by Ty Patterson
‘Visibility. They want to reduce our visibility and then they’ll crowd us and attack,’ he said grimly.
The four riders behind had cut the distance but made no immediate move to attack. Helmets bobbed at one another and then two riders dropped behind, came closer and one rider stood up, balanced and in a smooth move, transferred to the second rider’s pillion. His bike crashed to the road and spun angrily in a trail of sparks.
‘What now?’ Roger murmured. He flicked a glance at the front; the rider ahead was continuing his assault on the windscreen and now the bottom of the glass was nearly opaque.
The road curved ahead over an embankment that fell steeply down to a small lake. A metal railing separated tarmac from steep slope.
‘Whatever they want to do will have to be fast. Pretty soon we’ll be flooded by cops and cruisers.’ Roger mused as he squinted his eyes to see what the riders were up to.
Zeb lifted a pair of binos to his eyes and watched for a few seconds. His voice was calm and soft when he spoke. ‘We’re armored, aren’t we?’
‘Steel plated,’ Bwana confirmed.
‘Bet that’s not enough protection against a rocket launcher.’
Bwana flashed a look at the mirror swiftly and swore softly. ‘Hold on. Brace yourself. Time to even this up a little more.’
He dropped his speed imperceptibly, let the distance reduce gradually, his eyes flicking constantly between his mirrors and the front.
‘Now,’ he yelled and jammed the brakes hard and simultaneously threw the vehicle in reverse. Tires squealed and smoked in protest and then bit into asphalt, found purchase, and one moment the SUV was hurling forward, the next it was rocking back and gaining speed.
Bikes were nimble and had better maneuverability over a chunky SUV, but the riders were bunched close together and had been distracted by the transfer of one rider to another bike.
The SUV’s rear smashed into the closest rider who was swerving away evasively, but was too slow and too late. He went flying in the air and slammed against the metal railing; his bike skidded on the road in a trail of smoke, sparks and metallic screeching.
Another rider went wide to escape the spinning bike. That exposed him to the rain of bullets from the vehicle. The rider jerked under the impact and held onto the handlebars, but not for long. He slumped over the tank, lost control and his bike fell and crushed him under it.
Zeb and Roger were hurled back in their seats when Bwana brought the vehicle to another tire-burning stop and jerked the vehicle forward and put distance between themselves and the launcher carrying bike.
The pursuing bike made no attempt to close the distance and when Roger trained his binoculars on them, he couldn’t help chuckling. ‘The hoods are arguing; probably wondering which end is the lethal one.’
Zeb scanned the road behind. It was still free of traffic except for the lone bike. The road ahead was similarly empty; the rider in front, a dark spot against concrete. They were on the embankment now, a stretch that was almost two miles long as it ran around the lake.
‘We’ve no room to escape. The riders could come close behind us, if they ignored our covering fire, and fire a grenade up our asses.’ Bwana read his thoughts.
‘This vehicle has braces on top, hasn’t it?’
‘Yeah. Controls are right here. Why?’ Bwana tapped the dashboard.
Zeb didn’t reply. He broke the SR-25 into three component parts, secured them firmly to his right side, removed the computer and tossed it at Roger. He rotated his shoulder; it throbbed from the knife wounds, but it would function. His mind and body were conditioned to deal with pain.
‘You aren’t – ’ Roger’s disbelieving words were blown away in the wind when Zeb slid open the door at his side, glanced once at his two men and launched himself in the air.
His hands gripped the railing on top and powered his body up. It floated straight and parallel to the ground for a second; time during which Roger opened a hail of fire at the pursuers to keep them at bay, and then Zeb was on the roof. His wrists, arms and legs moved in smooth practiced motions; muscles remembering numerous occasions when he had to crawl up the roof of fast moving vehicles.
He lay prone on the top, his head facing the rear of the vehicle, his hands locked around the railings. He ignored the cold air tearing through his hair, reached behind blindly with his legs, found the open braces and thumped the roof with an elbow.
