by Ty Patterson
He rubbed his hands involuntarily. ‘Mi casa, su casa and all that shit.’ He frowned. ‘You know what that means?’
‘I am not an idiot.’
‘Never thought you were, dude.’ The Flayer said lightly. ‘The problem with all you guys is you take things so damned seriously. When are you planning your event?’
Suspicion flared in The Ghul’s eyes. ‘Why?’
The Flayer made an impatient noise. ‘We have to plan don’t we? Or do you kill without any planning?’
‘There’s no we. Not yet. I’ll be in touch if there is one.’
The Ghul turned to leave, halted when the killer spoke.
‘Dude, I hope you and your minions won’t do anything stupid, like following me.’
‘I haven’t killed men before, but it would be interesting to slit a man and skin him alive.’
The Ghul left without a word followed by other shadows that detached from the rest of the park.
The Flayer walked in the city for a long time to calm himself down, to quieten the adrenaline surging through him. It was hard because he was already imagining the two of them killing together.
Maybe even live?
That would be too dangerous.
Would it?
He parked the thought in the back of his mind and continued dreaming.
At one point he marveled at his own calmness in the face of The Ghul, the most wanted man by the U.S.
Nothing to it. There was no mileage for him in killing me.
Maybe we can have one softener event before the kill day.
His dreams were big, all tinged with red.
Zeb was sitting in a counterterrorism meeting chaired by the commissioner, as the city geared itself for a potential terrorist.
The meeting had representatives from the FBI, NSA, and various other acronymed agencies. He was an invitee and was introduced as an interested party. All efforts to know more about him were brushed off.
Speakers rose and presented on the city’s capabilities and gave latest updates. One man spoke of fifty men on a watch list and Zeb leaned forward to listen. He didn’t have anything more to offer than Clare’s briefing.
They were being watched, their phones and internet accounts were monitored.
‘Why don’t we just grab them and sweat it out of them?’ A detective asked and flushed when all eyes turned on him.
‘We might do just that, but not right now. We need more intel on whether there’s an organized cell behind this, and if so, the leader of that cell, and others up the tree.’ The speaker resumed.
The meeting went on for another couple of hours and by the time it finished, Zeb was feeling suffocated. He stepped out for a breath of air, walked down to street level and closed his eyes for a second.
They flew open a fraction later.
That flash.
An assault rifle opened up.
Streams of death flew toward him.
Zeb had moved the moment he saw the flash. He had thrown himself back even before his brain had computed it.
Light reflecting off a rifle barrel.
‘Gun.’ He roared, warning people, as bullets cut through where he had been seconds before.
Drive-by shooting. Two shooters, one at the front, next to the driver, one at the back, in a silver Toyota.
Zeb rolled, raced behind the shelter of a parked vehicle.
Left it and ran to another. The Toyota slowed to a crawl, seeking him.
Rear shooter fired a burst when he saw Zeb’s shadow between vehicles.
Windows exploded, screams sounded.
Parked vehicles lined the street, an almost continuous shield.
Zeb bent double, ran ahead and crouched behind a wheel well.
Five seconds.
His gun felt solid, warm, his heartbeat was slow and steady.
Four seconds.
Amidst the chaos and screaming, he heard the Toyota, maybe thirty meters away. Its sound was sharper over surrounding noise.
He could picture eyes searching behind vehicles, trying to see legs.
Three seconds.
He saw the shadow first, moving at a crawl.
They don’t have much time to get away. There’s too much cover for me.
Two seconds.
The same thought must have struck the shooters as their weapons began chattering, bullets kicking concrete and metal, many of them singing in the air.
Zeb risked a quick glance behind him.
Thankfully, no one was in the line of fire.
One second.
He took a deep breath, choreographed his next actions.
Head back!
Rise, use cover of pillar of vehicle.
Narrow burst in the back.
Longer burst in the front.
He tensed, the beast flew through him and even as his body was flowing up, he heard different sounds.
The distinct crashes of a Mossberg shotgun.
Quick, precise shots.
Then the sound of another assault rifle, it sounded like a HK416, longer bursts, targeted.
No stray bullets flying.
Sound coalesced. Became a river of lead.
Whoever was firing knew what they were doing.
He heard another crash, metal on metal and then all firing stopped.
He risked a quick glance and rose slowly, gun at the ready.
Sirens sounded in the air, came closer and people came out of hiding when the air became free of flying poison.
The Toyota rested against the rear of a Chevy, its windows blown away, its hood and body heavily scarred and pockmarked.
Three bodies lay inside, slumped. Out of action.
On either side of the car, two pillars stood, five meters away, strong, sure, grim. A tall African American, in whose hands the shotgun looked like a toy, to one side of the assailants’ car. A ridiculously handsome blond clutching a HK like it belonged, on the other.
Bwana and Roger.
Late evening when all their statements had been taken, witnesses had been interviewed and when the ambulances and most of the patrol cars had disappeared, Meghan punched Zeb in the arm, a hard blow with her knuckles that brought a wince to his face.
