Devil's Advocate (Trackdown Book 4) Read online

  Devil’s Advocate

  Trackdown Series: Book 4

  Michael A. Black

  Contents

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  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  If You Liked This Series, You Might Like: Retribution: A Team Reaper Thriller

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  About the Author

  Devil’s Advocate

  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 © 2021 Michael A. Black

  All rights reserved.

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  Ebook ISBN 978-1-64734-277-7

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-64734-278-4

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  For all my fallen brothers and sisters

  in law enforcement

  Devil’s Advocate

  I am a man whom Fortune hath scratched.

  Praising what is lost

  Makes the remembrance dear.

  All’s Well That Ends Well

  - William Shakespeare

  Chapter One

  THE BUBBLE AT THE MGM GRAND

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  The arena beyond the cyclone fencing was shrouded in darkness, making the vague figures look like ghosts moving in the shadows. In contrast, the numerous floodlights illuminating the octagon almost made Wolf feel that he was once again experiencing the contrast of the brightness of the Sandbox and it brought back a flash of memory of Iraq. He paced back and forth, allowing his bare feet to become accustomed to the rough texture of the padded mat. His opponent across the way, Marcus “Blood” Ford, was bouncing on his toes with a wide grin that exposed the flash of white vampire-like teeth painted on the black mouthpiece.

  An attempt at intimidation, Wolf thought. Ain’t gonna work.

  It would have been more effective if the guy had kept his mouth shut and then parted his lips during a moment of close-in combat. Now the initial shock effect was minimized.

  In Iraq, Wolf and his squad had done something similar, putting skull-like renderings on their body armor and helmets to signify to the indigenous personnel that they were the death dealers. It was hardly a new idea. His friend and mentor, Big Jim McNamara, had told him about leaving playing cards with the ace of spades on the dead bodies of the VC back in the day. And the tons of propaganda leaflets that had been dropped in virtually every conflict since World War II were testament that psychological warfare was all about making your enemy feel unnerved, inadequate, second best. This was the same principle, only on a much smaller scale.

  Marcus Ford stopped bouncing and cast a baleful stare in Wolf’s direction as he smacked his gloves together. Reno had told Wolf this wouldn’t be a cakewalk. Ford had been a collegiate wrestler and had a record of 8 and 3, with 5 wins by way of knockout. He was taller than Wolf and Ford’s arms were huge but, as he bounced, Wolf saw something: a barely noticeable layer of suet around his waist. It wasn’t excessive but might be an indication that Blood hadn’t taken the match as seriously as he might have. Then again, maybe he didn’t think he needed to. After all, Wolf was just a last-minute replacement in what was considered to be the pre-contender match-up. Reno Garth, his erstwhile sponsor and trainer, had assured him the winner would go on to contender status for the world title.

  Just like déjà vu all over again, Wolf thought, remembering that Reno had said the same thing a little over a month ago back in Phoenix. That bout had ended in a draw which hadn’t been that much of a disappointment on Wolf’s part. He was only in it for the money with no real plans to keep ascending the staircase of the Mixed Martial Arts world. But that was before the pandemic slowed the court system to a virtual halt and, with it, the bounty hunting business. So when Reno had called him, his voice brimming with excitement about a chance that “just opened up to fight in Vegas, for some real decent money,” Wolf figured the paycheck would be nice and he also didn’t want to turn his buddy down. In some strange role reversal, Reno, the man whom Wolf had regarded as an obnoxious and dangerous rival in the bounty hunting business a few months back, was now a friend who was trying to regain his own lost dreams of contender status in the MMA world. So, Wolf had agreed, despite not having had the time to do extensive training.

  He owed Reno that much but this was definitely going to be his last fight.

  Of course, he’d told himself that the last time as well. Still, this was a fight where he’d be on equal footing, unlike the other one that dominated his life. This one he had a chance of winning. The other made him feel like he was Bambi being stalked by Godzilla.

  Maybe not Bambi, he thought. How about Batman?

  Ford’s lips pulled back in a grimace displaying the imitation vampire dentition once more, as he smacked the gloves together harder.

  Save it for after the bell, Wolf thought, and kept his expression neutral.

  “Don’t let his bullshit bother you,” Reno said, leaning close to Wolf’s ear. He spoke in a low whisper, even though the arena was only sparsely populated due to the pandemic restrictions that were still hanging on in these uncertain times. “Remember, you win this one, you’re the USA champ, and the number one contender. It’s almost unheard of to get a chance like this without being in the game for a couple years.”

  Wolf nodded. He was, actually, amused by Ford’s antics as if choosing the ring name of “Blood” and a fierce-looking mouthpiece were going to make any difference.

  George Patton, Wolf’s main trainer, massaged his neck a bit and asked how he was feeling.