Bwana pressed a button on the dash and the braces tightened on his legs. Another button secured Zeb’s middle to the roof with a middle brace. The fastenings had been designed to tension automatically and keep whatever they were holding firm on the roof.
There were two more braces in front of him. They weren’t needed.
Two seconds to remove the component parts. Three more to assemble them. Ignore the approaching rider. Ignore the man trying to stand behind the rider. Ignore the tube on his shoulder.
Zeb planted the scope and took his first view. All he saw was wildly bouncing terrain.
The bike was coming in a straight line now, steady and firm. The rider behind had found his balance and was hoisting the launcher on his shoulder.
Zeb thumped the roof with his elbow and gripped the rifle firmly.
Bwana swerved suddenly, headed straight at the metal railing. Three tons of SUV at close to hundred miles an hour against a flimsy railing whose design was dictated by cost. No contest.
The railing gave in an agonizing wail and tore reluctantly. Zeb’s body was thrown around violently on the roof and if it hadn’t been for the fastenings, he would have been in the air. His hands had a death grip on the rifle and they rose unconsciously to prevent any jarring blows to the SR-25.
The SUV sailed over the embankment, cleared the sloping ground and started falling toward the blue waters below.
The rifle came to his Zeb’s shoulder, the scope to his eye. The world was moving slower. Tarmac came into view, then a bike and then the riders. The second rider was bending down, the bike was turning in their direction.
He depressed the trigger with the rifle in full auto mode. He corrected his first burst and sprayed left to right, top to bottom. He fired a longer burst. A third burst followed and the magazine emptied. He thought he had missed but then the bike wobbled and went over spinning.
Zeb wasn’t watching anymore. The braces had come free and with one leg and one arm, he launched himself off the roof and into the air.
He fell wide off the vehicle with the world spinning lazily around him.
He loosened his body, let gravity do his work and fell sideways in the water. He gasped at the cold and the shock of the impact, let himself sink for a few feet and then thrashed out with his legs and broke to the surface and surveyed his surroundings.
The road they had been on was now a long line of vehicles. A hammer landed on his back and he turned to see Bwana’s white smile.
‘Good shooting, bro, but maybe next time you can take an easier shot?’
‘That was sheer, dumb, luck.’ He forced the words through chattering teeth. ‘The bike was coming straight at us for a few seconds. Gave me a clear line of sight.’
Bwana helped him remove the now water-laden Kevlar jacket and he immediately felt lighter. A hail turned them around; Roger, waving from the bank of the lake. They swam toward it, Bwana pulling him along occasionally with a powerful hand.
The lake’s bank was crowded with cops and spectators by the time they reached it and hands stretched out to haul them in. Roger thrust blankets at them that he’d procured out of nowhere and when Zeb had got his breath back, a stocky cop scratched his head and addressed him. ‘Which movie are you guys shooting?’
Wasserman caught the news in the evening; he thought he had seen everything in his life but even his jaded eyes remained glued to the screen. The footage was caught on a cell phone and it was blurry, the faces were indistinct, but even with all that, it was gripping.
Carter and his companion’s faces were never caught on ca
mera and the cops deflected all questions about the incident, but Wasserman didn’t need confirmation from TV news coverage. He got that when Stinek called him.
He listened in silence as the man raged and threatened to bring retribution to the whole of Boston. Wasserman refrained from wondering aloud what the city had anything to do with Carter. He listened for some more time and then asked.
‘All your men are dead?’
‘All but one who is now in custody.’
‘Will he rat on you?’
Stinek laughed through his anger. ‘My men never snitch. They know they will face a slow death if they do. I am going after Carter. No one takes apart my men like that and lives. I will dig out his intestines and line them up on Newbury Street. I will then drink his blood-–’
‘Don’t.’ Wasserman cut him short. ‘Don’t go there, don’t even think of it. You’d better off finding a hole to hide in.’
