The McNamara Ranch
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf recognized the pair of them as they pulled up in the navy-blue Crown Vic. They were the same two who’d questioned him at the Embassy down in Mexico. What were their names again? Franker was the younger one. He reminded Wolf of a cherry jumper and probably didn’t even shave every day. The older guy, Turner, had flecks of gray in his hair and stayed in the background. Franker had shot his load, trying at first to be friendly and when that didn’t work, switched to what he thought was a show of authority. That hadn’t worked either and Wolf had left the Embassy after claiming that he hadn’t been with Mac or Reno when the robbery incident had occurred.
“Why don’t we say allegedly occurred?” Franker had said.
“Say whatever you want,” Wolf told him. “After all, you’re the FBI.”
Down in Mexico, they’d parted on less than friendly terms, but if there was anything six years in the army and four years in Leavenworth had taught him, it was to never overlook an opportunity to keep his mouth shut.
“God gave you two ears and one mouth,” his father always said. “That means you should always do twice as much listening as you do talking.”
It was one of the few good pieces of advice his old man had given him.
The younger FBI agent had been driving and he was grinning as he stepped out of the car. He glanced at his partner and pointed at Reno. The other fed nodded. His expression was flat-lined.
“Well, well, well,” Franker said. His hand reached inside the breast pocket of his blue suit jacket. “Mr. Garth. Interesting that you raced right over here after we spoke to you. Isn’t it?”
Reno turned and gave the man a sneering look.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The two feds exchanged another set of glances before Franker pulled out a black badge case and flipped it open displaying his credentials along with a small gold shield.
“You’re still having those memory problems, eh?” His smile broadened. “To refresh things then, I’m Special Agent Franker, and this is my partner, Special Agent Turner. We’re with the FBI.”
“I know that,” Reno said, his face still harboring a scowl.
Franker made a show of snapping his badge case closed and replacing it in his pocket.
“Misters McNamara and Wolf,” Franker said. “Nice to see you again, as well.”
“Wish we could say the same,” McNamara said, flashing smile of his own. “But your appearance kinda brings back a lot of bad memories. The kind of stuff we’d like to forget.”
“You’re pretty good at forgetting things,” Franker said. “Aren’t you?”
McNamara started to answer, stopped, suddenly affected a confused look, and said, “What was that you just asked me?”
He followed that with a grin.
Franker seemed stunned, then exhaled a short breath.
“Do you know it’s a felony to lie to a federal agent?” Turner said.
McNamara widened his eyes, then turned to look at Wolf. “Well, what do you know? He talks.”
Wolf saw a flush of red appear under Turner’s somewhat swarthy complexion.
“We need to re-interview you both,” he said. “Would you mind coming downtown with us?”
“As a matter of fact,” McNamara said. “I would mind. I mean, I would love to talk to you but I’ve got something to do.”
“And what’s that?” Turner asked.
“Oh, gosh darn it,” McNamara said. “Now I’m having that memory trouble again. I plum forgot.”
Wolf didn’t like the way this was going. Mac was being way too coy and confrontational with these two federal jokers. He was used to dealing with authority figures in the military who would always back off when he puffed up his big chest with all those combat ribbons, silver jumpmaster wings, and the green beret on his head. Back then it was obvious, despite the chain of command, he was the king of the jungle. These guys played by a different set of rules and this was a different jungle.
“You caught us at a bad time,” Wolf said. “Maybe we can make an appointment to come see you, or something.”
“Ah, Mr. Wolf,” Franker said. “Your parole officer been by to see you lately?”
“I’m not on parole.”
Franker raised an eyebrow. “You know, Otis. Maybe we need to take another look at Wolf-boy’s prison file. Maybe we should go over the transcript of his court martial in case they missed something the first time.”
“Wolf-boy?” McNamara said, taking a step forward. “That’s about enough. This man’s a decorated veteran, won the silver star, which is more than I can probably say for the two of you. Either of you served?”
“No, but neither of us have a dishonorable discharge, either,” Franker said.
McNamara turned toward him. “Get off my property.”
Wolf stepped in front of Mac to block him, their faces inches apart. He didn’t think Mac was going to take a swing at the fed, but he didn’t want to give them any justification for saying they felt threatened.
“Mac, cool it,” he said. His years in Leavenworth had taught him an icy coolness in the presence of authority. Stand your ground, show proper respect, but don’t let them bait you.
Franker snorted. “Look, why don’t we drop the shenanigans here? We’re got new information that we need to discuss with you regarding the murder of several American citizens down in Mexico. Are you going to cooperate or not?”
“American citizens?” McNamara said. He seemed to have cooled down a tad and nodded to Wolf to signal this. “Who you talking about?”
“Henry Preen, for one,” Franker said.
“Who’s that?” McNamara asked.
This time Wolf felt that Mac’s question was genuine. The name rang no bells with him either.
“That’s Herc,” Reno said. “His real name.”
“Things starting to come back to you now, Mr. Garth?” Franker asked. “Don’t you want to help us find out who killed your friend?”
For a moment Wolf was afraid the sentiment might make Reno fold, but he didn’t.
“I wish I could,” he said. “I just can’t remember nothing.”
