Devil's Dance (Trackdown Book 1) Read online

  Devil’s Dance

  Trackdown Series: Book 1

  Michael A. Black

  Contents

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  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

  23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  24. Chapter Twenty-Four

  25. Chapter Twenty-Five

  26. Chapter Twenty-Six

  27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

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

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  About the Author

  Devil’s Dance

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 Michael A. Black

  All rights reserved.

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  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64734-141-1

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-142-8

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  For my fellow veterans.

  To all the men and women who have served.

  To those who have yet to come home.

  And to those who never will.

  God bless and welcome home.

  Devil’s Dance

  As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;

  They kill us for their sport.

  King Lear, IV, l

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  December 24, 2015

  Somewhere On The Outskirts Of Baghdad, Iraq

  The image faded, and then became more distinct, like a mirage. Staff Sergeant Steven Wolf wiped at his goggles as he watched the outline of the black, heavily armored Hummer become clearer through the vestiges of the early morning dust storm. He wished this were a mirage. All of it: the Army, being part of the special six thousand man stabilizing force brought in-country to lead the coalition against Daesh, or ISIS, or ISIL, or whatever the hell they were calling themselves these days. Whatever it was, one thing was eminently clear: this “special mission” in Iraq sucked. This wasn’t Wolf’s first rodeo in the Sandbox, but this time it was like boxing with one hand tied behind his back.

  “Get your squad ready to meet up with some boys from the Vipers,” Master Sergeant Lane had told him. His big index finger tapped the map. “Zero-four-forty rendezvous here. Assist them in a raid on a house and give them safe passage out of the hot zone back into the green. I don’t need to warn you about the unfriendly assholes in this area. But it’s actually not supposed to be that bad. In fact, it should be a cake walk coming back, unless you run into some hostiles or some IED’s.”

  “Merry Christmas Eve,” Wolf said.

  Lane frowned. “Yeah, well, remember this ain’t exactly the holy land and nobody’s celebrating Christmas out there, so watch yourselves. These orders came from the top.”

  “And shit rolls downhill,” Wolf said with a grin. “Besides, they’re probably getting ready to rotate us back to Afghanistan anyway.”

  Lane smirked. “Probably.”

  Even though all of the American troops had officially pulled out in 2011, little by little a small contingent of “peacekeepers” had been trickled back in. Officially, they were there as “advisors” and prohibited from engaging in any type of combat, but they all knew it was still dangerous until the last man’s boots were out of Iraq.

  It’s all Indian Country, Wolf thought. Until you’re back on U.S. soil,

  “Indian Country.” That’s what Big Jim McNamara, “Mac,” had told Wolf before he’d shipped out for his first deployment. It wasn’t a reference to Wolf being part Indian, but rather Army slang for hostile territory back in Mac’s day in the ‘Nam. McNamara, an army lifer and Green Beret, had been in more wars, conflicts, police actions, and hot spots than could be counted. He was retired now, but Wolf didn’t figure things had changed much. The faces and the places changed, but the danger remained the same: dealing with another group of angry and resentful people, “indigenous personnel,” in another hostile, foreign land where a whole lot of them were set on making sure you didn’t make it back home … Back to the World.

  Yeah, he thought. It’s all Indian Country, all right.

  Wolf had carried that bit of sage advice with him since his first tour, and that had been years ago. Back when the war was still considered a good thing, and not labeled “stupid” by the next wave of politicians. This deployment was number four for him, and hopefully his last in the Sandbox.

  Indian Country …

  The advice, the mindset, had kept him, and the members of his platoon, alive so far. He intended on keeping it that way.

  “Any questions?” Lane asked.

  “Just one. What’s this one about?”

  Lane shrugged, the sweat making his dark face shine in the light of the ops tent. “Do we ever know for sure when it involves Military Intelligence and these PMC guys?”

  PMC guys meant Private Military Contractors, in this case the Vipers, one of the biggest private security outfits to hit the Sandbox since the war had officially started winding down. After the U.S. had officially pulled out in 2011, all the operational duties supposedly fell to the Iraqis, but that had proved more than a bit problematic. Then, with the rise of ISIS, the American troops gradually crept back, staying mostly in the background as “advisors,” but really acting as a trip wire to protect what American interests were left in the Green Zone. In the intervening years the PMCs had been gradually assuming a lot of the stuff the military had once done, but their involvement was always in the shadows and without a lot of scrutiny. Now there was no telling exactly what they were up to, or why, at least not on Wolf’s level.

  “All I know is it’s being coordinated by MI,” Lane added. “Lieutenant Cummins.”