Wasserman held the phone away as a yell burst through Stinek, followed by a torrent of rage. His voice turned icy cold when the gangster paused for breath. ‘Listen, Stinek, you are a punk who has enjoyed some level of success by being violent. Sure, you run south Boston, but you are still a low-level street thug. You saw what he did to your men; they had a grenade launcher, they had an open field of fire and yet he still took them out. Your guys didn’t even scratch him.’
‘Carter,’ he said flatly, ‘is unlike anyone you have ever come up against. Carter will eat you for breakfast and he won’t even notice you. These thoughts you have about taking him down? Think again. You’ll live longer.’
Stinek’s harsh breathing slowed and became calmer. ‘What about you? Where will you hide?’
‘Somewhere he can find me.’
Chapter 25
The principal reviewed the news footage several times, spoke to Wasserman and got assurances that Carter would never find out about him. He tossed the phone away and waved the snifter under his nose and let the richness of Remy Martin soak through him.
He had made inquiries about Carter the moment Wasserman had brought the man to his attention; he had met with Pentagon generals and had asked them, discreetly, about this man. He had lunched with the National Security Advisor and had asked him if he had ever come across that name.
The answer from most quarters was that Carter was a good soldier, obeyed orders, but now was out of the military and in the private sector. A few people raised eyebrows and asked the principal his interest. He shrugged; he had come across Carter’s business and was wondering if he should hire him as a security consultant. He’s the best in the business, came the reply.
He sniffed his drink again and this time he smelled the deeper layers of aroma and closed his eyes in pleasure.
Layers. No one knows what I am doing. Wasserman knows, but even he doesn’t know why.
Oil wells were being acquired two a week, in different parts of the countries. One well was being closed every month, but still not a single person either in the industry or from the outside had noticed the goings on.
The principal chuckled. That was the genius of the plan. In the business world, these things always happened. Companies were acquired, stripped of their assets and closed. No one accused them of a bigger sinister plan.
What if Wasserman dies? What if Carter finds him? His eyes flew open and he analyzed the problem with the same concentration he had invested in getting to where he was. It wasn’t a new problem. He had thought about it several times, and like before, he reached the same conclusion.
Wasserman was good, very good; it was highly unlikely he would be captured and made to talk. And even if he did, who would believe the word of a mercenary? Who would believe the preposterous plan he was executing on behalf of the principal?
The principal took a sip and felt at peace when the liquid spread its warmth through him. He wasn’t afraid of dying. It was an academic concept; he had never faced death and in fact, in his position, was very well protected. But deep down, he knew he didn’t fear death. The plan would be executed even if he died and when the world woke up, it would be too late. The order of the world would have changed irrevocably.
Zeb spent just a day in New York before he was on the jet, this time to Johannesburg. The voice print that Meghan had sent to various agencies found a match in South Africa.
Pieter van Zyl, the Director-General of the South African State Security Agency wouldn’t disclose the identity till he met with Zeb in person. No amount of cajoling and pleading had changed the big South African’s mind and after spending time with his crew, Zeb had made the twelve-hour flight to the largest city in the country.
The flight had given him time to reflect on the progress his team had made. Beth and Meghan were close to cracking the code on Petrova’s letter – the Aramaic texts were key, but Petrova seemed to have used several books and the twins were scouring the internet for other texts that would decipher the letter.
Clare reported that the Secretary of State had met with the Saudi and the Venezuelan oil ministers and had come away satisfied that their comments were gaffes. The various intelligence agencies in the country were less convinced, however, not one of them had come across any covert plan. Clare had finished her call by ordering Zeb to meet her in D.C. once he returned from Jo’burg.
Bwana and Roger had wanted to go after Fadil Stinek, to teach him the simpler life to be enjoyed in the straight and narrow. Zeb had dissuaded them. The video clip had gone viral and though their names had been kept out, he wanted his crew to maintain a low profile. In any case, Boston’s cops had enough on Stinek to make his life uncomfortable.
Wasserman and whoever was behind him remained Zeb’s priority.