The twins, working in the office, had come racing when news broke about the attack on Zeb.
‘You never told us these guys were back,’ she raged.
‘He didn’t know,’ Roger drawled a rich Texan sound that soothed nerves.
‘Bwana and I felt you two were bullying him. Looks like you are. Look at him. He’s lost weight. He’s got circles under his eyes.’ Bwana laughed.
He released Beth from his hug, his six-foot-four frame dwarfing hers, and a grin split his ebony face.
‘Hey, Zeb, how does it feel to be one of them punching bags?’
They had left Australia the day Zeb had sent them the zero text, and when he had briefed them on the circumstances, they had tailed him every day, keeping well behind.
Zeb figured Korulev’s men would attack him near OnePP since their office on Columbus Avenue bristled visibly with all manner of security devices. Ever since he had got the tip-off from Bunk and Talbot, he had taken to wearing his reinforced Kevlar jacket under his clothing and had made the twins wear theirs.
He had brushed away their questioning looks saying the Flayer could attack. They didn’t protest; the Baseball Bat Killer had grabbed them during an earlier investigation.
Armor saved lives.
He had taken to parking in places where chances of collateral damage could be the least. Right against the side of a wall, next to a fire hydrant, near a chain of dumpsters. Miraculously not a single passer-by had been injured in the shooting, but several cars had been totaled.
The road sparkled with shards of glass and pieces of metal and plastic.
They helped the cops clear the street and when the last cruiser disappeared - after Pizaka confirmed that the shooters were known to be Korulev’s gunmen - they turned as one to Zeb.
‘Shall w
e pay our respects to Korulev?’ Roger’s eyes glimmered with amusement.
‘Hell yeah. Let’s clear that nest,’ Bwana rumbled.
The Texan and the African American from Tennessee made a lethal team, their friendship forged in the Special Forces.
Zeb calmed them down. ‘Let him be. This’s a NYPD investigation in case you’ve forgotten.’
Meghan protested. ‘They’ll do squat. Pizaka said just that. They all know that Korulev runs an assassination business, but they have no proof. They won’t get any with these guys dead.’
Zeb closed them down. ‘This isn’t an agency mission. We go by the NYPD book.’
He ignored the sausage-like finger Bwana raised at the NYPD mention, bumped fists with the two men and watched them fade in darkness.
They had his back; they would continue to shadow him.
Korulev might try again.
Chapter 18
December 17th – 23rd
Boris Korulev decided not to try again. It was too dangerous.
He had a heated discussion with his customer, had sworn loudly till the air turned blue and the phone in his hand burned, and had finally convinced the man at the other end.
‘There’s nothing to bite you in the ass. I don’t work like that. How many times I have to tell you?’ You stupid fuck, the words were unsaid, but they hung in the air.
His patience snapped after ten more minutes of haranguing and he slammed the phone down, picked it up again and hurled it against the wall. A head poked through the door, one of his men checking in on him. The head disappeared in a second just as Korulev’s gun barked and a row of holes pocked the door.
No one disturbed him after that. They knew his rages - they could last for hours and anyone who approached him then could end up dead.
Anger bubbled through the Ukrainian’s blood, pulsing hot and fast as he glared around in his office.
He had never taken such a loss. The last time he’d lost so many men in one go was when he’d been in a gang war.
That was a gang.
This was one guy.
Svoloch! Scum! He roared, the sound reverberating in the room.
Hours later as the thump of the nightclub below slowed, his rage simmered down, cool thinking crept forward.
Should have trusted my instincts in the first place. Should never have taken the contract.
He decided to beef up his protective cordon.
Carter might come after him with those other guys.
The Flayer sweated for a few hours after his call with Korulev and then he too calmed down.
I used a burner phone at all times. No names were mentioned.
I paid in cash, using a drop I have used before.
Korulev has met me only once doesn’t know anything about me except that my money is good.
He worried at it for another half an hour then put it behind him. It was Christmas Eve the next day; there were preparations to be made.
The silence in the SUV was broken just once by Beth who asked Zeb a question.
‘How much do such contracts go for?’
He laughed. ‘Depends on who you want killed and who you go to. Word is Korulev will not get out of bed for less than six figures.’
‘Our guy’s well heeled.’
‘Yeah, but we knew that. Everything about him points to wealth.’
He changed the subject. ‘Any luck?’
Meghan spoke sleepily from his side. ‘We came down to fifty names, all women. Of those, fifteen have yet to return our calls. The rest – zip. All the men they bought for have rock solid alibis.’
She yawned and stretched in her seat. ‘I am getting nervous. He’s been quiet for a while.’
Zeb nodded grimly.
‘Too quiet.’
Teresa shooed her husband and kids out of the door on Christmas day, leaned against the door, closed her eyes and sighed. There were times they just got under her feet.
The oven chimed from inside and she hurried to the kitchen. She was cooking an elaborate lunch, a surprise for them, which was why she wanted them out. She donned her gloves and extracted the chicken from the oven, laid it on the counter, and prepared it.