  “Ready, willing, and able,” Wolf said. The mouthpiece was making his word sound sloppy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer yelled into his microphone. He continued through his exaggerated spiel about the co-main event of the evening being for the interim, USA light-heavyweight championship, and guaranteeing the winner a shot at the world title. He went on introducing the fighters and hyping the importance of the match for the benefit of the cable TV crew who were filming everything.

  Wolf raised his arms when the announcer barked out the particulars: “Standing at six foot-one inches, and weighing in at two hundred-twelve pounds, fighting out of Phoenix, Arizona, Steve, ‘Airborne Ranger,’ Wolf.”

  The appellation was bittersweet. Wolf had earned his jump wings and Ranger status during his time in the army but had to forfeit it all as part of the plea agreement that sent him to Leavenworth for a four-year stretch for being involved in the deaths of some Iraqi civilians. His tour in the Sandbox had almost been up, too. Not that it would have made any difference at his court-martial. A blow to the head had left him with eight missing minutes that robbed him of a chance to mount a proper defense. He knew he was innocent and he also knew there was a video of another man’s confession out there somewhere that could help him clear his name and he wanted to fi
nd it.

  Easier said than done, he thought. And first things first.

  Marcus “Blood” Ford danced around when his name was announced. There was that hint of jiggle around his waist again but his arms looked as thick as tree trunks and the guy was going to be trying to take Wolf’s head off in a little over a minute.

  “Seconds out,” the ref called as he motioned the fighters to their marks.

  Reno and George both clapped Wolf on the shoulder as they walked to the gate, Reno using his cane as he limped along. Wolf glanced up into the dark, sparsely populated stands and thought he caught a glimpse of Mac and the P-Patrol and wondered what Yolanda would be seeing in about two minutes.

  “Are you ready here?” the referee yelled at Wolf.

  He nodded.

  The ref turned to Ford. “Are you ready, Marcus?”

  Ford’s lips closed over the vampire teeth and he nodded as well.

  “Then let’s get it on,” the ref yelled and dropped his arm to the accompaniment of the blaring air-horn.

  PRIVATE ROAD OF THE VON DIEN WINTER ESTATE SOUTH

  BELIZE

  Lancelot returns to Camelot, Richard Soraces thought with a smile as the limousine turned onto the paved side road which he knew led to the massive sliding gate. The vehicle’s headlights washed over a white sign with black lettering proclaiming this to be a private road.

  The paved surface curved through a maze of tall trees and verdant greenery so dense that it probably required a small army of peasants with machetes once a week just to keep the ubiquitous plant encroachment from overwhelming the roadway. They whizzed past another sign warning DANGER—NO TRESPASSING/PELIGRO—NO ENTRADA.

  In English and Spanish, Soraces thought. Both in all caps.

  A second bilingual sign advised not to touch the fencing, which Soraces knew was electrified, and a third posting stated this was private property. All that was missing was another proclamation that violators would be shot. Of course, that would most likely be done inconspicuously.

  Soraces smiled again. He’d enjoyed his past stay there about three and a half weeks ago in this sunny country south of Mexico.

  Especially the ladies, he reflected lasciviously.

  An incredibly rich man, Dexter Von Dien, and the fat man’s attorney, Anthony Marco Fallotti had previously hired him to obtain a plaster statue of a Mexican bandito that was in the possession of some disgraced army ranger. It supposedly contained some kind of priceless Iraqi artifact that Von Dien was jonesing about. The damn thing had practically fallen into Soraces’s lap, or so he’d thought, and he’d raced back down to Belize to present what he’d assumed was the Holy Grail to his employers, figuring they’d be ecstatic.

  They weren’t.

  The scene unfolded again in Soraces’s memory like the real-life replay of The Maltese Falcon. Von Dien, who was morbidly obese and almost a look-alike for Sidney Greenstreet, except with less hair, became totally devastated as he quickly realized the artifact he sought was not inside the plaster statue that Soraces had brought from the States. It had been reminiscent of that climactic scene in that old movie where Casper Gutman, the fat man, chipped away at the black bird and suddenly discovers it to be an ersatz copy of the original. Soraces would have laughed out loud, in appropriate Bogart fashion, if he hadn’t been a bit concerned about retribution from Von Dien’s oversized bodyguard. The fat bastard had practically collapsed and had to be helped out of the room, a sobbing, collapsing, flabby mess with the bodyguard on one side and the attorney, Fallotti, on the other.

  Since Soraces had already received half of the agreed upon fee in advance, and knowing the fat man’s penchant for ordering harm to those who displeased him, Soraces figured it was time to make a quick exit rather than face the fallout. Without further ado, he walked out of the mansion and got into the waiting limo that had picked him up from the airport.

  “Lleve me al aeropuerto,” he told the driver. “En seguida.”

  The driver looked perplexed and Soraces realized he might not speak Spanish.

  “The airport,” he yelled. “Now!”

  A look of alarm swept over the driver’s face as he nodded and shifted into gear.