Just who is Wasserman, he mused as the Lear’s wing caught the sun and turned gold.
Zeb was waived through border control; when you were a guest of the Head of the State Security Agency, things moved like greased lightning. An escort was waiting for him outside O.R. Tambo International airport, a smartly dressed police officer who snapped him a salute and insisted on taking his duffel bag. He held open the door to the Jeep and when Zeb was inside, moved away with his lights flashing.
Zeb had been to South Africa several times and during his last visit had worked with a team from the SSA to foil an Al Qaeda terrorist plot. During the mission, he had taken a shot meant for a fast rising star of the agency, Pieter van Zyl.
Pieter, as big as Bwana and Bear, was waiting impatiently when the Jeep turned in and strode across the courtyard of the white walled, palatial building and grabbed Zeb before he had even stepped out and hugged him.
His large eyes went over Zeb keenly and the normally grim face relaxed into a smile. ‘There’s trouble whenever you come to my country.’
‘This time it’s you who invited me,’ Zeb retorted and watched his friend’s smile fade.
Half an hour later when coffees were consumed and small talk had run out, van Zyl rose, pulled curtains over the large picture windows and darkened his office. He played with a remote and a white rectangle came up against a blank wall. He pressed a button and a face looked at them.
‘That’s Luke Wasserman.’
Zeb studied the man in the picture. As tall as him, probably an inch taller, Wasserman had piercing green eyes and white hair that was cut close. His right cheek had a scar, a cut or a burn, that hadn’t healed well. There was another mark over his right eyebrow.
‘No one knows how he got those scars.’ Pieter commented once and lapsed back into silence, letting Zeb study the man.
The camera had caught Wasserman as he exited a coffee shop, just before he stepped on the street. To anyone else it would have been a photograph of a man going about his business; Zeb saw the coiled tension in the man’s body, the flat gaze that took in everything without focusing on anything in particular.
The photograph changed and this time showed Wasserman exiting a car. van Zyl flicked through several photographs and kept the first one when he had finished.
‘Who is he?�
��
‘Just the most dangerous killer I have known and that’s including you,’ van Zyl smiled mirthlessly and rose to pull back the curtains.
‘He is a product of our Defense Intelligence Division which is part of our National Defense Force.’ The DID was the South African equivalent of the U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency.
‘Most people think the DID is just another agency for gathering intel; but unknown to the public and known to just a very few people, it has a team of covert operatives who carry out all manner of proactive and reactive operations. Elimination or clean-up. Some of those operatives are assassins. Luke Wasserman was one such killer.’
He paused when a knock sounded on the door and an orderly brought in more coffee and poured for the two of them.
Pieter resumed when they were alone again. ‘Wasserman wasn’t your “run-of-the-mill” assassin. He got the job done, but he was used when we wanted to convey a particular message.’ A faint look of distaste appeared and vanished swiftly from his face.
‘He was brutally efficient at that and the results were spectacular. There was a nationally owned mine which had labor unrest, miners going on strike. The government negotiated, did everything it could to get the mine running again, but the union leader was stubborn. The politicians gave up and turned to the police. They gave up and looked at the DID.’
The thin smile flashed again. ‘Yes, the DID’s operatives worked like government mercenaries. Wasserman was deployed and one week later, the mine was producing again.’
‘The union leader? He was found beneath a mine car, his head crushed. Accidents happen, but no accident results in a man’s genitals being torn off and stuffed in his mouth. The government covered up the killing and things were back to normal.’
‘Wasserman was too brutal for the DID and he was quietly made to leave the agency. This goes back ten-twelve years, long before my time.’
‘He became a merc and initially operated in various countries in Africa. Namibia, Sudan, Somalia, Mozambique, all the hotspots in this continent. A village needed to be subdued for mining operations on its land; Wasserman was called in. A tribal warlord had to be silenced; Luke Wasserman was there. A presidential candidate had to be eliminated; Wasserman could do that job in his sleep.’