The man’s Glock went off with an explosive roar and the outside edge of the metal receptacle ruptured with a ragged, circular hole.
Wolf jumped forward and grabbed for the gun.
The sound of several shots being fired outside meant that Ms. Dolly and the girls might have gotten the drop on the other two. At least Wolf hoped so. His own survival at the moment was dubious, but he hated to think that any of them would be hurt.
With both of his hands on those of the masked man, Wolf and his foe slammed into the brick wall like two football players scrambling for possession of the game ball, neither wanting to relinquish his hold.
More shots came from outside and someone screamed, “Wat’s fout?”
Oh, God, Wolf thought. Please don’t let one of us be hurt.
He brought his foot up in a quick kick to his opponent’s groin.
The other man shifted his body slightly and Wolf’s foot struck only the inner portion of a meaty thing. The guy was strong and bigger than Wolf. They slammed into another wall, still struggling for possession of the gun. It went off again and Wolf felt the sting of the gunpowder blast as the bullet whizzed by the left side of his face. The slide had become blocked upon its return and he saw that the weapon had stove piped. For some reason, he was able to identify the snagged shell casing in the ejection port as a .45.
He adjusted his grip, wedged his right hand under the partially extended slide, and twisted the weapon. The other man grunted and tried to kick Wolf, but he managed to do a shift to deflect the blow.
Outside it sounded like a war zone and he hoped the P-Patrol had brought extra magazines.
Wolf ripped the Glock away, but they both tumbled forward, the weapon hitting the floor with a metallic snapping sound. It skittered a few feet and they both scrambled for it. The masked man reached for it, but Wolf got there first, still proned out. The fingers of his right hand curled around the polymer handle and he racked back the slide with his left. The stove-piped round popped free and the slide carried the next round forward. Twisting, he pointed the weapon at the figure looming over him and pulled the trigger.
A black hole appeared in the other man’s gray shirt, and he reeled back, emitting a heavy gasp. Wolf squeezed the trigger again, but the projectile chipped some flakes off the brick wall by the other man’s head. The masked man turned and ran out of the washroom. Wolf scrambled to his feet and followed, holding the Glock at combat-ready and glancing toward Krenshaw momentarily.
“Dros!” a masculine voice yelled.
Wolf stopped at the corner and did a quick peek.
There was no way of knowing what waited for him on the other side.
His ears were ringing and the voices he heard sounded like they were coming down a long tunnel.
But they were feminine voices.
Screams were more like it.
He stepped to the second wall of the cove-like entrance and did another check. Splashes of crimson dotted the floor along with a plethora of expended shell casings. Ms. Dolly was wedged against the far wall in a cover position behind a vending machine. Several holes decorated the shiny metal. Yolanda was at the entrance way to the Ladies’ Room holding her Beretta in a combat stance, using the outer edge of the wall as an effective buffer, and Brenda was flat on the floor by Yolanda’s feet, her Taurus Spectrum in her hands.
Wolf shifted and saw the glass doors leading into the place were riddled with bullet holes. Three men were heading for the van with ragged steps. A flash of light appeared from the group and a bullet crunched through the perforated glass window. Wolf moved to the edge of the entranceway, hugging the wall for part of the way and then kneeling. The three men were scrambling into the van and it started up. Another muzzle flash illuminated from the big SUV, but the round’s impact wasn’t anywhere close. The vehicle backed out, cutting hard to the left and then zoomed behind the parked Cherokee and Escalade. It then shot forward, going the wrong way down the entranceway with no lights. Wolf ran out and leveled the Glock at the fleeing vehicle but hesitated. They were accelerating at such a fast clip that the accuracy of any shot he might make was questionable. And he didn’t want to waste the ammo.