  MI … Military Intelligence. Wolf had dealt with Cummins before; A reservist with enough clout to land a cushy assignment in command ops for his deployment. Behind his back, the troops called him “blubber with a pair of bars.” But despite a personal dislike for the man, Wolf had found him competent. Sometimes even a little too competent. He expected everything to go exactly according to his “paper plans.” In the Sandbox, things didn’t always work out that way.

  Wolf went to brief his team and tell them they were moving out.

  An hour later, fully assembled, the body armor making him feel like a land-bound turtle, Wolf found himself winding through the deserted streets in the pre-dawn light. Lane had been right. This neighborhood looked mostly upscale. Lots of stucco and bougainvillea. Ironic that even in an inhospitable place like this a plant could flourish.

  B
ut it’s still all Indian Country, he reminded himself as he continued looking for their hookup. And they were there, right on time: two black, PMC fortified Hummers parked on opposite sides of the road. The furthest one had five uniformed Iraqis with M-16’s standing guard. Wolf recognized that they were wearing the emblems of the National Police as he and Spec-four Martinez stepped out of their Humvee.

  Automatically, Wolf scanned for signs of danger: snipers, suicide bombers, recent digging indicating IEDs, any locals standing by with cell phones. But everything looked deserted. He ordered the other five members to deploy for perimeter security: Jenson with the SAW, Morgan and Thompson with their M-4s.

  A trio of three big guys got out of the other Hummer across the road. It looked well armored. No IED Indian Country worries for them. Or maybe they had faith that their Iraqi National Police team could handle whatever, or whomever popped up.

  It’s good to have faith, Wolf thought with a smirk. But he knew that despite the season, these weren’t the three wise men in this desert locale.

  Wolf recognized one of them immediately: Lieutenant Cummins. He was clad in civilian clothes, his expansive gut drooping over the obscured belt buckle. Wolf remembered wondering about the embroidered jump wings on the lieutenant’s uniform when he’d first seen him in camp. The man had such a soft look to him, it was hard to envision Cummins doing push-ups and pull-ups, much less standing up, hooking up, and shuffling to the door. Waddling toward it, maybe. Or perhaps he was one of those PX heroes who’d never even strapped on a parachute.

  The guy next to him was huge. Maybe six-six, two-fifty. The body armor made him appear even more massive. He strutted more than walked, and Wolf somehow wasn’t surprised to see him wearing cowboy boots with silver trim on the pointed tips. The sleeves of his tan shirt were rolled up exposing massive forearms. A threatening red and black tattoo of a snake’s head replete with exaggerated twin fangs was on the left one. The coils of the serpent wound around his arm so that the open, fanged jaws of the head spread over the back of his right hand. He was slipping on a pair of latex gloves, which made Wolf wonder why not leaving fingerprints might be a concern. The third one was an Arab with bushy hair and mustache with flecks of gray. About forty, maybe. Big for a local. Over six feet and at least a deuce and a quarter, but still nowhere near the size of the giant with the cowboy boots. The Arab’s eyes looked mean as hell, though.

  “Sergeant Wolf?” Cummins asked as he approached, looking from Martinez to Wolf at their names and ranks.

  “Sir,” Wolf said.

  Cummins nodded and motioned them toward the shelter of a nearby building, the edge of the lattice work protecting them from the ubiquitous sand, which surrounded them like fog. But at least the temperature was better than the usual insufferable year-round heat. It felt almost cold.

  “This fucking dust is everywhere,” the big guy said as he leaned back in a stretch.

  He had a southern twang to his words. A good old boy, a long way from home. Oklahoma or Texas, if Wolf’s ear for linguistics was correct. But sometimes it was hard to tell.

  “This is Lance Eagan,” Cummins said, pointing the big man. “He’s with the Vipers. How extensively did Sergeant Lane brief you?”

  “Not a lot, sir,” Wolf said. “Just that we were to meet you here and provide security for a raid and escort back.”

  “That’s perimeter security only,” Cummins said. “We’re to let the locals handle things primarily.”

  Wolf nodded.

  Eagan snorted. “Aw, hell, me and Nasim’s boys coulda handled this with no sweat, Jack.”

  The big Arab grinned, showing a glimpse of gold inlays in his front teeth. Wolf also got the impression that the man’s English was good and he was probably acting as their interpreter. But it was Eagan’s familiarity with Cummins that surprised Wolf more. Using the lieutenant’s first name around here usually meant they were more than just casual acquaintances.

  Cummins frowned, then bit his lower lip. “The Vipers have been working with a contingent of Iraqi National Police forces led by Captain Nasim here. They’ve uncovered a nest of what we believe is ISIS sympathizers in the area. Let me reiterate, we’re to going to observe and advise them only, and, if necessary, call for support in mopping up.”

