The Warriors Series Boxset II

by Ty Patterson

  Good match for Matt Rouse.

  Werner had accounted for the masks The Ghul and the Flayer wore and had compared all other nodal points.

  ‘Now we know for sure,’ Roger grinned expansively. He slapped Zeb’s back. ‘Good deduction, Sherlock. I wouldn’t have thought of that.’

  His grin faded. ‘Why’s the probability higher for Johnson?’

  ‘The machine had audio to compare as well. More comparison points, the better the results,’ Zeb replied.

  An accusing look spread on Meghan’s face. ‘You knew all along about that recognition shit didn’t you? You were just yanking my chain then.’

  ‘I knew some of it. If you spend as much time with Broker as I have, you will end up getting some idea of how his pet possessions work.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now we find out where they are.’

  Chapter 27

  February 12th – 18th

  Zeb made another round of calls, to Poland, Switzerland, South Africa, and South Korea. The gloves came off this time. His contacts had to put pressure on the various clinics and get results fast. He listened to promises and let his silence convey whatever they wished to read into it.

  He got the twins to bring up Google Maps and mark the coffee shop from where contact had been made with the HOF – now, presumably by the Flayer – and where he had bought the carpet.

  ‘What about that mail box center? Where Shayna Rogers worked?’ Beth inserted the address without waiting for Zeb’s reply.

  Another flag went up on the map. Three flags now.

  ‘Can you get residential addresses of all apartments and houses within an hour’s commute?’

  They thought for a while.

  ‘Sure. But checking those out will be a bitch of a job.’

  ‘Get them. We’ll figure out how to whittle them down.’

  They got to work, Meghan hitting the phone to Chang, Beth hitting Werner.

  The Flayer had a dilemma.

  The plastic sheets he had on the floor hadn’t been changed in a long while. After each killing, he sponged them and then wiped them clean. It took a couple of hours and when done, he burned the cleaning material. But the sheets were starting to fray now and he had almost slipped a couple of times.

  With two of us in the room, it’ll get worse.

  He usually ordered replacements well in advance, using online sites that delivered to one of his storage locations. But those locations were blown now. He had known the moment he visited one of them and found the faint scuff marks on the floor of the container.

  He could hire another storage facility, but that would require exposing his legend and he didn’t want to take that risk. He could order online and have it delivered to the neighboring home.

  May not come in time.

  He could do that one day delivery shit, but that still carried the risk of an over-zealous delivery guy remembering him.

  He considered his options, kicking himself at the same time.

  Bad planning results in dead killers.

  No one’s going to kill me.

  I do the killing.

  He looked up at various stores that stocked on the sheets, called a few and found only three that stocked in enough quantity that he wanted. He inquired about the size.

  About the size of a rolled up carpet.

  People will remember something that size.

  So minimize contact with people.

  The Ghul spent the day with his men.

  He picked them up very early in the morning and took them to the state park.

  ‘Relax,’ he said after he removed their blindfolds. ‘Today is just to relax and think about the glory you will bring to yourself. Your names will be remembered forever. All believers in the world will swear by you.’

  He saw the fire burn in their eyes and knew they were ready. They played cards, talked – they talked, he listened – drank from a bottle of wine he passed round. Alcohol was okay today. Not too much and hence just one bottle shared by the six of them.

  He felt their inquiring eyes occasionally. Eyes that dropped away when he looked. They were figuring out who would be in the first kill team. It wasn’t time to tell them. Not just yet.

  There was a reason for picking them up that early.

  Suicide killers often had last minute second thoughts. He wanted to see if any of them were going through any agonizing. He would kill any of them who weren’t full committed.

  All he saw was religious fire and a burning intensity.

  He asked them to write the names of their parents on slips of paper. Each killer’s parents would get one hundred thousand U.S. dollars once their son died a martyr.

  They wouldn’t of course. However it was important for the men to believe him and he watched with quiet satisfaction as their hearts swelled with pride.

  He drove them back when it was dark.

  Less time for them to be alone and change their minds.

  He followed one of them upstairs to his apartment while the rest waited in the vehicle, cuffed and blindfolded.

