by Ty Patterson
Ajdan clambered down a drainpipe, signaled with a flashlight in the direction of the getaway vehicle, and when he got an answer, ran swiftly to the outer walls of the mansion.
The mansion had dogs. They had been drugged.
It had surveillance cameras. They had been hacked.
It had a roving patrol of three men. Ajdan had timed his entry and exit to coincide with their absence.
Penetrating Churchey’s mansion hadn’t been difficult.
Ajdan and his men had once breached the palace of an African dictator and had killed him in his sleep. That had been far more challenging.
He reached the wall, hauled himself up swiftly, ran on the balls of his feet to the open door.
He didn’t exchange high-fives with his men. He didn’t slap their backs. They were professionals.
Their anonymous sedan pulled away and it was only when three miles separated them from the mansion that the first word was spoken.
‘Did he spill?’ Masis asked from behind the wheel.
‘Yes. But he didn’t know anything. He described the man, but we already have him on the photographs.’
If his men were disappointed, they didn’t show it. Professionals.
‘Churchey?’ Shiraz asked.
‘Won’t trouble us.’
Ajdan settled back and let Masis thread their way through winding streets.
Zeb followed them, four car lengths behind, on a bike, a Yamaha, a common make in the city.
He knew Ajdan would make a move on Churchey; it was the way a professional worked.
His patience had been rewarded when the Ford showed up at two in the morning, circled the mansion once, parked in deep shadow, and three figures emerged.
Zeb stifled his disappointment when he saw the three figures were masked.
He watched them climb over the wall and after waiting for a few minutes, darted to the car and planted a GPS tracker beneath it.
He had already snapped a photograph of its plates and when he got back, he mailed Werner with the number.
Two men returned after forty-five minutes and another ninety minutes later, the third man returned.
The third man bent to enter the vehicle, ripped off his mask with a hand and for one second, his face was exposed to Zeb.
Pale complexion, dark, short hair, dark eyes, clean shaven. Zeb’s phone captured it all and when the Ford swung out, he fell in behind.
Traffic was light that time of the night, and even thinner on the streets that the Ford wended its way through.
Smart. They want to see if they’ve been made.
Zeb had killed his lights on the black Yamaha, but he dropped back further, as they moved from neighborhood to neighborhood.
West Town fell behind, Near West Side drifted past. They meandered through New City in no particular hurry, a Ford leading the way, two other sedans in between, the dull black Yamaha bringing the rear.
The Ford’s flasher lit and it hung a left into a narrow street. One car followed it, and so did Zeb, coming up from far behind.
He had a street map of the city on a console on the bike; the GPS tracker lit up on it in green flashes.
The street opened into a four-way junction; he crouched lower, prepared for a sudden maneuver.
The move, when it came, caught even him by surprise.
A hand came out of the Ford, something liquid splashed on asphalt. The car in between swerved suddenly, lost control, mounted the pavement and crashed against a lamp post.
Oil or something else.
Zeb took evasive action, but it was too late. His bike lost purchase, skidded and just before it crashed into the middle car, he flung himself away.
He rolled and came to rest behind a short flight of concrete steps that led to the entrance of a dark apartment block.
He rose, ducked back swiftly, when a gun chattered, another one followed. HK and an Uzi.
The rounds tore into concrete, bit off small chunks, flung them against empty space and unmoving walls.
The bursts came to a stop, an engine growled and silence fell over the street.
Not for long, however, as lights came on in the apartment block, windows raised and heads poked out.
Zeb peered out, saw that the Ford had disappeared. He ran to his bike, saw it was not badly damaged, reversed directions and went back the way he had come.
The GPS tracker still shone on his console and beckoned at him. It was moving faster now, just on the edge of West Englewood. He paused for a few moments, withdrew a can of white paint from his backpack, sprayed it on the Yamaha’s tank and resumed the chase.
The paint proclaimed itself to be a quick drying one. Even if it didn’t, there was enough of it to give the bike a white on black appearance, at a quick glance.
He caught sight of them in Chatham, fell behind them, followed them for three miles more before he gave up the chase.
The Ford now contained three black youths who frequently thrust their heads out of the windows and shouted whatever men under the influence of alcohol shouted.
Ajdan and his men had given him the slip.
Dirk and Jane’s bodies were discovered a week later.
A search party for them had gone out the next day after their disappearance, but hadn’t found any traces of them.
They hadn’t visited their usual haunts in Frederick, nor had they holed up with any friends. Intermittent rain made the search difficult and had washed away any tracks there were.
It was only when a bunch of hikers stumbled across the grave that the bodies were discovered.
The killing flagged Sarah Burke’s attention and she and Mark Kowalski were in Buckeystown the next day. She took one look at the bodies, made a few calls and the investigation got transferred to the Feds.
She and Kowalski interviewed all employees at the catering business.
All they got was a description of a man who had met Dirt Beatty. Average height, light hair, grey eyes, no visible tattoos, clean shaven.
