Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Read online

  McNamara frowned and stared directly at her. “Ain’t that what you special agents said to General Michael Flynn before you set him up? I’ll thank you to get off my property.”

  He turned and ambled back into the house.

  Wolf knew the bluster was more a tactic to get rid of the feds without saying anything specific to them. Both he and Mac had been comprehensively grilled by Franker and Turner before concerning the incident in Mexico, which was also a Bureau case, and they were both leery about talking to the FBI.

  Rappaport turned to Wolf. “Mr. Wolf, ah, sergeant. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken,” Wolf said. “And you don’t have to call me sergeant. You’re right, I was busted down to an E-one and given a DD.”

  She compressed her lips and Wolf figured he’d won this round. The fight had gone out of her and she didn’t seem to know what to do next. He guessed she wasn’t used to people not being intimidated by her rank and position of authority.

  “That said, however.” He leveled his gaze at her. “I have to agree with my buddy, Mac. Our statements are on the record with the police. We’ve said all we’re going to say about this.”

  “But—”

  “Mac’s right,” Wolf said, interrupting her. “We’ve already made a statement and if we happen to not recite something back exactly, we could find ourselves in the trick bag, correct?’

  “We don’t operate that way, Mr. Wolf.”

  He smiled and said, “Tell that to General Michael Flynn. Mac served under him, you know.”

  Rappaport frowned, reached in the pocket of her jacket, took out her card, and handed it to him.

  “Would you mind if we took some pictures of the scene?”

  Wolf turned sideways and held out his hand. “Take away. I’m sure Special Agent Franker here can give you a blow-by-blow. The police also took a bunch of photos of the inside of the house that night, so you can get those from them.”

  Rappaport compressed her lips and motioned to the agent carrying the valise. He set it down and unzipped it, taking out a 35mm camera.

  “I would like to say thanks to you guys,” Wolf said, holding his hand out toward Franker, who looked stunned. “If you two hadn’t shown up when you did, who knows what would have happened.”

  Franker accepted Wolf’s hand and they shook. The agent’s mouth was slightly agape.

  “You’ve got two brave men here, Special Agent Rappaport,” Wolf said, extending his hand toward Turner. “These two guys unknowingly walked into a hornet’s nest and no doubt saved our lives. And when the bullets started flying neither one of them flinched. They helped us secure the scene until the police arrived. So AD or no AD, that makes them all right in my book. The kind of troops I’d want next to me if my back was against the wall.”

  “Thank you for that ringing endorsement,” Rappaport said apparently unimpressed by Wolf’s accolades. “You have my number on that card. Call me if and when you decide you want to cooperate.”

  She walked off with the photographer and began dictating into her smart phone.

  Wolf started to head toward his apartment across the way to call Mac and tell him about his suspicions regarding Charles Riley’s modified jailhouse garment when Franker called out.

  “Hey, Wolf.”

  He stopped and turned.

  The FBI man walked over to him.

  “I appreciate what you just said.” Franker blinked several times. “And …”

  His voice cracked slightly and trailed off.

  Wolf waited as Franker approached and spoke in subdued voice.

  “The truth is, I owe you.” The FBI man gestured toward his partner, Turner. “Otis and I both do. If you hadn’t shouted out that there was a gun involved, we’d both probably be dead right now. Thanks.”

  Wolf had been laying the bullshit on pretty heavy to Special Agent in Charge Rappaport, and they both knew it, but Wolf also knew that he’d made an in-road with this man. He wasn’t sure if he could consider him an ally but at least he had the feeling that the fed wasn’t all that keen on getting him and Mac in his sights anymore.

  Not a bad place to be when the FBI was hot on your trail.

  Chapter Four

  The Office of Emanuel Sutter

  Bail Bondsman

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Wolf and McNamara pulled up in front of Manny’s office in the new Escalade and Mac jumped out of the vehicle and strode to the door. Wolf followed and thought Mac was going to kick down the door when he found it locked with a sign saying: Back in 30 minutes scotch-taped on the inside of the front door window. They got back into the SUV to wait and Wolf ruminated on the path that had brought them here in such a hurry.

