Shit, he thought as his feet inexorably slowed to a walk. This ain’t working.
Even though it was barely light, the heat was already enveloping him.
But it’s a dry heat, he told himself.
Of course, that was what they used to say about the Sandbox, too. Luckily, this place wasn’t as deadly.
He turned and started walking back, the sweat pouring down his face and neck onto his saturated T-shirt. After covering half the distance back at what he felt was a snail’s pace, Wolf sucked it up and started a slow jog toward the gravel road that intersected the highway. Once he rounded it and began the final leg, his side had started to ache again.
Damn that idiot Luth for shooting me, he thought. And damn those idiots, Reno and Herc, who’d cut the rear seat seatbelt in an obnoxious show of machismo back before Mexico. If the seatbelt hadn’t been damaged yesterday, he could have secured Luth in the seat properly, and he wouldn’t have been able to break the damn window, adding to the chaos.
For want of a nail, he thought.
Then he recalled the scene yesterday with a despondent and capitulating Reno arriving to shake their hands and offer reparations for damaging the Escalade.
And poor Herc had paid for his transgressions, and then some, down south of the border.
Wolf remembered the AK-47 rounds that had ripped through the big man’s chest. He’d been one powerful son of a bitch, breaking out of a pair of steel handcuffs. But all the muscle in the world didn’t stand much of a chance against a 7.62 caliber opponent. At least the guys who’d killed him were dead.
Small consolation, Wolf thought as Mac’s place began to come into view.
The confrontation had damn near killed all four of them and left Mac and Reno both wounded. It hadn’t been the first time Mac had been shot. He had three purple hearts on that plaque in the shadow box. But the lower right side was a lousy place to take one. And Reno’s leg had been severely impaired. Nerve damage. Wolf had been telling himself that it couldn’t have happened to a better guy until yesterday when the humbled, broken figure had stood there offering his thanks and extending his hand.
Mutual combat makes strange bedfellows, he thought.
Then, as he got nearer, he saw a flicker of movement down by the end of the driveway.
It was Mac, standing there leaning on his sword-cane and waiting for him.
It gave him the incentive to ignore the pain and quicken his pace.
Finish strong, he told himself as he kicked it up a notch and managed a sprint for the last fifty yards or so.
Well, maybe it was twenty-five.
McNamara was grinning ear to ear as Wolf shot by him.
“Damn,” McNamara said, clucking his tongue. “Getting shot one day and out doing wind sprints the next. You are one tough son of a bitch. Ah, no offense intended to your mama.”
“None taken,” Wolf said, slowing to a stop and leaning over with his hands on his knees. Normally, he liked to walk it off to cool down, but today it hurt to move.
“You’re up pretty early,” Wolf said. “What’s the occasion?”
“Two things,” McNamara said. “One, I got a text from Manny last night. Says he wants to see us first thing about something. Something big.”
Wolf nodded. Picking up a hefty bounty would mean getting a little more money to help Mac stay one step ahead of his creditors.
“And two.” McNamara’s smile faded. “The feds. They left me a message on the business answering machine. They want to see us down at the federal building this morning at ten.”
“Ten?” Wolf said, managing to straighten up. “Well at least that’s not too early.”
McNamara’s face remained solemn.
“They also accidentally, conveniently let it slip that they were fitting us in after they spoke to Mister Garth.”
Mister Garth, Wolf thought. Reno?
It made sense. The feds were going to try to break the weakest link first, or at least give the impression that they had when the time came to talk to them.
The Federal Building
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf sat in the small room and reflected that it was still larger than his cell had been back at Leavenworth. Standard set-up: An empty table and two chairs, nothing else. And his chair, the one he’d been directed to sit in, had an uneven slant to it. The front legs were probably about a half-inch shorter than the rear ones. It was designed not only for discomfort but to constantly convey the feeling that you were slipping forward, requiring constant readjustments. Make the subject feel as uncomfortable as possible in little ways while you made him wait. There was a mirror on the wall on his right. One-way glass, no doubt, so they could stand in the darkened hallway and watch the person squirm.