  ‘You have the job tomorrow,’ he told the first one and the man’s eyes grew wide.

  He embraced The Ghul, who gave final instructions.

  The Ghul took the man’s phone. It wouldn’t be needed anymore. He searched the man’s apartment and made sure nothing in it gave anything away, gave him away. A final embrace and he drove the remaining four back to their apartments.

  He followed another man up. ‘You are part of the first kill team.’ The man crushed The Ghul in a hug, wept in joy and promised he would stick to The Ghul’s instructions.

  He took the others home; each in the same manner to each apartment.

  Back in his own apartment, The Ghul took the men’s’ phones and broke them. He flushed the sim cards down the toilet, had a frugal dinner and had a brief conversation with Omar.

  It was done.

  Samir Hadad and Majid Malouf made his first attack team.

  They were ready. The guns were loaded.

  They would fire tomorrow.

  Poland responded finally.

  An email. Short, brief and negative.

  It also had a query.

  Did Zeb think his man would have gone to smaller outfits?

  Zeb knew what that meant. Would Matt Rouse have gone to shady clinics? Those who worked on a cash only basis and didn’t ask questions?

  ‘Exactly the kind of place he would have gone!’ Meghan exclaimed.

  Beth agreed.

  Zeb shook his head.

  ‘Wrong. They are also the kind to sell your identity to scammers and criminals. Your identity doesn’t remain private for very long.’

  ‘But they are in the looks business,’ Beth protested.

  ‘Which is part of identity.’

  ‘Gotcha. It sometimes takes some time for stuff to filter through her,’ Meghan gave a withering stare at her twin and replied to Poland.

  ‘No.’

  South Korea’s response came just as dark fell. An emphatic no. Matt Rouse hadn’t been operated on in their registered clinics.

  South Africa’s response followed soon after and made Beth laugh as she read it aloud.

  ‘You started smoking pot, my friend? Or something more potent? You know that a hit can be ordered for just a few thousand dollars in this country and no one will be the wiser. I cannot confirm that your man was operated here. Neither can I say he wasn’t.’

  ‘Some friends you have, Zeb,’ she commented drolly.

  ‘I was expecting that reply. Let’s see what Switzerland has to say.’

  February the thirteenth dawned like any other wintry day. Cloudy, grey, and overcast, with the promise of more snow and gusting winds.

  Zeb went on his 5 a.m. run, and was joined by four other shadows in the thick mist, the rest of his crew. They were back in their respective apartments by seven thirty and after a quick shower Zeb headed to One PP for his regular meeting with the Commissioner.

  Sheer
dumb luck played its role sometimes.

  It either threw a wrench in the works or lead to something miraculous.

  Alexander Fleming’s discovery of penicillin fell in the latter category.

  He was growing bacteria on agar, a jelly like substance, and he then left for his vacation, but forgot to shut the windows of his lab. When he returned, he found mold on the agar but also areas where the bacteria had been killed.

  Thus penicillin was discovered.

  What happened to Majid Malouf was the wrench.

  The Ghul’s instructions to the two were clear.

  Take separate routes.

  Rendezvous at Grand Central at eight thirty.

  Get into position by eight forty-five. Malouf on the West Balcony, Hadad on the Main Concourse, near the East Side.

  Make sure no one is within ten feet, no one who is close enough to negate the assault rifles and overpower the men.

  Start firing at 9 a.m.

  Malouf downward from the balcony, Hadad in the direction of the central clock.

  If cops approach, fire in their direction.

  Keep firing till the two men are killed by cops or whoever else.

  Malouf reached his position on time. Hadad wasn’t there.

  The Ghul’s instructions were explicit.

  Wait for the other. Two people should fire at the same time for maximum impact.

  Unfortunately The Ghul hadn’t factored random chance and neither had he given them a plan B.

  Hadad was stuck in the subway station because a man had fallen on the tracks of the Lexington Avenue Pelham Local service and that had created a logjam. Hadad had no way of contacting Malouf. He didn’t have a phone. He couldn’t take a bus because he had just enough money with him to buy a single subway ticket.