  Earlier, he’d watched the squad of FBI agents from his upstairs apartment over the garage, narrating their progress to McNamara via cell phone. They snapped numerous pictures of the driveway, the front door, and a scuff mark on the asphalt that Franker pointed out. Wolf assumed it had been where the agent’s accidental discharge had struck the ground.

  “That son of a bitch didn’t even say nothing that night,” McNamara said. “I should go out and check for damages. Maybe I can sue their asses.”

  “I’m sure you could,” Wolf said. “But maybe that’s not the best thing to do right now. Franker came up to me afterward to say thanks.”

  “Thanks? For what? Saving his and his partner’s sorry asses.” McNamara snorted. “Hell, if we hadn’t jumped into action, those damn mercs and that fucking Zerbe would’ve lit those two FBI guys up.”

  “That’s right,” Wolf said. “And Franker and his partner both know it. So I think we can assume that they’re probably going to close out that Mexico case without too much more fanfare. At least our part in it.”

  “Shit, I don’t know. When have those federal fuckers ever just dropped something?” McNamara laughed. “Plus, it tends to look kind of suspicious. Every time we’re in the picture, a whole lot of bad guys end up going down.”

  “Just the same, let’s let it ride.” Wolf paused, took a breath, and then said what he’d been dreading. “There’s something else. Something more pressing.”

  McNamara was silent for a second, then said, “What?”

  Wolf relayed his concern about the orange cut-offs and Mac was none too pleased.

  “Anything about incarceration in the child custody paperwork?” Wolf asked.

  “I doubt it,” McNamara said. “And unless we know for sure that he’s been arrested we’re just pissing in the dark.”

  “Can Kasey check him on the computer?”

  “I’m sure she can but I don’t want to worry her right now. Meet me down by the Escalade once these fuckers leave.”

  Which brought them to see Manny in hopes that he could do one of his informal and off-the-record police records check.

  McNamara had started the Escalade and fired up the air-conditioning but the idling vehicle sitting in the midday sun was less than a match for the heat. Finally, afraid the Escalade would overheat, McNamara shut the engine off after rolling down the windows.

  “I guess we sweat till he gets back,” he said and they sat in silence. “Let’s just hope that thirty minutes is about up.”

  Wolf didn’t know what the next move should be. One thing was for certain, they needed to find a new lawyer, for Kasey’s sake and for their own as well. Maybe Manny could recommend someone.

  Just as that thought crossed Wolf’s mind, a white Tahoe pulled up and they saw Manny in the passenger seat. His nephew, Freddie, was behind the wheel. Manny was biting into a thick hamburger and holding a grease-laden bag of fries in his left hand. He wiggled his head in a modified wave when he saw Mac.

  Both McNamara and Wolf hurriedly exited the Escalade and met the two bail bondsmen at the door to their office.

  “Ah,” Manny said, his mouth still stuffed with hamburger and fries. “My two favorite bounty hunters. You guys looking for more work? Cause guess what … I got something. Something real big and it’s rig
ht up your alley. But you’re gonna need some back-up.”

  “Later,” McNamara said. “I need you to do something first.”

  Freddie unlocked the door and held it open. Manny strode inside holding the two paper bags. The others followed suit.

  “What you want? Me to post bond for somebody?” He laughed, expelling bits of chewed food, as his big hand rustled inside the brown paper bag, emerging with another cluster of fries.

  Even though it was a few minutes past noon, Wolf felt no hunger pains after seeing that.

  At least the office was cool as Freddie closed the door and Manny plopped in the padded leather office chair behind his desk. Wolf and McNamara sat in front.

  “I need you to run a check on somebody,” McNamara said.

  Manny tossed one of the bags to Freddie and spread the unwrapped contents of his own bag on top of the sea of papers on his desk.

  “Sherman,” Manny said. “You want to take care of that for them?”