He and McNamara had arrived together and been ushered into separate rooms. Mac had protested, saying their lawyer was on the way, and the agent who’d escorted them into the interior office section of the building assured them that as soon as the attorney got there the SAC would let them know. In the meantime, someone would be with them shortly.
That was pretty much what Wolf expected. The casual mention by Agent Franker earlier about their interviews being after Reno’s session was meant to be a scare tactic. It was Interrogation 101: sit there and have them relate their story then hint that there are inconsistencies between the various accounts.
Wolf pictured it in his mind:
Your story doesn’t quite match up with what Mr. Garth told us. How do you explain that?
He wondered how long it would be before one of them added, Do you know it’s a felony to lie to the FBI?
Yeah, Wolf thought. I know that all right. That’s why we’re not saying shit unless we have a lawyer sitting next to us.
A lawyer …
Rodney F. Shemp, Attorney at Law. Rod, to his friends.
Also the fiancé of Mac’s daughter. He remembered the first time Mac had disclosed that fact.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call him Rod,” Mac had said. “After all, he is dating my daughter.”
Actually, Wolf didn’t think Shemp was such a bad guy. Mild mannered and soft spoken, he certainly wasn’t a macho type, but he seemed like a decent sort. And he’d taken a look at Wolf’s case, investing a lot of time and effort going over the trial transcript and requesting reports. He’d done it all pro bono, albeit at the behest of Mac.
Wolf smiled. The prospect of having Mac as a potential father-in-law was daunting enough, much less not complying with the favor that was asked.
Shemp’s review had yielded little that Wolf didn’t already know about his chances for a new trial. Unless there was some kind of new evidence, he was bound to remain an ex-con with a DD forever.
He glanced at his watch and saw it was nearing ten-forty. When they’d stopped at Shemp’s office at nine, he’d told him he had court commitments until at least ten.
“That’s good,” McNamara said. “Our appointment’s not scheduled till then. We’ll see you there.”
Shemp looked like he’d just been kicked in the shins, but he forced a smile and said he’d be there as soon as he could after court.
“And I’d advise not answering any questions without me present,” he’d added.
“Don’t worry,” McNamara said. “I ain’t planning on it.”
Wolf hoped that was true. Mac was the ultimate alpha male, even though he was a bit past it and suffering from a healing abdominal wound. He’d been around long enough not to let a pair of pretty-boy assholes like Agents Franker and Turner bait him.
Franker and Turner … That sounded like a comedy team. But Wolf knew they were far from it. He got the feeling they knew what they were doing. Exactly what they were doing.
But so did he, compliments of the school of hard knocks: going through his court martial, getting “schooled” by the jail-house lawyers on the inside, had all annealed him to the unprincipled aspects of the federal government.
So he wasn’t worried about himself, o
r even Mac.
Reno was another matter.
If he were running the investigation, that’s where he’d concentrate. His only hope, and Mac’s too, lay in Reno’s claim of total amnesia. Hopefully, he’d been smart enough and tough enough to stick to it in one of those small rooms down the hall, like this one.
The door opened and the two agents walked in, both in their standard white shirts, dark neckties, and blue suits.
They both held Styrofoam cups of steaming liquid.
Coffee, Wolf assumed.
And Franker held two.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Wolf,” he said as he moved to the chair on the opposite side of the table, taking the time to set one of the cups down and extend the second one toward Wolf. “I didn’t know if you’d want cream or sugar, but I figured most of you Ranger guys probably like it black.”
He flashed a smile.
Wolf made no move to touch the cup once Franker set it in front of him, nor did Wolf say anything.
“Was I right?” Franker asked, the friendly smile still on his face.