The expression of sadness on his visage was unmistakable and twin tracks of tears wound their way down his cheeks. He turned, saying, “I gotta go.”
They watched his limping hobble to the van, the pretty face of the woman behind the wheel exhibiting concern. He slammed the door and the vehicle backed up, making several stops and forward and backward movements before negotiating around the FBI sedan.
“He appears pretty upset,” Franker said.
Wolf thought so, too, and it worried him. The feds had picked up on Reno being the weak link. If he broke, the whole sad tale they’d constructed about Mexico would come tumbling down like a house of cards.
“We already gave our statements down in Mexico,” McNamara said. “And we’re not saying anything more unless we have our attorney with us.”
“Your attorney?” Turner said, a smirk forming under his dark mustache. “Why do you need an attorney? You’re the victims, aren’t you?”
“I’ll bet that’s what you told General Mike Flynn, ain’t it?” McNamara said. “I know how you federal snakes operate and I don’t want nothing to do with you.”
He turned and started walking back to the house. Wolf looked after him and saw Kasey standing in the doorway with a concerned look. Her eyes locked with his and her expression hardened.
Great, he thought. I guess I won’t be getting any of that info I asked for anytime soon.
He glanced back at the FBI agents.
“He just got out of the hospital for his second surgery,” Wolf said. “He’s been having a rough go of it.”
“It’d go a lot easier if you two would cooperate,” Turner said.
“We did,” Wolf said.
“Bullshit,” Franker said. “Do you really want to go head to head with the FBI?”
Wolf didn�
��t. He kept silent.
You can’t get in trouble for what you don’t say, he thought.
“We were in the middle of something,” he said. “If you have a card, we’ll give you a call and set up an appointment.”
The two special agents said nothing.
Apparently this hadn’t gone quite the way they’d hoped.
Franker reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a business card.
“Listen, Wolf,” he said as he handed over the card. “Any time an American citizen gets murdered on foreign soil, it becomes a Bureau case. We’re going to get to the bottom of who killed Preen and the others. It would be in both your and Mr. McNamara’s best interests to cooperate.”
“We know you both know more than you’re telling,” Turner added.
You got that right, Wolf thought.
But once again, he said nothing.
Chapter Three
New York City
They watched as Von Dien laboriously rose from the chair and trundled out of the office, followed by his huge bodyguard. The rich man stopped by the door and tilted his head slightly.
“Find that bandito statue,” he said. “Get it for me. Soon. And tidy up those loose ends we discussed.”
Without waiting for a reply, he waved his hand at the door. The bodyguard reached down and pulled it open, his face as emotionless as marble.
Loose ends, Cummins thought.
He’d heard that before and didn’t like the sound of it. Not after being kept incommunicado for three weeks. He knew the rich son of a bitch could very well be referring to him as one of those loose ends.
As the officer door pneumatically closed, Fallotti took a deep breath, then his nose wiggled slightly.
He must have gotten a full whiff of Zerbe, Cummins thought.
It amused him, although he struggled not to show it.
Serves the prick right for keeping me stowed away for so long, he thought. After all I went through in Mexico.
Cummins caught a whiff of his own BO and knew that he smelled bad himself but the South African PI still smelled worse, like he hadn’t showered or changed clothes in a week.
I’m not looking forward to working closely with him, Cummins thought.
“Okay, gentlemen,” Fallotti said. “Let’s brainstorm a bit. We’re going to need some heavy-duty back-up on this to deal with this Wolf character.” He opened a manila file on his lap. “This McNamara fellow shouldn’t be taken lightly, either. He was a green beret.”
“The man I have in mind will make mincemeat out of both of them,” Zerbe said.
“You’re sure?” The lawyer raised his dark eyebrows. “Eagan and his Viper unit came equipped with a pretty impressive resume, and Wolf took them all out. Singlehandedly.”
“He’s no push-over,” Cummins said.
Zerbe smiled. “Apples and oranges. Believe me.”
“All right,” Fallotti said. “Tell me more about this guy.”
Zerbe leaned forward in his chair.
Cummins tried to edge away from him and breathe through his mouth.
“His name’s Luan Preetorius,” Zerbe said. “Ran a counter terrorist squad in South Africa until the new swart prick of a president took over. Things started to go to hell in a handbasket, so he got the hell out. Formed his own team. They call themselves the Lion Squad. Do mercenary work all over the continent now. The world, too.”
“The Lion Squad, huh?” Fallotti said. “That’s appropriate. They operate out of South Africa?”
“For now they do,” Zerbe said. “Johannesburg’s pretty much of mess now, thanks to the fucking basters. They’re slaughtering white families all over the country and stealing their farms and property. Pretty soon the country’s going to be another Rhodesia.”
“Don’t they call it Mozambique now?” Cummins said.
He couldn’t resist sticking the knife in this asshole and twisting the blade a little. Why the hell hadn’t they locked his ass up, too, and why was Fallotti, for whom Cummins officially worked, listening to this smelly cretin?
“Zimbabwe, actually,” Zerbe said. He looked irritated.
Fallotti looked at Cummins and frowned.
