by Ty Patterson
Voronoff worked from a small home-office in an apartment building in the Bronx in New York. The apartment building had several such establishments, essentially single person traders, and it wasn’t unusual for people to be seen in the building during work hours.
Voronoff had a more lavish home in Chelsea which was funded by his real job - arms sales. Voronoff was among the top five arms dealers in the world and he was numero uno when it came to selling illegal armaments. He was the go-to man if a Middle Eastern regime wanted proscribed weapons. African warlords came to him, East European and Asian dictators … they all beat a path to his door.
Of course, officially he was the CEO of the Russian Culture Center whose headquarters were in his Chelsea mansion. ‘Culture is very rewarding,’ he quipped if anyone asked him how he could afford the palatial home. He had inherited a pile of money from an uncle who owned several Russian oilfields, was his more serious answer.
Voronoff and Privalov had come to America when young, when they were teenagers. They had come illegally, via a tortuous route that had them cross the desert in Mexico. That illegal status had long since changed; it was remarkable what money and the right contacts could achieve in his adopted country.
He had started the Death Club almost as an after-thought, once he had seen that fight in the prison. The fight nights were now where he did most of his entertaining and business dealings. It wasn’t very strange that a lot of his clients bought weapons to inflict death on their people, and spent the evening watching men kill one another.
The upcoming fight nights were crucial, however. It was where the hottest weapon he had ever transacted would change hands. The client was a general so secretive that Voronoff thought as little of him as possible. Who knew what tech the American agencies deployed these days? Maybe they were prototyping something that read thought waves.
Voronoff didn’t care about the general’s purpose. He wasn’t interested in ideals or concepts like democracy. All that mattered to him was the next deal and how much it would earn him.
For everything else, he had his number two, Privalov.
Zeb was an hour away from Portland, unaware of the existence of Voronoff or Privalov, when Werner’s electronic voice came over his SUV’s speakers. Werner had more info for him on the Portland Hoods.
Started by an Ukranian thug, Mischa Bevcic, the gang had grown to fifty members and was involved in all activities that made it money. Prostitution, drugs, extortion, and murder, were its mainstream business, but of late, it had branched out into human trafficking and kidnapping. It ran two big nightclubs in the city and had scores of establishments where it did business, since some of its enterprises needed a physical location for clients to partake of their services.
‘Is he an American citizen?’ Zeb asked Werner. The voice processing part of Werner took in his query, converted that into bits and bytes and the supercomputer came back with an answer. ‘Yes. He was born in this country. He’s frequently seen in a restaurant in the Gresham neighborhood. You might try one of these people for more of the low down.’
Zeb did a double take and stared hard at the SUV’s speakers and then at his screen which was in the passenger seat. Low down. Do supercomputers use that language? He suspected it was one of the twins who had programmed Werner to speak naturally. Next they’ll have him use phat. Whatever it means.
He glanced at the list of names that Werner had suggested. Snitches, informers, whom Zeb and Broker had cultivated in major U.S. cities over the world. He ran down the list and called one … Danny.
The Gresham Steakhouse was on Division Street, smack in the middle of the Hoods’ territory. It claimed it had the best steaks in the city and offered a full refund if any customer was unsatisfied. It seemed to have only five-star reviews on various rating sites, and was reasonably full when Zeb approached it in the evening. Maybe they send heavies to any unhappy reviewer’s home … and have their own men as customers.
He entered the glass doors and joined the long list of patrons waiting to be assigned a table. Families, couples, college kids. He revised his earlier opinion. Maybe they do have good food. A gang with a legitimate and thriving side business. He scanned the tables and tried to peer through the kitchen doors at the end, but didn’t spot Bevcic. He wouldn’t be easy to miss since the thug was tall, broad, and hairy. Hairy came up in all descriptions.
Bevcic had land-grabbed territory from the other existing gangs, coming from seemingly nowhere, and had soon been the dominant player in the East Portland area. Some of his opponents, other gang leaders, had mysteriously disappeared only to surface as dead bodies. Bevcic had been called for questioning several times but had always walked free; good lawyers and the lack of hard evidence playing their parts.
‘How many of you, sir?’ the host interrupted his thoughts and waved a menu impatiently to get his attention.
‘Just one.’
She led him to a table at the rear, near the kitchen entrance, which was where other singles were seated. Just where he wanted to be. From the layout Werner had emailed him, he knew beyond the kitchen lay a store, an office, and another room. The office was where Bevcic was most likely to be. Werner had grabbed an image from one of the few security cameras in the city and had said there was a high probability the criminal was on the restaurant’s premises.
Zeb ate slowly, savoring his food, keeping an eye out for other gang members. None showed up. There were a couple of servers with a heavy build and were heavily inked, but tats were not solely for hoods.
He rose during a particularly busy time and turned casually towards the kitchen. Chefs shouted, servers darted about, and a couple of them eyed him curiously. None stopped him. It was all about the look and the walk. As if one belonged. He palmed a knife and held it handle down, in his hand. No one noticed.