“The army already has my DNA on file,” Wolf said. “It was in case my corpse was too mutilated to identify”
Franker raised his eyebrows and snorted a laugh.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “We do. Mr. McNamara’s too.” He clucked his tongue. “Man, that guy’s got more medals than a casino’s got chips.”
“He earned them all, too,” Wolf said.
Franker’s smile returned. Apparently, he felt that he’d bridged a gap getting Wolf talking. Wolf wondered if this meant the Mac had told them to go pound sand. He also wondered if Shemp had arrived yet.
“I’ll bet he did,” Franker said. “You’ve got quite a few, too.”
“Not as many as Mac,” Wolf said. In a strange way, he was almost enjoying this interchange. If it had just been his ass on the line, and just him going up against the FBI, he would have been more relaxed. But not knowing what Mac and Reno had said prior to this was like playing poker.
“I see you were awarded the silver star,” Turner said. He’d opened a manila file that was full of papers.
Wolf nodded.
“Wow,” Franker said. “What was that all about?”
“It was about trying to stay alive,” Wolf said. “Combat.”
“I can imagine,” Franker said. “Thank you for your service.”
“It was pretty hairy over there, I bet,” Turner said. “Huh?”
“It had its moments,” Wolf said.
“So what was it like?” Franker leaned forward and drank some of his coffee, motioning for Wolf to drink his.
He didn’t touch the cup. “It was combat.”
“You got three stars for valor, too,” Turner said.
Wolf nodded again and they sat in silence for a few seconds. The two agents glanced at each other.
Finally, Franker’s smile faded away and he blew out a slow breath. “All right, let me put my cards on the table. We work what’s called the flyaway squad. Any time an American citizen gets killed in a foreign country, it becomes a Bureau case.”
Wolf thought how boyish the guy looked. He had to be in his late twenties and appeared to be in good shape, but somehow he reminded Wolf of Opie Taylor in a blue suit.
Wolf had loved that old show, which was in constant reruns, on the nostalgia channel. Too bad these guys lacked the sincerity of good old Sheriff Andy Taylor.
“You were a friend of Henry Preen, I take it?” Franker said.
Wolf shook his head.
“You’re denying you knew him?” Turner said.
“No,” Wolf said. “I met him a few times. I wouldn’t call us friends.”
“Where did you meet him?” Franker asked.
Wolf considered his answer. They’d already succeeded in getting him talking, which was one thing he hadn’t intended to do. But the questions seemed innocuous. Score one for their side.
“I met him here in Phoenix,” Wolf said. He almost added that they were both in the same business, but remembered that it wasn’t a good idea to offer information.
“You were both in the bounty hunting business?” Franker asked.
Wolf shrugged.
“I didn’t catch that,” Franker said.
“I didn’t throw anything,” Wolf said.
Franker flashed a grin.
Maybe this isn’t going as smoothly as he’d hoped, Wolf thought. Score one for me.
“When did you next meet him?” Franker asked.
Wolf considered his answer and tried to anticipate how they intended to try and trip him up. They were trying to take the roundabout way to the final meeting in Mexico, when Henry Preen, aka Black Hercules, was killed.
“Can’t say as I can recall,” Wolf said.
Franker looked to Turner, who held his Styrofoam cup in his mouth while he used both hands to shuffle through the papers in the manila file. After acting like he found what he was looking for, he reached up and retrieved the cup and then said, “Does Las Vegas ring a bell?”
Wolf took his time answering. Had Reno mentioned the incident at the Shamrock Hotel where he and Mac had their second confrontation? Had Mac said something? Did they have surveillance video from the casino?
“It rings a lot of bells,” Wolf said. “Ever been there?”
“It’s better if we ask the questions,” Franker said. “Do you recall meeting him in the Shamrock hotel and casino or not?”
They’d succeeded in backing him into another corner. Score two to one, their favor.
“What does Las Vegas have to do with your case?” Wolf asked. Tossing a question back at them would, hopefully, throw them off balance.