Oh, shit, Cummins thought. I’d better keep my mouth shut, at least for the time being.
But he also knew that he had to reinsert himself into the plan or risk being discarded, and being discarded by Von Dien or his proxies wasn’t a pretty thought.
“As I said, he and his team operate internationally. Special assignments.” Zerbe put the cigarette back between his lips. “You mind?”
Fallotti shook his head.
“They ever do anything in this country?” Fallotti asked.
“Well, they’ve been here, but not doing what you’d call wet work.” Zerbe took out his lighter, lit the cigarette, and blew two plumes of smoke out of his nose. “Mostly to teach seminars on warfare techniques, urban combat, and weapons.”
“Weapons …” Fallotti looked at him. “If, in the chance they needed equipment, would that be a problem obtaining it here?”
Zerbe grinned and pulled back his jacket lapel, exposing a gun in a shoulder holster.
“Does it look like it’d be a problem?”
Fallotti nodded quickly and Cummins wondered if the gun had shaken him up. Apparently, it hadn’t.
“Okay,” Fallotti said. “Get a hold of him.”
Cummins was also wondering how he was going to fit into this. He had to figure out something, but then again, he was the one who’d helped smuggle the other half of the artifact out of Iraq. Plus he was also the only of the three of them who’d seen that half. And he’d given them the information about artifact being concealed in the bandito statue. That had to count for something, even if they had flubbed up and not recovered it, which wasn’t his fault at all.
Blame that fuck-up on Eagan, he thought.
And there was another angle he could play, too: They seemed to think he knew more than he did about the bandito. This amused him also. He’d never even cast eyes on the fucking thing.
But at this point, it was one of his main bargaining chips and he intended to make the most of it. It was time to get back into this card game.
“So,” he said, after clearing his throat. “Are we operating under the assumption that Wolf doesn’t know what he’s got?”
Fallotti stroked his chin. “What do you think?”
Cummins tilted forward in the chair, trying to make himself appear more in charge.
“Since I’ve been isolated up in the Catskills for the past three weeks,” he said. “I don’t appear to be as well informed as the two of you.”
“That was by order of Mr. Von Dien,” Fallotti said quickly. He waved his arms. “Christ, look around. He ordered that the whole firm be dissolved, for Christ’s sake.”
Eliminating those loose ends, Cummins thought, becoming more convinced that he, too, was on the same dissolution list.
“Be that as it may,” he said. “It did give me a lot of time to think. It would seem logical, Wolf knows something, but is not privy to all the details. He hasn’t approached anyone about a making deal or trading for information.”
“Good point, Jack,” Fallotti said.
Ah, Cummins thought. He called me Jack.
He was starting to feel a bit more secure but he wanted to press whatever advantage he could muster, make them think he was on the ball, despite the mess up down south of the border. Convince them it was due to their placing too much faith in that incompetent asshole, Eagan.
“Don’t you mean, as far as we know?” Zerbe said. “Is it possible he just doesn’t know whom to contact about the thing?”
The prick, Cummins thought. I trust this asshole about as far as I could throw him.
Fallotti shrugged. “I suppose that’s a valid point. It does seem significant that they brought something like that back with them. And even filled out a custom’s declaration for it.” He looked back at Zerbe. “You’re sure Accondras didn’t spill t
he beans to them?”
Zerbe pursed his lips, looking contemplative, then shook his head.
“No, I was with them practically the whole time. He alluded to having some kind of ace in the hole, but never specified what it was. Only that it was valuable. Very valuable.”
“Maybe they kept it because they know it’s the key to something,” Cummins said, trying to reinsert himself into the conversation. “That had to be obvious. Why else would that asshole, Accondras, have been carrying it with him when he went to his … assignation.”
“Maybe he was going to give it to the kid to play with while he got his rocks off,” Zerbe said. He emitted a husky sounding laugh.
Cummins laughed, too, as soon as he saw Fallotti’s grin, but the imagined scene bothered him somewhat. He already knew about Zerbe’s lack of scruples, but obviously if Cummins’s own boss shared an absence of repulsion for the seamy side of things, how far could he be trusted?
“So why don’t you contact your man in South Africa,” Fallotti said. “See how quickly he can respond.”
“I’ll probably have to leave him a message and have him get back to me,” Zerbe said. It’s about ten at night over there now.”
Fallotti nodded. “Let me know when he’s available, as long as it’s soon. I’m putting you two on a red-eye to Phoenix tonight. Get on the ground out there and start checking things out.”
“We’re gonna need some cash,” Zerbe said. He leaned his head back and blew out a smoke ring. “Same arrangement as last time?”
“Already taken care of,” Fallotti said. “My secretary’s preparing a packet and some generic debit cards for you.” He paused and turned to Cummins. “I’ll have her do one for you, too, Jack.”
Cummins nodded but found Fallotti’s wording troublesome. It was as if he were an afterthought. Like he hadn’t been included in the original plan, and it wasn’t until he had reasserted himself here that he was brought back in.
He couldn’t help but ponder the obvious unspoken question: So what did they have in mind for him originally, when they effectively had him on ice for those three weeks?
Devil's Fancy (Trackdown Book 2) Page 5