  The Ghul had emptied their pockets the previous night and had handed them just enough money for a one-way ticket.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead as he shifted weight, the rifle a heavy burden in the large sack he carried on his back.

  People jostled against him as the crowd thickened and tempers frayed. He pushed backward and hugged the tiled wall. His glorious mission would end before it even started if someone bumped into him and grew suspicious of the hard lines and angles in his sack.

  He glanced at his watch. He was already late by ten minutes.

  Malouf hung around on the balcony, breathed deeply and calmed his nerves. His initial rush of adrenaline was being gnawed away by nervousness and fear.

  Eight forty and no sigh of his fellow killer.

  He leaned against the balcony’s sides and squinted at the far end. No one who looked like Hadad. No one carrying a sack like his. He breathed shallowly and wiped the perspiration that was dotting his forehead.

  As discreetly as he could, using his right sleeve against his face.

  He paced and when the clock moved forward inexorably by another five minutes, panic mushroomed into him.

  It was sheer dumb luck that Zeb was just idling on Madison Avenue, outside a Starbucks, just a few minutes away from Grand Central.

  The sheer weight of traffic meant that he was running late and Bwana and Roger wanted to coffee up. He waited for them impatiently, looked inside the store; saw Bwana hulking over the rest of the line while Roger charmed his way ahead.

  Malouf. Eight twenty-five. Caught on the approach from Vanderbilt Avenue.

  The message buzzed Zeb’s phone and he swung the door open without conscious thought and dropped to the street.

  He was moving even as Meghan’s voice came over his earpiece. She confirmed Werner had a live match and was waiting for additional confirmation from other cameras.

  Two meters forward and through the side of his eye he glimpsed his companions break away from the line and hurtle toward the exit.

  Through people, sometimes over them, no time for apologies.

  Screw the vehicle. Screw it getting towed away.

  Ducking under an awning, hearing curses behind as the giant that was Bwana scattered people like a force of nature.

  A roar. Roger. ‘Get out of the way. Police.’

  Through their earpieces Meghan maintained her commentary, patrol cars racing toward the station, Chang and Pizaka following. ESU units a block away. The entrance loomed three hundred meters away.

  He slipped in a puddle of water, his Vibram soles found purchase. Sirens grew louder. Far ahead of him, he saw flashing lights.

  Blue. Red.

  Malouf shifted his weight impatiently and scanned the crowd below on the concourse. He would wait for exactly five more minutes and then he would start firing himself.

  People thronged around him, crowded him, and he made a decision on the spot. The West side balcony not only had access to Vanderbilt Avenue, but also to restaurants.

  Tables, tourists, and travelers.

  The balcony had been an attractive spot during the reconnaissance run, but not now. Too many people around him, they were too close to him. They could easily overpower him.

  He would go to the bottom of the stairs, to the Concourse, and then fire. The Concourse had enough room for him to have his space. That would mean disobeying The Ghul’s explicit commands, but Malouf was okay with that. After all he would not meet the HOF killer again.

  The man in the field had to make independent decisions sometimes.

  The rifle felt heavy on his back and after looking around nervously, he got the sack off his shoulders and rested it between his feet.

  Hot. It felt hot and humid, even though it was biting cold winter outside.

  He glanced at the clock in the center, at his watch, gripped the sack and peered through the crowd.

  At last.

  He saw a man hurrying through the crowd at the far end, carrying a similar sack.

  Hadad?

  Yes, Hadad.

  Malouf mumbled curses at him, curses that were lost in the noise. He waved wildly at the man. Jumped up to get his attention. People would notice him, but his nerves were strung too tight to care.

  Wait. He gestured at his fellow shooter.

  He pointed to the stairs.

  I am coming down.

  Hadad nodded and then raised his hand in the air, in the universal thumbs up gesture. Malouf saw him take his position in front of the stairs on the East Side. No one was within five feet. Within ten feet was impossible.

  The two men lost sight of one another once Malouf reached the concourse.