“As I said,” Franker leaned forward slightly. “It’s better if we ask the questions here.”
“Better for who?” Wolf said.
He tried to lean back in the damn chair, but couldn’t. It would require effort and make it look like he was straining or nervous. Instead, he leaned forward, placing both his forearms on the table.
Franker’s face twitched fractionally.
“Would it surprise you to learn that we know that you did, in fact, meet Henry Preen in Las Vegas?”
“If you know that,” Wolf said in a calm, measured tone. “Why are you asking me?”
Franker’s lips compressed.
“What did you two talk about?” Turner asked.
Wolf shook his head and tried to affect an expression of concentration.
“Was that the last time you saw him,” Franker said. “Before you met down in Mexico?”
Backed into another corner, Wolf thought. These guys weren’t the lightweights they appeared to be. Score another one for the G.
Wolf said nothing. Without knowing what Reno and Mac had said, he was walking on a tightrope without a net. He’d been there when Herc was murdered, loaded his body into the back of the van before Mac and Reno drove off. Could they have recovered his DNA on any of the bodies? Was that why they were hinting at trying to get him to leave some in the coffee cup?
No, Wolf thought. That coffee cup thing was meant to be used as a tool to unnerve him more. Something they could hold up and jiggle, like they did on TV, making him think that he had something new to worry about. As he’d said, the army already had his DNA. They didn’t need to fish a coffee cup out of the garbage.
Little by little they were boxing him in, and all they had to do was catch him in one lie. And they hadn’t even taken the gloves off yet.
It had been a mistake to talk to them.
“Did my lawyer get here yet?” Wolf asked.
When in doubt, he thought, take yourself out of the game.
The two agents exchanged glances again.
“Why do you need a lawyer?” Turner asked. “You got something to hide?”
Wolf was tired of this game, of their coyness, their duplicity. He wanted to lash out, to tell them to go to hell. But he knew he couldn’t afford to do that.
“I don’t know
,” he said. “Do you think I do?”
“What we think isn’t the question,” Franker said. “We’re investigating the homicides of several American citizens in Mexico. And you know more than you’re telling.”
Several American citizens …That told Wolf a lot. They’d found the bodies of the others, Eagan and his Viper team, Accondras, the Mexicans Paco and Jose. It had been a real bloodbath, but trying to explain it would only put him right back in prison, either here or in Mexico, even though he had killed only in self-defense.
In some ways, it was just like being in Iraq, fighting under rules of engagement that were stacked against you.
A sudden knock at the door broke the silence.
Turner slipped the file under his arm and opened the door. A man, obviously another FBI agent, said something sotto voce and Wolf hoped it was good news.
Turner nodded and turned back.
“It seems that an attorney is here, a Mr. Shemps, claiming to represent you?”
“That’s Shemp,” Wolf said. “And he’s my lawyer, all right.”
Game over, Wolf thought. And not a moment too soon.
When they walked outside the Federal Building Wolf saw Mac waiting for him by the rental car that the body shop had arranged for them. It was a small, cramped Toyota Camry and Mac was leaning against the front fender. The white van that Wolf had seen Reno ride up in yesterday was pulled up next to the Toyota and Wolf saw the familiar Mohawk haircut and knew Reno was in the passenger seat. As they approached Mac shifted his body off the car and strode over to meet them. He was using his regular aluminum cane today, rather than the sword cane.
“How’d it go?” he asked, his expression a mixture of worry and concern.
“Smooth as a cherry jumper’s first drop,” Wolf said. He turned slightly and patted Shemp on the back. “Rod here came in and rescued me, just like the cavalry in those old John Wayne movies.”
Mac flashed a look of disapproval at the nickname but nodded thanks to the lawyer.
“We don’t owe you anything for this,” McNamara said. “Do we?”
Shemp smiled nervously and shook his head.
“No, no, That’s all right, sir.” His lips drew back into a quick smile that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Well, I’d better get going. Got to work on a brief.”
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