Devil's Brigade (Trackdown Book 3) Page 9

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Reno yelled once again. “You’re supposed to be on the razor’s edge and you’re looking like you couldn’t break an egg. Put some damn snap into those punches.”

  Wolf snapped a double jab, followed up with a straight right, and then, as George stepped back, Wolf sent a quick round-house kick to an extended mitt.

  “That’s better,” Reno said. “Now you’re looking a little more like contender material.”

  Contender material, Wolf thought. Ironic.

  Two months ago, he and Reno were the bitterest of enemies, poised to go toe-to-toe on the street at any moment. And then Mexico happened, leaving Reno’s leg shattered along with his hopes of regaining his lost title. Now it was as if he wanted to regain his former MMA contender status and fulfill his championship dreams through Wolf. The big block letters painted in red, white, and blue on the front window still proclaimed: RENO GARTH, MMA CHAMPION, TRAINS HERE.

  A 7.62 mm bullet in Mexico had dissolved that dream and forged an unexpected friendship.

  Ironic, but understandable, he thought as he delivered another combination to the focus pads. Wolf had experienced a lot of accidental friendships during his time in the army. Combat makes strange bedfellows sometimes.

  “All right,” Reno shouted, sounding enthusiastic now as Wolf delivered a quick series of kicks to the pads now.

  Finally, Reno signaled it was time for a break and Wolf ceased punching. He felt good and not exceptionally tired despite the new coating of sweat that covered his body. And it was supposed to be an easy-going workout in deference to the match being tomorrow.

  George grabbed a towel and began wiping Wolf’s arms and shoulders down. Reno pulled open the gate and limped into the octagon.

  “How you feeling, man?” he asked.

  Wolf gave a quick nod in reply.

  Reno nodded back. “You got the look of a man with a lot on his mind. Something bothering you?”

  “A lot’s bothering me.”

  Reno stood in silence for several seconds, then nodded again. “I wish you’da come in earlier,” he said. “I had a couple more sparring partners lined up to go over some more shoot techniques. I’m worried we neglected the ground game too much.”

  “I guess I’ll have to keep him on his feet then.”

  “Easier said than done sometimes. Plus, this guy’s supposed to be pretty good at stand-up, too.”

  “You’re not giving me too much to look forward to, coach.”

  Reno blew out a slow breath. “Well, I think you’re pretty much as ready as you can be but I still wish you woulda come by earlier like you said you was gonna do.”

  “Couldn’t be helped,” Wolf said leaving the rest of his explanation unspoken. Even though he and McNamara had more or less patched up the rivalry between them and Reno, Wolf wasn’t about to air Mac’s family problems here.

  Reno frowned and shook his head.

  “Keep in mind that this dude, de Silva’s gonna be coming in lean and mean and ready to take your fucking head off.”

  “Believe me,” Wolf said with a smile, “I’ve been thinking about that. But Mac and I had something to take care of.”

  Reno seemed to accept this and ran his tongue over his teeth.

  “How’s the bounty hunting business going these days?” he asked.

  “Fair to middlin’,” Wolf said recalling Roger D. Smith’s unsophisticated choice of words for some odd reason.

  Reno’s brow furrowed momentarily. “Huh?”

  Wolf grinned. “Just something I heard someone say. It’s going all right. Could be better but Manny said he might have something for us.” He slapped his gloved hands together. “He also said we’d need back-up. Interested?”

  Reno’s face assumed a wistful expression for a moment then it vanished as he shook his head.

  “Nah, they did another MRI on my leg last week to see how it was healing and it looks like they might have to go in and put a steel rod in there as a permanent brace.”

  The implications of that flashed through Wolf’s mind and they weren’t good.

  Reno must have read Wolf’s thoughts.

  “Yeah, I know what you’re thinking,” Reno said. “That’ll probably most likely end my chances of making a comeback in mixed martial arts. Plus, I’ll be setting off metal detectors right and left as I go through the airports.” He barked out a humorless laugh.