  Freddie frowned as he grabbed what appeared to be a wrapped hamburger from his bag.

  Wolf was aware that Manny mistreated his nephew and took every chance to tease the young man by giving him all the grunt work to do and constantly calling him Sherman, after some old cartoon show character. The kid was far from a Rhode’s scholar but Wolf had always gotten along with him. The constant berating rubbed Wolf the wrong way, but there was little he could do about it.

  Maybe one day the worm will turn, he thought as he Freddie’s mouth pucker with apparent resentment.

  “What’s the name and DOB?” he asked.

  “Last name’s Riley,” McNamara said. “Charles F.”

  Before he could recite the date of birth, Freddie turned and blurted it out.

  “That’s right,” McNamara said. “How’d you know?”

  Freddie’s eyes shot toward his uncle, who had just taken a huge bite of his hamburger.

  “What you want with him?” Manny asked.

  “That’s my business,” McNamara said. “You heard of him?”

  “You might say that,” Manny said, managing to shift some of the food to the side of his mouth. “I just posted bond for him a couple of hours ago.”

  Piccolo Mobile Home Park

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Cummins didn’t like the looks of this new guy called Keller. He looked too much like one of the band of South African mercenaries he’d just been forced to deal with. The man also had the hard-edged appearance of an ex-con. Blue tattoos decorated his huge neck and probably most of his torso, Cummins imagined. With the dark hair, mustache, and black BDU blouse, the guy could have almost doubled for Sylvester Stallone in one of those old Expendables movies except that he was taller. A lot taller. He regarded Cummins with obvious disdain and suspicion. At the moment, the four of them sat at the small kitchen table in Smith’s mobile home.

  Keller had eyed him suspiciously when he’d first arrived and made some comment about the two of them bringing in an outsider.

  “Let’s go somewhere private and talk business,” he said to Smith and Riley. “Just the three of us.”

  “Hey, Jack’s okay,” Smith said. “Me and him met up in the County and fought some niggers together. Been thinking about asking him to join us.”

  Keller’s eyes scanned Cummins.

  “He don’t look much like Brigade material,” Keller said. “In fact, he don’t look like much at all.”

  Cummins took offense at the slight but wasn’t too sure what the man had meant. Brigade material? What the hell was that?

  But if he wanted to get control of the kid and use him as a bargaining chip with Wolf, he to stay close. Real close.

  He kept his mouth shut and let his hillbilly savior, Smith, do the talking. Posting that bond and the impound fee would hopefully pay off now.

  “Like I said,” Smith continued. “Me and him’s tight. He posted bond for me and got Charlie’s Caravan outta impound. Plus, we’re gonna need a good wheel man for this, ain’t we?”

  Keller glared at him momentarily, then rotated his head toward Chad and Cherrie, who were splitting a bag of M&M’s.

  “Take the kid to the other room,” Keller said.

  “There ain’t no other room,” Cherrie said. “Least not one where we ain’t gonna be able to hear you, sugar.”

  Keller’s face darkened and Cummins figured the man didn’t like being corrected or talked back to by a woman.

  Riley stood up and dug in his pocket, coming up with a couple of dollars and the keys to his Caravan. He handed them to Cherrie and said, “Can you take him for some ice cream or something?”

  Cherrie glanced at Smith, who nodded.

  “Come on, baby,” Cherrie said, standing and taking Chad’s hand. “Let’s go get us a couple of banana splits.”

  The boy’s face lit up and he smiled and got up.

  When they’d left, Keller turned back to the group and centered his view on Cummins once more.

  “How much you know about the Brigade?” he asked.

  Cummins was taken aback, unsure of what to say. From the sound of things, the Brigade was some kind of radical fringe group. Getting involved with them might not be such a good idea. Still, he had limited options, especially if he wanted to try to grab the kid. He decided to play along.

  “At the moment, nothing,” he said. “But I’d like to know more.”

  Keller just stared at him, slowly looking him up and down.

  “Where you from?” he asked.

  “New York originally,” Cummins said. “Upstate.”