  Wolf saw something in the man’s pale blue eyes. Uncertainty? Fear? He wasn’t sure which, but he didn’t like it. Both emotions lurked here in the air you breathed, and in your sweat, but you had to control them. If you didn’t, they would start controlling you. He hoped the lieutenant’s judgment hadn’t been overly compromised. Most of these private contractors were ex-military, and combat tested, and weren’t bound by elaborate rules of engagement. But Wolf didn’t like the idea of following their lead.

  “These boys inside are some real hard cases,” Eagan said. “And they may have friends. Be ready and don’t drop your guard.”

  “We’re always ready,” Wolf said.

  Eagan’s tongue rolled over his chapped lips and he looked amused.

  The time for amusement was later, Wolf thought. After the business was taken care of.

  “Our ultimate mission is to recover a briefcase,” Cummins said. “It’s purported to contain some good intel. Let me be absolutely clear about this. If and when it’s recovered after the initial assault, I’m to take charge of it. Should you somehow come into contact with it, you and your men are not to open it. Understood?”

  Wolf nodded again. It wasn’t like he could read Arabic anyway. “How sure are we about this place? The intel pretty good?”

  “Like we’d be here if it wasn’t?” Eagan said. He removed a circular can about the size of a hockey puck, popped it open, and sliced off a wad of tobacco. “Don’t worry, boy. Me and Nasim’s crew will handle things just fine. For you guys it’ll be kissin’ cousin to a cakewalk.”

  “That’s what people kept telling me before my first tour,” Wolf said.

  “Shee-it,” Eagan said. The big man grinned. “This boy’s got him some spunk.”

  Wolf decided the accent was more Texas than Oklahoma.

  Eagan placed the plug of tobacco inside his lower lip and squared his enormous shoulders. “Let’s roll. The house we’re looking for is on the next quadrant over.”

  All balls and swagger, Wolf thought as he watched the big man saunter back to the Hummer. I just hope it doesn’t get any of us killed.

  A pale, nascent light ebbed from between the buildings as they wound their way through the deserted streets, the asphalt giving way to macadamized dirt leading up to piles of rubble and broken up buildings on either side. It was early, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t all sorts of prying eyes behind the dilapidated frames and windows watching and waiting for them to make a mistake. Or to drive by a buried I.E.D.

  Wolf deployed his secondaries at each end of the block, assigning them their quadrants and fields of fire. Jenson had remounted the M-60 on the turret and was ready in case anyone popped a round off at them. Ahead of them, Eagan seemed to know where he was going, driving with the same swagger and impunity that he’d shown earlier. Of course, those PMC assholes had all the latest equipment, and it was always in perfect working order. They never had to worry about the cracked lenses in night-vision goggles or the dead batteries that were the rule rather than the exception for the troops. And their pay was a lot better, too. Wolf wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to hire a bunch of mercs to fight the next war, like the French Foreign Legion. They were supposed to be a crack outfit. Of course, they’d had their lunch handed to them back in Indochina at Dien Bein Phu, but that was a long time ago.

  I’ll have more time to ponder that idea once I get transferred back to Afghanistan, he thought with a grim smirk.

  Wolf scanned the buildings on either side of the street. Most of them two stories now. Windows … Lots of windows. Too many. A good place for an ambush.

  The radio crackled in his ear. He’d reset it to the frequency Cummins had told him.

  “Bravo
, this is alpha-one,” Cummins’ voice said. “You read me?”

  “Lima Charlie, alpha,” Wolf said, depressing the belt mic button.

  “Our target is three houses up, on the right. Blue doors. We’ll make entry and secure the interior.”

  “Roger that,” Wolf said.

  Let the Iraqis do the grunt work for a change, he thought. But that’s okay. This way I won’t have to worry about some oversized dude with cowboy boots covering my ass.

  He briefed his squad, telling them to be ready after the breach in case they were called to help clear. Jenson was to remain in the vehicle in a cover capacity.

  “Shit, you guys have all the fun,” Jenson said, grinning. This wasn’t the first time they hit a house in Iraq, but, hopefully, it would be close to the last. He thought about the scheduled withdrawal and knew they couldn’t afford to be lax.

  “Everybody stay on your toes,” he said. “We’re all getting short and that’s when our buddy Murphy usually makes his appearance.

  The rest of his squad grunted. They were all well acquainted with Murphy’s Law― whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.

  Wolf snapped his selection lever off SAFE and checked the snap fastening his M&P nine-millimeter sidearm. That could stay fastened until he needed it. Hopefully, this thing would go down by the numbers.