  Dreams die hard, Wolf thought. He remembered the countless veterans who had sustained far worse injuries from their deployments. It depended on the support network you had but more on the individual’s will to overcome, to persevere.

  “Maybe not,” he said, trying to sound convincing. “There was a boxer back in the day named Greg ‘Gator’ Bogianowski who lost his lower leg in a motorcycle accident and he came back and fought for the light-heavyweight championship.”

  Reno snorted. “He win?”

  Wolf had to shake his head. “No, but he showed everybody he could do something that nobody thought he could do.”

  Barbie came running over, all fluffed out hair, bouncing dynamic curves in her turquoise body suit. She called out to Reno that he had a phone call.

  “I’m busy,” Reno yelled. “Tell ’em I’ll call ’em back.”

  “But it’s the sport’s network about the fight,” she yelled back. Her voice was almost drowned out by the ambient clatter.

  “That’s different,” Reno said. “I’ll be right there.” He turned and placed a hand on Wolf’s shoulder. “This is gonna be big tomorrow. You ain’t the main event but you’ll be getting network exposure in the pre-lims. Like I said, win and you’ll be a contender.”

  Wolf nodded, once again thinking, but not saying, that it was more about the payday than the status for him. Win, lose, or draw, with the purse from this fight, he’d be able to put Trackdown, Inc. back into the black, and that would go a long way toward repaying his debt to Mac.

  Reno turned and started to walk away, then stopped and turned.

  “Your girl coming by tomorrow to watch?”

  Wolf shook his head. “I told her to stay away, in case I really get my ass kicked.”

  Reno chuckled. “Now don’t go thinking like that. I got a feeling old Steve Wolf’s gonna come out of this thing just fine. Even though it’s a selected, limited audience in the auditorium, tell her and her girl friends that I’ll leave three tickets for them at the gate. And one for Mac and his daughter, too, right?”

  “Appreciate it,” Wolf said, wondering if Kasey did show up who she’d be rooting for.

  Reno glanced at his watch. “Shit, we got to get to that weigh-in tonight by six-thirty.” He looked at George. “How we doing weight-wise?”

  “He’s good,” George said. “Right around two-seventeen a little while ago. Since this is non-title cruiser, all he’s got to be is less than two-twenty-six.”

  Reno grunted an approval.

  “Okay, do two more rounds on the pads,” he said, “and then some easy does it shadow boxing and we’ll call it a night. Me and Barbie’ll drive you over to the weigh-in and then get some sleep. Rest all day tomorrow.”

  “Roger that,” Wolf said and turned back to face George as he slapped the focus mitts together with a resounding snap.

  Rest tomorrow, he thought. But then again, as they say, there’s no rest for the wicked.

  Chapter Five

  The McNamara Ranch

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Wolf found himself sleeping fitfully and occasionally stirring himself awake trying to punch his way out of a bad dream. He stirred awake at his customary zero five hundred hours and realized he was supposed to sleep later, per Reno’s orders, since tonight was fight night.

  Sleep late and rest the whole day.

  And something told him he was going to need all the reserve energy he could muster tonight. From what he’s been told, the guy he would be facing, Marcos de Silva, was no push-over. Although this was only his third fight in the United States, he s
upposedly had a seventeen-and-four record in his native Brazil, with eight wins coming by submission and nine by knockout. He’d also won all of his U.S. fights, two by KO and one by decision.

  A Brazilian jiu jitsu fighter, Wolf thought. Reno had said the guy could bang, too, but could he move? Their face-to-face at the weigh-in last night had been uneventful, leaving the posturing hype for the bigger names in the main event to do when their turn came. They’d both been totally professional as they’d stepped on the scale, Wolf coming in at two-sixteen and Silva at two-twenty-six. A ten-pound advantage and he didn’t look fat at all.

  A jiu jitsu grappler who could bang … Not a pretty thought.

  It has officially started, he decided. The pre-fight jitters … Nerves … He was finding it exceptionally difficult to think about anything other than the pending contest that night.