Seconds later he realized he didn’t need to fire. The van continued its rapid, wrong-way, unlighted flight as a pair of headlights of a semi-tractor and trailer abruptly swung into view on the entrance ramp to the rest stop. The truck’s horn blared along with a squeal of brakes followed by thunderous clap as the van slammed head-on into the big semi. Despite his gunshot-induced hearing impairment, Wolf could discern the distinctive metallic crunching sound and saw the illuminated headlight beams of the semi on either side of the crumpled van. A few seconds passed and the crushed vehicle ignited into a mushroom of orange, yellow, and red.
He took a deep breath and then went back inside, holding the Glock down by his leg now.
Ms. Dolly and her two compatriots met him in the hallway. Each of them was breathing hard.
“Whooeee,” Ms. Dolly said, a wisp of smoke still lingering around the muzzle of her Python. “They gone?”
“They were going the wrong way,” Wolf said, cognizant that his hearing was mostly back now, although still distorted by a constant ringing. “Smashed into a truck.”
“Couldn’t have happened to some nicer guys,” she said. “Where’s Willard?”
Wolf ran into the Men’s Room, almost slipping on the trail of blood and urine. He looked under the sinks where he’d left Krenshaw and saw it was now empty.
Ms. Dolly and the others were right behind him now.
“You see him leave this place?” Wolf asked.
“Huh-un,” Ms. Dolly said. “Nobody came out.”
And there wasn’t any back door, either.
Wolf went past the urinals to the stalls that housed the toilets. One of them had a trail of urine leading to it. He kicked open the door and saw Krenshaw crouching on the black, half-moon toilet set, an expression of sheer terror on his face.
“If you’re all finished in there,” Wolf said with a smile, “it’s time to go.”
Chapter Fourteen
McCarran International Airport
Las Vegas, Nevada
Wolf leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. He knew he should try to sleep, but was still feeling the overwhelming adrenaline boost from the shooting and the conversation with Mac. After hightailing it out of the rest stop area, they’d driven straight to the Clark County Detention Center where Ms. Dolly and the girls introduced him to Alexander Pope, who was waiting for them in a limo in the parking lot. Krenshaw, soiled and smelly, was more than subservient and ready to kiss the ring, but the Pope was having none of it. He admonished the lawyer that their association was finished and that court proceedings to take his worthless house in Palm Springs and his “piece of shit” Mercedes were already in the works.
“You can sell your soul to the feds if you want to live,” the Pope said, as solemn as if he were administering a penance in a confessional. “But do not ever call me again for bond money. Capisci?”
Krenshaw was in tears when Ms. Dolly, Brenda, and Yolanda walked him into the jail to collect their booking slip. That’s when Wolf got the call from McNamara.
“Where you at?” Mac asked.
“Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada,” Wolf said, trying to sound a bit light-hearted. But something was wrong. Why was Mac calling him at two-thirty in the morning? His voice had sounded tense. “Everything okay?”
Wolf heard Mac blow out a long breath on the other end.
“Not really,” he said. “Some asshole broke in here.”
“Broke in? To the ranch?”
“Yeah,” McNamara said. “Everybody’s okay, Kase, Chad, and me.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I was sleeping on the coach with my damn leg elevated,” McNamara said. “And I got up to take a piss. I was in the downstairs bathroom when I thought I heard something. I peeked out the door and saw somebody sneaking around inside the den, shining
a flashlight. I’m in my fucking underwear, and no shoes, and about forty feet away from my damn gun clock, not to mention my ankle being like a ball and chain.”
Wolf tried to picture the scene. The fact that Mac was taking his time and relishing the accounting, put Wolf a bit at ease.
“So I was trying to figure out if there was more than one and what the chances were of me making a dash for the clock, when I hear the son of a bitch talking. But he wasn’t talking to anybody close. He was on a com.”
This set off a red flag for Wolf. It didn’t sound like a run of the mill burglar.
“So,” McNamara continued. “I slipped out the bathroom and started sneaking toward the clock, being so quiet and smooth that a whole company of NVA wouldn’t have heard me. Then I hear the son of a bitch saying he’s ‘got it,’ and a voice telling him to set the house on fire and scoot. I figured, sore ankle or no sore ankle, I had to make my move before he did.” McNamara paused and took a deep breath. “I made a beeline for the clock and just got it open in time to see this black guy coming at me. I turned and shot. Point shooting, not even aiming. No time. He went down. When my hearing came back, I could hear the son of a bitch on the other end of the com is asking him what the hell’s going on.”
