  But that was before the two FBI agents arrived and told Wolf they wanted to speak with him. After a quick drive to the American Embassy they stuck him in a room for over an hour.

  He declined the cup of coffee they offered him and sat with his hands in his lap.

  Finally, the door opened and the two of them entered the small room. They both wore blue suits that were impeccably pressed, white shirts, and conservative power ties. The younger one sat across from him, identified himself as Special Agent Franker, and asked again if he could get him anything. The guy looked like he’d just started shaving last week.

  Wolf shook his head.

  Special Agent Franker glanced at his partner. That guy was older, heavier, and had flecks of grey in a dark brown Ivy League haircut. He made a fractional nod with his head.

  “Are you sure?” Franker asked. “You look kind of beat up. How’d that happen?”

  “I was doing some sightseeing and I fell down.”

  “Where at?’

  Wolf shook his head. “Can’t recall exactly. This is my first trip to Mexico.”

  And hopefully my last, he thought.

  The two FBI agents exchanged glances, then Franker turned back to him.

  “Mr. Wolf,” the agent said. “Do you know it’s a crime to lie to a federal agent?”

  “I guess I do now.”

  Franker sat staring at him for the better part of fifteen seconds. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, and made a steepling gesture with his outstretched fingers.

  “Okay, then. I’ll get right to the point.” Franker lowered his hands. “There was a very serious incident down here involving American citizens, one of whom perished. Two others were injured, one of whom I believe you know quite well.”

  Wolf nodded. “I was at the hospital when you stopped me.”

  Franker pursed his lips. “We have reason to believe that you and your associates were involved in a serious incident down here and we need to find out what happened.”

  Wolf said nothing.

  “Well?” the agent said.

  “Well what?” Wolf said.

  “Are you going to cooperate or not?” the agent asked.

  “What do you want to know?” Wolf said.

  The two agents exchanged glances for third time, reminding Wolf of a comedy skit he’d seen with Penn and Teller.

  “Well,” Franker said. “Who shot your three friends, for one thing.”

  Wolf nodded. “Good question.”

  Franker’s eyebrows rose minutely, and he leaned forward in his chair. “Do you know?”

  “Maybe,” Wolf said. He paused while the agent edged forward a little bit more.

  “We’re listening,” he said.

  “According to what Mac told me,” Wolf said, keeping his face devoid of any emotion. “It was some very bad-ass Mexican banditos.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Five Hours Later

  Phoenix International Airport, Phoenix, Arizona

  Wolf watched as Ms. Dolly and the P-Patrol ceremoniously pushed McNamara’s wheelchair past the final checkpoint after they’d cleared customs. Brenda strode alongside and Yolanda was walking next to her. Wolf brought up the rear carrying both his and Mac’s baggage. Kasey was standing just beyond the barrier with her arms folded. Her face was pulled tight in disapproval. Wolf didn’t see Chad anywhere but figured that might be a good thing.

  Apparently, Mac didn’t think so, however.

  “Where’s my grandson?” he asked in a loud voice.

  Kasey’s frown deepened, but she leaned over and embraced him.

  “Rod’s watching him.” Her eyes darted to the P-Patrol. “And I’m glad I didn’t bring him.”

  “Hey, honey,” Mac said. “Don’t be acting like that. I’d like you to meet Ms. Dolly and the—”

  “My associates,” Ms. Dolly interrupted. “Brenda Carrera, and Yolanda Moore.”

  Both of them smiled and muttered pleasantries, but Kasey largely ignored them.

  “You bring that cashier’s check like I told you?” McNamara asked.

  Kasey nodded and reached into her purse, which Wolf thought looked like a Louie Vuitton knockoff.

  Wolf set the bags down and stepped closer. Yolanda smiled at him and took his hand. He noticed that Kasey’s nostrils flared in seeming disapproval. She thrust an envelope toward her father.

  “Here,” she said. “For the amount you specified.”

  McNamara held it toward Ms. Dolly, who accepted it and dropped it into her Louie Vuitton purse. This one was definitely not a knock-off.

  “I appreciate it, sweetie,” she said. “But I already told you there was no hurry to pay me back.”

  “I always pay my debts.” McNamara’s head canted and he looked up at her. “Don’t you want to check it, darling?”

  Ms. Dolly laughed. “I trust you, honey-bunny. And if
it’s short, it’ll just give me an excuse to come a looking for you.” She punctuated the sentence with a sly wink.

  Kasey’s face was vivid. Once again, she glared at Wolf.

  Looks like I’m out of the garage and into the doghouse as far as she’s concerned, he thought.

  After a few moments of awkward silence, Ms. Dolly said, “As much as we’d all like to draw this out, we got us a plane to catch back to Sin City. Come on, girls.”

  Both she and Brenda bent over and planted affectionate kisses on each of McNamara’s cheeks. Yolanda’s hand caressed Wolf’s head and pulled his face toward her. After their mouths had disengaged, she let her fingers linger on his neck for a few moments and said, “Call me, boo.”

  Wolf watched the three of them saunter off, appreciating the sashaying sway of their hips.

  “Oh, dad,” Kasey said. “How could you?”

  “How could I what?” McNamara said. “They’re business associates.”

  “Yeah,” Kasey said. “And I bet I know what kind of business.”

  McNamara clucked and shook his head. “It ain’t like that at all.”