Half an hour later she leaned back, looked at it critically and then wrapped it up. She turned to the cake on the counter and reached out for an icing gun.
The door’s buzzer rang and she frowned.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. Todd and the kids had their own keys. Any other visitor would have to go through the security downstairs, who would ring her. She ignored it and bent down again, but the buzzer sounded again insistently. She sighed, removed her gloves and headed to the door.
Her eyes rested on a can of Mace that Todd had affixed to a holder next to the door.
Self-protection. Can’t have enough of it.
She peered through the eyehole and made out a man of average height, white, flowers in his hands.
The frown deepened. She knew him, but from where?
‘Mrs. Stark?’ His voice came muffled.
That voice, those hands.
Oh yeah.
She wiped her hands, tidied her hair and with a smile, swung the door open.
Zeb looked through the mirrored glass at the lights in the city, red, white, warm, flashing and festive. Bunches of people strolled below, couples cuddled, kids played. Traffic was virtually non-existent. The sisters had gone with Mark and his friends, Bwana and Roger were catching up with old friends.
He watched a woman bend down and laugh, her hair falling over her face as a young boy, maybe six years old, raced at her.
She hugged him tight and lifted him in the air. Through the distance, though the thick window, he thought he heard a squeal of joy.
The lid jarred open and mischievous eyes peered at him.
No.
He battened it down and shoved the box to a room in his mind that was all white.
No color. Just white. The box disappeared in the anonymity.
He stood without moving, looking sightlessly outside.
Nothing went on in his mind. It was grey and calm.
He had spent years in the southern part of India and then in Tibet, China, and Japan, after that had happened.
He had learnt from old men whose wrinkles were so deep that their body was all one giant wrinkle, but their eyes were bright.
He had served as apprentice to men whose beards had never known a modern razor. They used the rough edges of a metal urn to trim. Their skin didn’t feel the roughness.
He absorbed from them.
How the mind could be trained.
The insignificance of life and the irrelevance of death.
Containing pain, erasing it.
Boxing up memory, filing it away.
Controlling the body, surviving for minutes without a heartbeat.
Making the body temporarily light.
Several of them taught him martial arts the likes of which only a handful of people on the planet practiced.
Nerve points, killing points. Paralysis points.
He became a lethal machine.
He flowed through life. Buffeting winds didn’t affect him.
Except on the rare occasions when they did.
An insistent blinking red light forced itself through the grey.
His phone.
He thumbed through the message.
We’re back. All good.
Meghan.
He went back to his passive state, the night crept, people thinned below, and then the streets smoothened and became smooth unbroken lines of concrete.
Nothing existed. Just him and the night.
Till the red light blinked again and when he read the message, he knew.
He wasn’t alone.
The Flayer had struck again.
‘Teresa Stark.’ Chang was grim faced as he led Zeb to a meeting room where Pizaka, immaculate as ever, watched everyone with hooded eyes.
Three in the morning, but the place bristled with cops, all of
them wearing the same angry looks that Chang wore.
Pizaka cleared his throat and brought the task force to attention.
‘Teresa Stark was abducted from her Chelsea apartment at 1 p.m. yesterday. She was alone then, preparing a Christmas lunch for her family, who were playing in a nearby park. They returned home at 2 p.m. and found the apartment empty and food burning in the oven. They didn’t think much at the time, didn’t even call her. She often popped out to get something at the last minute. An hour later they got uneasy and their husband Todd called her mobile, got nothing, and organized a search, still nothing.’
Zeb could imagine the panic setting in on the family as they searched, trying to tamp down their worst fears.
‘They called us at eight in the night. We immediately monitored the internet for anything from him but there wasn’t – ’
Beth’s hand shot up when he paused for a breath. ‘Why is it 1 p.m. and not twelve or eleven?’
‘I was getting to that. Her husband and her kids left the apartment at ten which leaves us a window of four hours.’
‘At eleven, we got this.’
He turned on the projector and an image came up. An empty elevator in the apartment block. The video ran for a couple of seconds and then a figure entered, the door shut and it rose.
The figure lifted a hand, tugged at something on his head and the masked face looked directly at the camera.
There was a gasp in the room as they recognized the masked figure.
The Flayer.
‘The prick knows we’ll watch this tape,’ someone mumbled. Feet shuffled, chairs scraped, cops swore.
The Flayer raised his left hand at the camera. It wasn’t empty.
He was holding a bunch of flowers.
Pizaka let the video run till the Flayer exited the elevator and then forwarded the empty space and resumed play just before the counter read one in the afternoon. The doors slid open and a woman entered first, her hair shining under the lights in the elevator.
The Flayer entered, his head bowed, a hand pushing her forward.
He tugged down his mask, leaned closer to the woman, grabbed her hair and lifted her head to the camera.
Teresa Stark stared blankly at them.
The elevator came to a stop at the bottom, but they didn’t exit immediately. He used her as cover, donned his shades, wrapped a scarf around his face and then pushed her ahead and walked out briskly.