He paused and Wolf waited, saying nothing.
“Well, Kasey had heard the commotion and called nine-one-one. I checked the motherfucker and he was unconscious. My round hit him just a little off center mass. Missed his heart but sure enough caught his right lung. I cleared the rest of the house and got back on the phone with the cops, telling them that there were more of them in the area. Pretty soon the whole place was lit up like Christmas in Times Square.”
“You know the guy?” Wolf asked.
“Nah, never seen him before. A black guy. But I do know what he was after.” McNamara paused. “And you’ll never guess what.”
“What?” Wolf asked.
“The damn bandito,” McNamara said.
“What?”
McNamara chuckled. “Yeah, I thought that would get you. I can fill you in on the rest of it when you get here.”
Numerous questions began to circulate in Wolf’s mind: Why would a burglar be after that thing? Was Mac actually right about that? Could this somehow be connected to Mexico?
“Where’s the bandito at now?” Wolf asked, still wondering about its significance.
“He’s standing guard in my super-secret gun safe,” McNamara said.
The safe was hidden behind a false wall in the master bedroom and housed Mac’s rifles, pistols, and a whole lot more. The metal door was also secured by a biometric locking mechanism.
The unanswered questions kept swirling around, and then Mac made the mistake of asking him how his trip had gone.
“It was eventful,” Wolf said and related the shootout details.
“Holy shit,” McNamara said. “My three darlings all right?”
“All right and combat tested. I was thinking it must have been some mafia guys, given who we were transporting, but after what you just told me, I’m not so sure anymore. Plus, one of them said something that sounded like German.”
“Damn, I’m glad you guys didn’t sustain any casualties.”
“Well,” Wolf said, unable to resist giving it back to him a little. “There was one.”
“Huh? Who?”
“Not who, a what. The Escalade caught a bullet in the radiator. I tried to drive it away, but it conked out and I had to leave it on the side of the road on I-Ninety-Three. We didn’t have time to wait around, not knowing if the second wave was coming.”
“Smart move,” McNamara said. “It was probably gonna get repossessed pretty soon anyway.”
“Not with the paycheck we’ll be getting for this one. Ms. Dolly said she’d split it with us, fifty-fifty.”
The flight attendant came by and told him to turn off his cell phone and buckle his seatbelt. He told Mac that he’d call him when he arrived and hung up. The flight attendant’s eyes widened as she looked down at his pants, which were spotted with blood and smelled slightly of urine. He wished he’d had time to buy a new pair, but Yolanda had driven him directly to the airport so he could catch the first red-eye out. It had turned out to be a three-hour wait and he regretted not just renting a car and driving back. But he knew he was in no shape to try it alone. Fatigue was eating into the adrenaline rush that had sustained him, and now all he wanted to do was sleep.
He buckled the seat belt and asked, “How soon will we get to Phoenix?”
“It’s a short flight once we take off,” the flight attendant said and moved on.
The way he smelled, he couldn’t blame her.
The Elegant Suites Hotel
Phoenix, Arizona
Luan Preetorius tossed the phone onto the bed and felt like slamming his fist into the wall. Make that through the wall. Still no acknowledgment from the three of them. Was it possible that this Wolf fellow had bested them all? Gerhardus, Bash, and Ryband … Three of his best men, albeit, not as good as he, himself, or Henrico, and maybe not even Gidea, and Francois. But if that were the case, he was now down to himself and three others. Well, four, counting Zerbe, who couldn’t be counted on for much more than observation and intel. The fat American was useless, and, according to Zerbe, a weak link that was eventually to be dealt with after they had verified this artifact they were seeking. It was some rich man’s holy grail but essentially worthless outside of certain select circles. Like being paid in bitcoin—something intangible and essentially worthless, unless you held a certain key.