  “Well, I hope you realize that cashier’s check completely wiped out the advance that you got for this stupid endeavor.” She held up her index finger and thumb with about a quarter inch separation. “Trackdown, Incorporated is this far from being broke.”

  “Well,” McNamara said. “It wasn’t a complete loss.” He gestured to Wolf to give him the black, plastic garbage bag that was on top of his suitcase.

  Wolf handed it over and McNamara unwrapped it, displaying Accondras’s bloody backpack and something else wrapped in Mexican Newspaper.

  “Wait till you see this,” McNamara said, pulling the newsprint away. He held up a plaster statue about a foot high painted in vivid primary colors. It was an obese Mexican vaquero wearing a huge sombrero and drawing two six-guns out of twin holsters.

  “What is that thing?” Kasey said.

  Mac’s brow wrinkled and he looked up at his daughter with a pained expression.

  “It’s one of them damn banditos we run into down south of the border. Right, Steve?”

  Wolf couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  Kasey turned, saying she would pull the car around to passenger pick-up before storming off.

  McNamara looked up at him and shrugged. “Now what’s she so pissed off about?”

  “You know women,” Wolf said.

  “Yeah, well, I think this is gonna look real good on top of my mantel,” Mac said. “Whaddya think?”

  Wolf shook his head and laughed. Exhaustion was settling in and he was having a hard time hiding his disappointment over the whole ill-fated endeavor.

  “Aw, hell,” Mac said. “I know we come away with a lot of questions and not a lot of answers, but it ain’t like we come away empty handed or nothing. At least we got something to work on, don’t we?”

  Something to work on … A name, Von Dien, and knowing that it was all tied to something that happened back in the Sandbox four years ago. Something that Wolf couldn’t remember. A lot of questions, but no real answers.

  “Plus,” Mac said, trying to sound upbeat, “We got this fine bandito here as a reminder of this misadventure. I think he’s gonna bring us luck.”

  Wolf looked down on the brightly colored plaster statue. The facial features were finely carved and for a moment he could almost believe that the figure was staring back at him with a sly grin, like it was privy to some obscure, private joke.

  Yeah, we’ve got the bandito, all right, he thought. I guess that is something after all.

  A Look At: Devil’s Fancy, Trackdown Series: Book Two

  By Michael A. Black

  A BATTLE TO SURVIVE A DEADLY ENDGAME.

  Working as a bounty hunter for Trackdown, Inc. ex-con and former Army Ranger Steve Wolf has been trying to get his life back on track. Convicted of a war crime that he didn’t commit, he hopes to one day clear his name, but to do this Wolf must fit together the missing pieces of a complex puzzle, made more indecipherable by eight missing minutes from his memory that may hold the answers.

  What Wolf doesn’t know is that he inadvertently stands in the way of a very rich and extremely ruthless man who will stop at nothing to continue his bloody treasure hunt for a priceless artifact and cover up the array of bodies that already lay in its wake. As Wolf tries to fit the pieces of this developing puzzle together, he suddenly finds himself in the crosshairs of a highly professional and extremely deadly squad of mercenaries who give no quarter. Dodging more bullets than he did in a combat zone, Wolf must overcome the stacked odds against him.

  AVAILABLE NOW FOR PRE-ORDER

  Get your FREE copy of The Target H

  Join the Wolfpack Publishing mailing list for information on new releases, updates, discount offers and your FREE eBook copy of The Target H.

  Thank you for taking the time to read Devil’s Dance. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

  Thank you.

  Michael A. Black

  About the Author

  Michael A. Black is the author of 36 books and over 100 short stories and articles. A decorated police officer in the south suburbs of Chicago, he worked for over thirty-two years in various capacities including patrol supervisor, SWAT team leader, investigations and tactical operations before retiring in April of 2011.

  A long time practitioner of the martial arts, Black holds a black belt in Tae Kwon Do from Ki Ka Won Academy in Seoul, Korea. He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in English from Northern Illinois University and a Master of Fine Arts in Fiction Writing from Columbia College, Chicago. In 2010 he was awarded the Cook County Medal of Merit by Cook County Sheriff Tom Dart. Black wrote his first short story in the sixth grade, and credits his then teacher for instilling him with determination to keep writing when she told him never to try writing again.

  Black has since been published in several genres including mystery, thriller, sci-fi, westerns, police procedurals, mainstream, pulp fiction, horror, and historical fiction. His Ron Shade series featuring the Chicago-based kickboxing private eye, has won several awards, as has his police procedural series featuring Frank Leal and Olivia Hart. He also wrote two novels with television star Richard Belzer, I Am Not a Cop and I Am Not a Psychic. Black writes under numerous pseudonyms and pens The Executioner series under the name Don Pendleton. His Executioner novel, Fatal Prescription, won the Best Original Novel Scribe Award given by the International Media Tie-In Writers Association in 2018.

  His current books are Blood Trails, a cutting edge police procedural in the tradition of the late Michael Crichton, and Legends of the West, which features a fictionalized account of the legendary and real life lawman, Bass Reeves. His newest Executioner novels are Dying Art, Stealth Assassins, and Cold Fury, all of which were nominees and finalists for Best Novel Scribe Awards. He is very active in animal rescue and animal welfare issues and has several cats.

  Website: www.MichaelABlack.com.