Past the kitchen into a narrow corridor, was where he came across the first heavy. He was dressed in a tight Tee that showed off his rippling upper torso, a shape like a handgun outlined at his waist. His eyes shot up in disbelief when Zeb sauntered towards him. ‘Off-limits, dude. Turn back,’ he growled.
He got to his feet, moving surprisingly fast for a large guy, his right hand darting towards his waist. Zeb lengthened his stride and lashed out with his right leg, making the hood stumble. His gun came out, though, and was rising when Zeb rammed the flat of his left palm against his nose and broke it. The knife’s handle thrust deep into his abdomen and collapsed him and after making sure he wouldn’t offer any more resistance, Zeb opened the door cautiously.
The store was dark, dimly lit by a couple of windows at its other end was a hallway to two rooms. Left or right room? Zeb went to the left room first, and listened hard. Nothing. He was moving sideways when the first grunt came to him, followed by a low moan. From the next room.
That room, most likely Bevcic’s office, had opaque glass that revealed nothing of what or who was inside. Another sound came, the impact of flesh on flesh, and he heard a voice shout a question. Something that sounded like who or where is it?
He tested the door for give. It gave. Another decision. Fast or slow entry? Gun or no gun? He went for casual, his hands close to his body, figuring those inside wouldn’t be expecting anyone. The element of surprise would be with him.
He entered the room, shut it behind him and took in the scene. Six men ranging around a bound man in a chair. A couple of empty chairs in front of him. Two men standing, facing the captive. Bevcic and another who had to be the bruiser. One man leaned against a wall, chewing on a matchstick. Another was yawning lustily. A third was playing on his phone.
The fourth man yelled out, ‘Who are you?’
Zeb didn’t reply. He took two more steps forward, watching, going into auto-pilot. Bruiser will wait for his cue from Bevcic, who will take at least a couple of seconds to process and respond. Other four are the threats.
Of the four, the one who had shouted was moving towards Zeb, fast. ‘Rico, where are you?’
Rico. That wo
uld be the guy outside.
‘He’s sleeping,’ Zeb replied and threw the kitchen knife at him. It flashed in the light and buried itself deep in the man’s right shoulder. Zeb drew smoothly and followed up with a round that buried itself in the man’s left shoulder. Hood with the phone was moving. His phone dropped as he grabbed at a gun. Zeb shot him in the chest.
Two more steps ahead. Four men ahead of him. Bevcic sheltering behind Bruiser. Yawning Man running at him. Matchstick Man shouting something unintelligible, raising his gun. Yawning Man to his left, Matchstick Man to his right. Too close to turn his gun. Zeb evaded the attacking man’s outthrust hands, grabbed him by his shirt with his left hand and shoved him in the direction of the Matchstick Man.
Yawning Man went teetering, yelling hoarsely, ‘Don’t shoot,’ but the gun man was already committed. His round got the hood in his shoulder and when the shooter lined up for a second shot, Zeb blew out his knee.
Something moved in the corner of his eye and he ducked, just in time. Bruiser’s fist sailed above his head, but the attacker reacted rapidly. He shoved a knee at Zeb. Zeb dropped his Glock, parried the knee, and counter punched. It felt like attacking a wall. Bruiser didn’t even flinch. His meaty arms wrapped around Zeb and lifted him easily. Bruiser’s eyes were triumphant as he started crushing; then they flared opened wide when Zeb’s pointed elbow came swinging down and landed between his eyes.
A quick glance around. Five men on the ground. One man, Bevcic, leaping behind his desk, scrambling at something. Maybe a weapon. Not enough time to recover his Glock. Zeb grasped the nearest empty chair, hurled it at the gang boss and followed with an angled dive, away from the line of a rising gun.
Bevcic ducked, as the chair shattered behind him and lost a vital second. He turned desperately. Too late. Zeb palmed him on his mouth and broke several teeth. Zeb punched him in the side of the neck and when Bevcic fell, hauled him to the center of the room and dumped him on a chair next to the captive man.
He bound Bevcic with ties, evaded the man’s thrusting legs, and ignored his curses. The gangster’s victim was watching him with wide eyes, and when Zeb spared him a glance, his mouth opened in an “O.” No words came however. The shock of seeing Bevcic taken down so easily had probably frozen his voice.
Zeb secured the rest of the men, recovered the dinner knife and went to Bevcic’s desk. He rummaged through several drawers before he found what he wanted – duct tape. Bevcic had stopped swearing and was watching him curiously; curiosity turned to fear when Zeb taped his mouth roughly.
Fear turned to a muffled scream when Zeb jabbed the dinner knife deep into Bevcic’s meaty thigh. He loosened the gangster’s victim, who shot up from his chair as if spring loaded.
‘Bevcic roughed you up bad?’
The man nodded, taking deep breaths, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. ‘Yeah. I’m–’
‘I am not interested. You have one shot at Bevcic. Take it, or leave.’ Zeb cut him off.
The victim looked at him disbelievingly, ‘He’ll come after me. After my family.’
Zeb jerked the dinner knife free to the accompaniment of another howl from Bevcic and plunged it into the gangster’s other thigh.
‘You won’t, will you?’ he asked the Portland Hoods’ boss.
He twisted the knife and when only garbled sounds came, he realized his mistake. He ripped the tape off Bevcic’s mouth and repeated his question. ‘Will you go after this dude?’