“Any word?” Cummins, the American, asked.
Luan despised the man so much he didn’t bother to answer.
“Any word from your three men we sent after Wolf?” Cummins asked again.
Luan shook his head.
“Damn,” Cummins said. “I told you it was risky sending just three of them, didn’t I? Wolf was an Army Ranger and his partner a Green Beret. It was a mistake to underestimate him.”
Preetorius grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the wall, and lifted him up. “You keep your fat mouth shut. I have apparently lost part of my team.”
Cummins gurgled a bit as Preetorius held him there, his feet dangling.
“Luan, we still need him,” Zerbe said in Afrikaans.
Preetorius dropped Cummins and stepped away.
Cummins bent over, rubbing his throat with both hands, glaring at him.
Preetorius met the other man’s gaze and held it until he looked away. It only took about ten seconds then Cummins bolted for the bathroom and slammed the door. The sound of his retching quickly followed.
“It’s too bad they all aren’t soft pussies like him,” Preetorius said. “It would make things a lot easier.”
Zerbe scrolled through some numbers on his burner phone and saved one.
“I’ve located the hospital where they took Amiri,” he said. “He’s been admitted and is under police guard.”
“How did you find that information?”
“Easily enough,” Zerbe said. “I pretended to be a reporter seeking information on a news story on a home invasion.”
Preetorius was impressed. Despite Zerbe’s shortcomings as far as fighting skills, he was a good intelligence gatherer.
Inside the bathroom, a toilet flushed.
Preetorius smirked.
“The question is,” Zerbe continued, “how do you want to handle it?”
“Amiri knows better than to talk.”
“That’s good, but how long will that last? How long will it be before they identify him?”
“All the more reason we have to get back to South Africa,” Preetorius said.
“It’s only a matter of time before he’s identified and traced back to the Lion Team and when you entered the country. We can’t afford for that to happen.”
“Of course not. Amiri’s a liability to me and the rest of us. An expendable liability.”
Zerbe was silent for a moment, as if
contemplating what was just said.
Yes, Preetorius thought, I have agreed to eliminate one of my team.
“And you’re all right with that?” Zerbe asked.
“Why do you think I sent die niger?” Luan said. “It’s a soldier’s duty, and it will be painless and quick.”
“How will you do it?”
“Leave the details to me. Merely give me the hospital specifications and drive me there. It shouldn’t take long. We’ll need some hospital nurse’s uniforms and an empty syringe. Knowing American hospitals, he’s probably on a morphine drip, which will make it even easier.”
Cummins came back into the room. He looked at Preetorius and then to Zerbe.
“I’m going to my room,” he said. “My throat hurts.”
With that, he turned and stormed out of the room.
“I should have kicked his ass instead,” Preetorius said.
“He’ll get his soon enough. Now remember, we need to take care of a few more loose ends, like that lawyer, Shemp.”
“Let me see the file you prepared.”
Zerbe sorted through a group of manila folders and handed him one.
Preetorius flipped it open and studied the 8x10 headshot picture of the lawyer. It was a boyish-looking face, devoid of toughness. This one, at least, should be easy.
“And we still have to get that statue,” Zerbe said.
“Yes,” Preetorius said, still perusing the file. “We will do that tonight.”
The McNamara Ranch
Phoenix, Arizona
Wolf’s plan to take a quick, combat nap of one hour had stretched into eight. The short airplane flight had been unexpectedly delayed by a computer problem in the cockpit, which required a technician to be summoned to replace the entire unit. The whole time the antsy passengers moved and spoke, preventing even the least bit of slumber on the plane. The woman next to Wolf was constantly getting up and he imagined she wanted to get away from the smell of him. He wanted to get away from it, too, which was why he’d taken a taxi from the airport to the ranch without bothering to call Mac. When he arrived he saw no signs that anyone was stirring inside the house at the still relatively early hour, so he went to the garage, showered, and then hit the sack.
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