  That was okay. Now it was just a matter of finding his kill spot, removing his assault rifle and cutting loose.

  Zeb burst through, almost tripped over a baby carriage, let the shouted curse from mommy wash over him.

  He threaded through the crowd.

  Where?

  He scanned the West Side balcony.

  Waiters. Patrons. Luggage. People.

  No one looking like Malouf.

  He shoved people aside and went to the edge, scanned below.

  No one like him on the stairs.

  Scan in sections. Left to right, right to left. Watch for abnormal –

  There.

  Dark hair. Hoodie. Something between his legs.

  Move.

  The man bent. Unloosened his sack.

  Run Faster. Apologize later.

  Maybe a hundred and fifty meters separating them, but at a downward angle and past the stairs.

  ‘Got him,’ he said in his mic. ‘Just below the stairs.’

  ‘Bwana and Roger are flanking the East side,’ came Meghan’s reply. ‘Werner has spotted Hadad.’

  Zeb’s legs were pumping, arms were flying.

  Ignore Hadad. Bwana and Roger and the rest of the cops will handle him.

  Malouf opened the mouth of the sack.

  Something glinted.

  ‘Gun. Police.’ Zeb roared.

  His Glock appeared in his hand.

  People screamed. Scattered. Broke for the exit.

  DUCK. WEAVE.

  DOWN THE STAIRS.

  ‘GET
AWAY. MAN WITH A GUN.’

  DOWN LAST TEN STEPS.

  LEAP. LAND. LEAP.

  SLIPPING. BRACE WITH LEFT HAND.

  RIGHTING.

  ASSAULT RIFLE COMING UP.

  MALOUF IGNORING EVERYTHING. EVERYONE.

  GLOCK GOING UP.

  A WARNING SHOT IN THE AIR.

  SCREAMS BECOME LOUDER. CROWD HEAVING AND BREAKING TO EXIT.

  ‘YOU! PUT YOUR HANDS UP.’

  NO RESPONSE.

  MALOUF NOT EVEN LOOKING BACK.

  ASSAULT RIFLE LEVELING.

  TO HIP.

  TO SHOULDER.

  TEN FEET AWAY NOW.

  CLOSE ENOUGH TO SEE SWEAT ON MAN.

  CLOSE ENOUGH TO SEE FINGER ON TRIGGER.

  TIGHTENING.

  TRIGGER BREAK.

  A BURST.

  TOO LATE TO STOP IT.

  FALLING.

  IGNORE.

  SKIDDING.

  IGNORE.

  BRACE WITH LEFT HAND.

  BREATHING STEADY.

  TAKE YOUR TIME.

  IGNORE EVERYTHING BUT MALOUF.

  GLOCK TO EYE.

  EYE TO SIGHT.

  SIGHT TO MALOUF.

  EYE. SIGHT. TARGET.

  INVISIBLE ELECTRIC LINE.

  MALOUF DEPRESSING TRIGGER AGAIN.

  TRIGGER BREAK.

  RED MIST.

  FLOW TO FEET.

  MOVE AHEAD.

  CHECK.

  MAN DEAD.

  CHECK AROUND.

  PEOPLE ON FLOOR.

  COPS FLOODING.

  CHECK EAST SIDE.

  MAN ON KNEES.

  BWANA, ROGER, ON HIM.

  SOMEONE BEHIND.

  TAKE STEP.

  TURN.

  GLOCK COMING UP EASILY.

  HOLD!

  FRIEND, NOT FOE.

  ESU COMMANDER.

  SAYING SOMETHING.

  The beast went back inside; time sped up and became normal.

  Normal became deathly quiet. Not exactly, but compared to the normal hustle of the terminal, it was.

  People sobbed as they were lead away, some wailing, most of them with panicked, whitened faces. Cops flooded the concourse, directed people out swiftly.

  Efficient, practiced, moves honed to perfection ever since 9/11. ESU units with dogs patrolled, made the place secure.

  The ESU commander spoke again. His eyes were bleak. ‘We got lucky. Very lucky. The man was nervous. His palms must have slipped on the gun. Most bullets went high and wide.’