‘Around ten million men will go by that description,’ Kowalski cursed under his breath.
No one had overheard the conversation; no one had spotted any strange vehicle.
The lady at the gas station said a stranger to the parts had filled a new SUV; he was tall, bald, green eyes, hollowed cheeks.
Oh and he didn’t speak. She tried to engage him in conversation, it was the neighborly thing to do in Buckeystown. But did he respond? No.
She shook her head. It was a sign that the country was coming to no good end when people stopped being polite to one another.
‘Ma’am, do you have the SUV’s plates?’ Burke interrupted her.
The white-haired lady’s eyes grew wide. Why would she note that? The man had paid good money. So what if he didn’t have manners.
Burke gave up and went outside the gas station, Kowalski following her. Her mood darkened when she noted there weren’t any cameras at the store.
She went back to the catering store, asked the bunch of gathered people there if any of them had spotted a new SUV. A couple of residents scratched their chins thoughtfully.
Yeah, they had, now that they thought of it. New vehicles were rare in the town, especially new SUVs.
Nope, they hadn’t noted the number.
‘It could be a serial killer,’ Kowalski said morosely as he dug into his salad and chewed it savagely.
They were back in Washington D.C. after a frustrating week spent in Buckeystown and Frederick.
A week in which the killers’ trail just died, as if they had vanished in thin air.
On top of that, the unspoken but obvious resentment from the local agencies – the state police, the sheriff’s office – at having their case yanked away, added to the pressure Burke and Kowalski were facing.
Seeing no possibility of further progress, they had retreated to D.C. to figure out their next steps.
They had run the victims through all their databases. Their lives didn’t intersect. All of them had led clean
lives, not even a speeding ticket among all of them.
A day’s brainstorming with their team got them no further and when Kowalski had suggested a feeding break, they had all jumped at it.
‘It’s not.’
Kowalski started, spilled sauce on his shirt, cursed under this breath and looked up to see Carter sliding smoothly, silently, into a chair next to him.
‘How did you find us here?’
Carter ignored him, looked at Burke. ‘You know it’s not a serial killer.’
‘I know nothing of that sort.’ She tried to keep the waspishness out of her voice.
Carter’s habit of appearing out of nowhere unnerved her. She had tried to find out who he was but other than a bland profile of his and his security consulting firm, she hadn’t got much.
She asked Pierce who shrugged. ‘All I know is Pat vouches for him. You can ask Pat.’
She had asked the director and hadn’t got far. She began again. ‘We are investigating all avenues–’
The look on Carter’s face silenced her. ‘You know what’s common about these killings?’
Kowalski snorted. ‘Other than no motive, you mean?’
Burke gave him a look to silence him, turned back to Carter. ‘No apparent motives. Small town killings. Tortured. Cut brutally. Victims are all young, in their mid to late thirties.’
Carter kept looking at her when she had finished.
‘What?’
Carter didn’t reply. She ran through the details in her mind. Nope. She had got all the similarities.
‘You got something else, Mr. Carter?’ Kowalski asked with elaborate politeness.
Carter’s hand disappeared inside his jacket. He placed three photographs on the table. The victims from the three towns.
Burke glanced at them. Raised her eyes at Carter. ‘We’ve seen them.’
Carter didn’t reply. He pushed them toward her with a finger.
She frowned, looked again at the pictures. What have I missed? What’s he seeing?
She detached her mind, closed down the ambient sounds in the restaurant, let her vision blur a little and looked again.
Seconds felt like minutes, but she got no closer. Her hair flew around her face when she shook her face in irritation and looked up at Carter.
He re-arranged the photographs. The men at one side, the women at another.
She glanced down, sucked in her breath sharply. Kowalski’s muttered something, a curse. He had gotten it too.
‘They look the same at first glance.’ She turned to Kowalski. ‘How did we miss that?’
There was no recrimination in her voice. Burke was successful not just because she was good. She was also an excellent manager of people; she didn’t play the blame game.
‘The killer is hunting someone, someone who looks an awful lot like the dead. Someone who lives in small towns.’
Burke stared off in the distance, letting her thoughts fall into place. ‘Parker and the New Jersey killings weren’t who he was seeking.’
She turned sharply at Carter; saw the grim look on his face.
If the Beattys weren’t who the killer was after, there would be other victims.
Unless they found him.
Which, going by what they had, wasn’t a very high probability.
‘Did you get anything from the Damascus site?’ Carter broke her train of thought.
‘A rough description of the man in Beatty’s store and that of another stranger in the town.’
She turned her tablet computer around, swiped on the screen and brought up a couple of sketches.
Gone were the days of an artist drawing by hand. Now police forces and investigative agencies used technology to draw up likenesses.
Carter stared at the two pictures for a moment, handed back her tablet.
‘A few million men would fit that description, wouldn’t they?’ Burke smiled ruefully. ‘That’s the story of this investigation.’
Silence fell over them which was eventually broken by Kowalski.
‘What’s your interest in this, Mr. Carter?’