  Still, it was only a preliminary bout and wouldn’t be attracting that much attention unless either he or his opponent came off looking really spectacular. That meant a knockout or something equally flashy.

  The thought of getting separated from his senses tiptoed through his mind’s eye and he didn’t want to be the one staggering around on the knockout reel or, worse yet, being carried out on a stretcher.

  All of this made it impossible to sleep. The luminous dial on his alarm clock now told him it was approaching zero-six-hundred. He found it hard to believe that he’d lain there for more than fifty-five minutes beyond his usual rising time. The day’s countdown had started. He had maybe a little over twelve hours left before he’d be taking that long, lonely walk to the octagon.

  The longest walk in the world, he reminded himself.

  Even the closed curtains, which he normally left open, seemed to be straining under the pressure of the early morning sunlight. Wolf knew this was a stupid supposition but traces of sunlight had worked their way through the slight gaps in the material forming a strip of light on the wooden floor.

  It reminded him of the ubiquitous artificial lights that had been his constant companion in Leavenworth just last year. Except for the huge overhead skylight that added to the illumination during the day, most all other light was of the artificial type. What he wouldn’t have given back then to have been able to gaze at a window at the morning sunlight as it filtered in and know he was free to go outside and do a morning run.

  His thoughts turned from the fight to that of his other, ongoing battle—the one to clear his name and how he was doing on that front.

  Not good, he told himself.

  Not only had his nebulous primary adversaries managed to remain virtually anonymous, except for a few overheard names, they’d also tried to kill him twice.

  At least twice, he reminded himself, thinking about the aborted attempt on his last day in Leavenworth and wondering if they were behind that one, too. All he knew about them was a few names and the seeming object of their interest: the Mexican bandito. He and Mac had mutually decided that until they could figure out the exact reason the statue held so much significance for the bad guys, it was prudent to keep it in a safe place that was accessible to only the two of them. They had originally planned to include Kasey’s name on the safety deposit box but subsequently decided against it. Not that they didn’t trust her but getting her involved to that degree seemed a bit too dangerous. After all, she’d already lost her fiancé.

  But the mystery of the bandito continuously gnawed at him.

  Thomas Accondras, the bounty they’d originally been hired to grab down in Mexico, had carried it on his person in a backpack and had tried to convince them to let him go, saying the bandito would make them rich. But he didn’t elaborate. It had also been the target of a botched burglary by the South African crew that their old buddy, Jason Zerbe, had brought in. Wolf and Mac had ostensibly been sent down to Mexico to apprehend Accondras at the behest of the Fallotti and Abraham Law Firm out of New York City, which was purportedly representing the family of the child Accondras was accused of molesting. Cummins and Eagan had been connected to the law firm and an Iraqi named Nasim had also shown up in Mexico. Somehow, there was a tenuous connection to all of this and the court-martial and prison term but the exact particulars had proved as difficult to figure out as an indecipherable conundrum.

  Now the Fallotti and Abraham Law Firm was dissolved, most of the principals he’d dealt with were dead, and his old buddy, Cummins, was in the wind. He was the only one who’d appeared in each segment, like a constant in a complex algebraic equation.

  Find him, Wolf thought, and he could explain everything, especially the significance of the bandito.

  It appeared to be only a cheap, painted, plaster figure from Mexico, so what was all the fuss about?

  Maybe it’s actually the work of some famous Mexican sculpture, he thought as he swung his legs out of bed and placed his bare feet on the solid floor.

  It felt uncommonly cool to his touch but he knew the heat of the day would change that soon enough. Then he was back thinking about the fight that night and debating how to deal with this grappler who could punch. He assumed that the guy might be a counterpuncher, luring an opponent in to throw a punch so the striking arm could be grabbed. That meant that Wolf’s best tactic would be to throw a feint and be ready with a counter punch of his own.

  In a strange way, all of his adversaries, the Brazilian and the unknown ones, were counterpunchers. They’d lured him into traps too many times.