  Soraces kept his ninja pen stiletto in his hand in case he had to stab the driver in the neck, toss him out of the car, and ram through the gate himself, but no one attempted to stop them. He’d gone straight to the airport and got on the first commercial flight back to the States. After so many years working for the Agency, he knew when to make a tactical retreat.

  The fat man had a low tolerance for failure and was always moaning about “troublesome loose ends.” Soraces didn’t want to take the chance of becoming one of those, like the lawyer, Cummings, he and his partner had dispatched back in that ghost town in Arizona. Von Dien had made it clear from the onset that he wanted it done and, from all accounts, the guy had it coming.

  Terminate with extreme prejudice.

  Another fond Agency term, he thought. Just like the good old days, except way more lucrative.

  He hadn’t expected to hear from Von Dien again, assuming that failure to deliver was grounds for termination, but after a few weeks, the call, surprisingly, came from Fallotti, Von Dien’s lawyer, inviting him down to Belize to discuss “further dealings.”

  “I got the impression you were less than satisfied with our last dealing,” Soraces said.

  “Nonsense,” Fallotti said, his voice cordial and welcoming. “It was unfortunate, to say the least, but Mr. Von Dien firmly believes that you’re the man for the job. In fact, we’re ready to double the previously agreed upon amount and send half of it to your Cayman account.”

  Soraces agreed to take another trip to Belize, but he kept his ninja pen handy. That was all he needed thanks to a lifetime of specialized Agency training. He was very adept at both throwing and stabbing with it. If push came to shove, he could, deftly, hurl it into to eye of Von Dien’s oversized bodyguard or jab it into the man’s jugular. Then it would be a small matter of retrieving the big Walther Q4 Steel Frame semi-auto from the dead bodyguard’s pancake holster and using the fat man as a bargaining chip to get the hell out of there. The pistol had red dot sight attached and an extended, suppressor adapter on the front end of the barrel and Soraces was curious as to how it would be to fire.

  Hopefully, it won’t come to that, Soraces thought. Perhaps the fat man really does realize what happened wasn’t my fault.

  But it did bring up the concern of an insurance policy of some sort, something that he could have to ensure he’d be home free and untouchable after this new transaction had been completed. So just in case, Soraces had two pens with him on this trip: his ninja knife blade and his spy pen. Those two items were the particular reason he’d chosen to wear a short-sleeve dress shirt with a pocket.

  The limo slowed and Soraces saw the emerald green canopy of trees gave way to the well shorn grassy area leading up to the high, fifteen-foot fence topped with triple strands of barbed wire. The painted skull and the words again in both English and Spanish: STOP. DANGER. DO NOT TOUCH THE FENCE. NO ENTRY/DETENER. PELIGRO. NO TOQUES LA CERCA. NO ENTRADA graced the sign on the big gate. Although the estate was in an area that predominantly spoke English, the bilingual signs, Fallotti had previously explained were meant not only for the local populace but the estate employees as well.

  “Most of them are imported from Costa Rica or Guatemala,” Fallotti said.

  It made sense to Soraces. Import foreign help which would not have that much of a base in the local community, the land outside the castle gates, that was in a section of the country that predominately spoke English. It would also ensure loyalty based on dependence and make it easier should any of them “disappear.” He remembered the luscious girls that had pleasured him the last time. Costa Rican, if he remembered correctly. Please the boss and whomever else he tells you to please or you’ll find yourself part of the garden.

  A man of extreme caution and means, Soraces thought.

&nb
sp; A fat security guard ambled out of a guard shack and came to the driver’s side. The window lowered with electronic ease and the driver said in Spanish that Mr. Von Dien was expecting them.

  “¿Quién es?” the guard asked.

  “Señor Soraces,” the driver answered.

  The guard immediately straightened up and scurried back to the gate shack. Moments later, the large gate retracted to the side leaving the path open before them.

  Lancelot welcomed back to Camelot, Soraces thought.

  He considered that comparison for a moment and then reconsidered.

  Well, not quite. It was more like welcome back to tropical Oz.

  THE BUBBLE AT THE MGM GRAND

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  Wolf extended his left hand to do the customary glove-touching as he advanced to the center of the octagon. Ford ignored the gesture and kept advancing with a determined look on his face.

  So much for good sportsmanship, Wolf thought. But neither of us is here to dance.

  He pulled his arm back into his standard guard position and began a slow rotation to his left. Ford was apparently left-handed, or at least preferred to stand in a southpaw stance. This threw Wolf off a bit. Usually, southpaws were more difficult to fight due to most fighters being orthodox, or right-handed. Everything was virtually thrown in reverse, which was why preparing for a left-handed opponent required a bit more diligence in training. Due to the short notice, Wolf had little more than nine days to prepare. Luckily, there were a couple of guys at Reno’s gym who were reasonably competent at affecting a southpaw stance but neither was truly left-handed. Ford seemed to be naturally inclined that way. He shot out a quick right jab that slammed into Wolf’s left forearm and felt like an electric shock.