Carter didn’t answer for a moment. The faraway look in his eyes disappeared only when he sensed the questioning looks from the FBI agents.
‘Hank Parker was a friend.’
‘We went through his contacts, his phone numbers, his computers. There wasn’t a Zeb Carter listed on any of those. Were you in the Army with him?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Strange. We checked his Army records too and contacted all those he had served with. Your name didn’t come up.’
‘Who exactly are you, Mr. Carter?’ Burke tried but couldn’t hold back the sharp tone.
She was used to doors opening, witnesses opening the tap of information, as soon as she uttered the magic three letters FBI.
Carter? He just didn’t seem to care.
After Carter had inserted himself into the Damascus investigation, she had come across Director Murphy after a meeting and had questioned him about the man opposite her.
The FBI Director had been evasive.
‘Carter is a good friend to us.’ He had left it at that.
She had requested Carter’s Army records and after reading the one that came through, had made further enquiries. Instead of receiving more information, she had received a one line email from Murphy.
‘You won’t find anything more on him.’
‘Did you and Parker work in some secret unit?’ She smiled to lighten the question.
Carter gave her his now-familiar impassive look and prepared to rise.
‘Surely you can tell us, Mr. Carter. It could help the investigation. We are on the same side after all.’
Carter didn’t reply.
She paused a beat, tried again. ‘We are, aren’t we?’
Something turned in the dark eyes. ‘Not really. You hunt folks down, put them behind bars.’
‘I hunt folks down, put them beneath the ground.’
Chapter 10
Someone else is doing the killing?
Zeb leaned back in the Gulfstream, as it accelerated down the short strip of concrete and parted ways with the earth. The capital city circled lazily in his window, became smaller and disappeared when the aircraft pointed its nose at Chicago.
The luxury airplane was a gift from a Saudi royal who he had helped in a previous mission; the two pilots in the cockpit were ex-servicemen he had served with and trusted.
He brought up the images from Burke’s computer in his mind. Nope, haven’t seen them before, either.
Could they be the assassins’ men? Assassins are generally loners or work as a small team. But these guys could be different.
The plane banked, sunlight entered and with it came another thought.
Could they be Churchey’s men?
Churchey is dead.
But maybe his gang is still hunting me.
Only one way to find out.
Churchey’s men found him.
At O’Hare, Zeb flagged a cab, tossed his backpack in the rear, gave his hotel’s address to the driver and settled back.
He was lost in thought, trying to fit the pieces together, and missed the driver adjusting his mirror. He missed the driver’s half turned head. He ignored the mumbled conversation in the front.
It was only when the cab crawled to a halt at a light that he sensed it.
Something about the way the driver sat.
His eyes lingering too long on his, in the mirror. The elaborate trying-to-be-casual gestures.
He looked at the driver’s picture on the board stuck to the partition. No memories surfaced.
It came to him when the driver glanced at him again.
Churchey! He must have a network of cab drivers who act as look-outs.
He extended his arm casually, withdrew his Glock from his backpack and tucked it under his thigh.
The cab hung a right and when the driver was distracted, he swiftly donned his shoulder holster.
How will it go down?
>
Driver will call in. Gang will send men.
Where?
Has to be somewhere in public. Some place the gang owns.
They got stuck in rush hour traffic, behind office workers and school buses, delivery vans, and sandwich trucks.
The driver looked furtively in the mirror, made another call, and when the line of gleaming metal started moving, he turned on his left clicker, and moved to the outer lanes.
‘Gotta fill up,’ he called out over his shoulder.
‘Sure. Take your time.’
A gas station. Makes sense. Perfectly innocuous. The gang probably owns several all over town. Good front for money laundering.
The driver ignored the first gas station, which bore a prominent oil maker’s brand and eased into the next one. It had faded signage, its pumps were grimy, but the windows were clear and clean.
The driver stepped out, went to the rear of the cab, uncapped the tank and began fueling.
Zeb looked around the station; six pumps, of which five were occupied. The cab took the remaining spot, right at the front.
Smart. No other vehicles will enter. The other cars are behind me.
He looked inside the store, thought he saw bodies moving inside, but couldn’t be sure.
He removed a pair of shades from an inside pocket, flicked a switch on one of the stems and a screen opened on the inside of his sunglasses.
The Ray-Bans were fitted with pinhole cameras that looked backward, in the rear of the stems. A switch turned them on and off; when on, the cameras displayed the rear view in high definition.
The driver came out, behind him came two other men. The three of them laughed, one of them high-fived the driver.
The three spread out, two of them going to cars behind Zeb, the driver approaching the cab.
The station’s door opened, a head poked out, a voice shouted.
The driver turned, replied, glanced back at Zeb apologetically and headed back inside.
The two men will circle and come from behind.
The screens on his shades were motionless for a moment, then two men appeared on them. They nodded at one another, spread out, walked to the cab.
The one on my right will make the first move, when he does, the one on the left will cover him.