  “And what you do for a living?”

  “I’m a lawyer. Or at least I was. I haven’t been practicing lately.”

  Keller’s eyebrows twittered slightly at the mention of a law degree, then he squinted.

  “So you got money, I take it?” he said.

  “Some,” Cummins answered. “I got a severance package from the law firm I used to work for.”

  “A what?”

  Cummins couldn’t help but frown at this big moron’s ignorance.

  “A lump sum payoff to tide me over until I find another job,” he said trying to keep the condescension out of his tone.

  Keller sat in silence for several more beats, then said, “Lemme see your wallet.”

  “What?” Cummins said.

  “Hey, Lou,” Smith said. “I told you he was all right. I’ll vouch for him.”

  Keller continued his probing look, then asked, “Can you drive?”

  What the hell kind of a question was that?

  “Of course,” Cummins said.

  “Lemme see your wallet,” Keller repeated.

  Cummins hesitated. He still had around five-hundred dollars in his wallet, not to mention the secreted money belt. But he didn’t want the others, least of all this new, big, uncouth lout fingering through it and knowing he had that much.

  “Sure, he’s got some money,” Smith said. “I already told you that, dammit. And he already paid five hundred helping Charlie get his Caravan out.”

  “Shut up,” Keller said.

  “Hey,” Smith said, his face reddening. “You best watch how you’re talking to me in my own house, motherfucker.”

  “I’ll talk to you any god damn way I please,” Keller said. “You forgetting our rank structure?”

  Smith’s mouth curled into a snarl but he said nothing.

  “Lou,” Riley said, holding his hand out over the table. “We’re gonna need more people, ain’t we? If we’re gonna get enough to start over?”

  Keller and Smith continued their stare down. Finally, Keller spoke.

  “How do we know he ain’t some kind of undercover cop?”

  Cummins almost snorted in laughter. Was that what this idiot was raving about? He reached for his wallet and started to remove it when Smith grabbed his arm.

  “I told you, we was in lock-up together,” he said. “You think they’d leave an undercover cop in a bullpen to get raped by a bunch of niggers?”

  Keller
shifted his gaze to Smith and then back to Cummins.

  “You got any military experience?” Keller asked.

  Cummins nodded. “Army. I did a tour in Iraq.”

  This was stretching things a bit since his tour had been with a reserve unit and was cut short after a few months. Fallotti had managed to use his contacts within the Pentagon to pull a bunch of strings.

  “What was your MOS?” Keller asked.

  “Military Intelligence,” Cummins said, then added, “How about you?”

  Cummins hadn’t meant for the response to come out as confrontational as it had sounded. He suddenly felt a rush of bile starting to creep upward from his stomach and hoped he hadn’t offended this oversized reprobate. He tried softening things with a smile. “I mean, you have the bearing of a military man.”

  Keller stared at him and then said, “Eleven bravo.”

  The code number for general infantry.

  That figures, Cummins thought. Appropriate for those with the least amount of intelligence.

  “Shucks,” Smith said grinning that hillbilly simper of his. “We was all eleven bravo. That’s how we met.”

  “You talk too god damn much,” Keller said.

  Smith shrugged. “I told you, he’s all right. We can count on him.”

  It was making a bit more sense to Cummins now. They were a group of old army buddies who’d been grunts together in the Sandbox. Now they were all getting together again, but for what?

  Several more seconds elapsed without anyone speaking again, then Keller lifted his left arm and began folding back the sleeve of his black BDU blouse. His forearm was so massive this proved to be a rather laborious task. Then he thrust his left arm forward so it hovered over the table. He cocked his head toward Smith and Riley, who did were both wearing T-shirts. Smith rotated his arm and Riley peeled off the sodden bandage from his.

  They all had identical tattoos in exactly the same spot: a triangle enclosing a circle of stars. The outer edge of the triangle was framed in red and blue. The images and lines were clearly defined on Smith and Keller. Riley’s was pus-laden and distorted, but still recognizable.