  And maybe it’s time I did some luring of my own, he thought.

  Before he headed to the shower, he went to his desk and pulled the drawer all the way out. He shoved his hand into the space, palm upward, and felt around for the swath of duct tape. When he found it, he peeled the safety deposit box key from its secreted place and stared at it. The number on the key was 4878.

  It was time to get the bandito out of storage.

  Piccolo Mobile Home Park

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Cummins awoke feeling spent and sore. Once darkness had descended, the four of them had moved several heavy items from both trailers into the U-Haul. These included Smith’s big flatscreen TV, a dresser, a load of suitcases. It had taken them several hours and they didn’t finish until close to midnight. It added up to the strong indication that both Smith and Riley would be leaving this place and Cummins wasn’t sure where that left him. Besides Keller’s rather half-hearted, “Welcome to the Brigade,” Cummins had no official ties to Smith and the others. This temporary relationship had served its purpose and allowed him to lie low and figure out his next move. But now that next move included somehow absconding with Riley’s kid or at least shadowing the youngster until he could negotiate a trade off with Wolf. That meant sticking close to this bunch of militia fanatics, at least for the short term.

  Easier said than done, he thought.

  Cummins hadn’t objected last night when Keller commandeered the second bedroom where Cummins had been staying. It actually played right into his hands. After packing all of his stuff in his suitcase, along with his toiletries, he’d ensconced himself on the couch where Cherrie spread some sheets and a pillow for him. It had been a fitful and non-restful slumber due not so much to the hard sofa cushions but more to the tangled worries that hung in his mind. Smith originally suggested that Keller sleep in Riley’s now unoccupied trailer for the night but Keller was adamant: “Nobody stays there in case them bounty hunters are watching.” He wasn’t too keen about letting Cherrie come back here and sleep with Smith but the tough hillbilly had drawn the line at letting his lady-love sleep someplace else, much less the motel with Riley and his kid. Keller agreed as long as Cherrie didn’t leave the trailer until one of them thoroughly checked the area. Cummins was concerned about being seen as well but not only by Wolf and McNamara. He had a phone call to make that he didn’t want Keller or Smith to hear. So after getting up extra early, putting in his contact lenses, and a baseball cap, he grabbed his burner phone and listened. From the trio of snores he heard as he moved about in the small trail
er’s living room, he felt confident that all three of them were still asleep. He exited the trailer as quietly as he could.

  It was barely past six by his watch but that would make it nine in Manhattan. He mentally debated the wisdom of leaving a message. If the feds had some kind of wiretap going, he’d be cutting his own throat if he said too much. But on the other hand, he had to keep his hat in the ring with Fallotti and VD if he wanted to survive and get his ultimate retirement pay-off. Besides, he was perhaps twenty days or so from being a wanted man himself, once he didn’t show up for his court date on the Phoenix PD weapon charge. And who knew if the feds were going to rear their heads again? Regardless, he decided to keep the call as anonymous as he could.

  His head bobbled around and he saw no telltale signs of any surveillance activities by Wolf or McNamara. They’d only been interested in Riley and he wasn’t there.

  There’s no way the two of them could even know that I’m here, he thought.

  Still, it amazed him how their paths kept intersecting. It almost defied coincidence.

  He walked to the front end of Smith’s trailer and punched in the number that he knew by heart.

  It rang and went to voice mail almost immediately and Cummins was ready.

  “You know who this is, so listen carefully,” he said, keeping his voice low but trying to imbue a sense of confidence into his tone. “I’m still in the game and I’ve figured out a way to get you that item you were looking for. But I’m going to need some money and some support. Make that a lot of money. Otherwise, I’ll blow the lid off this whole fucking thing. Text me that you’ve received this message and the next time I call somebody besides a fucking answering machine better answer.”

  He terminated the call and was feeling pretty damn good about sounding assertive. Setting the conditions and adding that bit of profanity at the end were strokes of genius.