‘NO!’ Bevcic yelled.
‘Don’t shout. It isn’t polite. And none of your men will come to help. Not if they want to live. You don’t want them killed, do you?’
Bevcic shook his head rapidly, spraying them with sweat.
Zeb stepped back and gestured at the victim. ‘You heard him.’
The victim steeled himself and sank his fist deep into Bevcic’s belly. He was preparing to hit him again when Zeb stopped him. ‘Once is enough. Disappear, now.’
The man took a halting step forward and, when no one attempted to stop him, fled.
Zeb shut the door to Bevcic’s office, took a chair, turned it around and faced Bevcic.
‘What was Mike Klattenbach to you?’
Chapter 8
‘Mike?’ Bevcic squinted, trying to keep the sweat out of his eyes. ‘What’s he done now?’
Zeb slapped him, rocking the Ukrainian’s head from side to side. ‘I ask the questions. What did he do for you?’
Bevcic swallowed, his eyes darting left and right, looking behind Zeb, hoping for his office door to burst open and help to rush in. No men came barging in. He licked his lips nervously and flinched when Zeb raised his hand again. ‘He was my bodyguard, dude. Don’t smack me. You’ve done enough damage.’
‘Bodyguard? Why do you need one?’
Despite the agony he was in and the wounds in his thighs, a note of incredulity crept into his voice. ‘Dude, you realize I am in the middle of a turf war. I have been shot at, firebombed, assaulted … some folks don’t like to see success.’ The pride in his voice gave way to a shriek when Zeb twisted the knife in his thigh.
‘That’s all that Klattenbach did for you?’
Bevcic cursed and nodded, his eyes shut, his chest heaving. ‘That’s all he did. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘How did you meet him?’
‘He was a bouncer at my night club. I saw him handle some rough people very easily. I made enquiries and found out he was a bad dude.’ Bad in Bevcic’s dictionary meant good. Zeb wondered for a moment what words the gangster would use for the genuinely bad.
Bevcic’s eyes flew open and that pride surfaced again. ‘You know I’m the only gang boss who’s got a special forces protector. Klattenbach put down a couple of shooters from another gang, some months back. No trouble since then,’ he gasped.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘What’s this about? What’s he done?’ Bevcic’s belligerence turned to a yell when Zeb punched his thigh. Sweat dripped off his face and his hair stuck to his forehead in loose tendrils. He breathed harshly through his mouth, his body heaving as he tried to get away from Zeb’s reach.
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A month back,’ Bevcic sobbed out loudly. ‘He said he had some family stuff. What’s he done?’
‘How much did you pay him?’
Bevcic squinted and shook his head in an attempt to dislodge sweat from his eyes. ‘A hundred Ks.’
‘Not half a million?’
Bevcic stopped moaning for a moment and snapped his head up. ‘Where would I get that kind of money? Why would I pay him that much?’
Zeb questioned him for another fifteen minutes, but Bevcic didn’t have any more answers. The gang boss was clueless about Klattenbach’s whereabouts and hadn’t paid any large sum of money to the protector. He went to the door and opened it cautiously; the hallway was still clear. He picked up the dinner knife, wiped his prints off it and tossed it back. He went behind Bevcic’s desk and erased security camera footage of his entry into the restaurant.
Bevcic watched him for a while and his courage returned. ‘You’re dead. Whoever you are, wherever you go, I’ll find you. I’ll rip you–’
Zeb knocked him out with his Glock and left quietly.
What now? Zeb pondered as he walked swiftly to his SUV which was parked a block away. He kept an eye out for Bevcic’s men, but no one showed. They probably figured the gang boss was still interrogating his prisoner. Any yells they heard must be the victim’s.
Next stop, Cuthbert and Bros LLC, he concluded when he reached his vehicle. The parking lot had another vehicle next to his, a Tahoe that rode high on its wheels and had floodlights mounted on its rack. It had no occupants inside.
He was deep in thought, figuring out an approach to the law firm and didn’t hear the stealthy steps behind him until it was too late.
A hand shoved him against the driver door. ‘Got him,’ a voice breathed.
Zeb twisted at the last
minute and took the impact on the side of his face. He wasn’t quick enough to avoid the punch that caught him on his temple. It was hard, hit with the attacker’s full weight behind it, and it knocked his head back against his vehicle.
Three men, he noted dimly as he sagged to his knees. No weapons. None, that I can see. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders and heaved him up. A fist sank into his belly and he doubled over, gasping. Fingers dipped into his pockets and relieved him of his wallet. ‘Got it,’ a voice triumphantly shouted.
A hand plucked at his Glock and was drawing it out when he grabbed the nearest man by the waist and drove him towards the second attacker. A startled shout rang out and an elbow landed on his back. He ignored it, knuckle-punched the nearest thigh and followed up with a groin blow.
The attackers cleared, giving him room. Cool air rushed into him, chasing away the last of the cobwebs. His head hurt, his back felt like a ton of bricks had dropped on it, and his abdomen felt sore. None of those were serious injuries; he had been in far worse situations.
His mind compartmentalized, it locked the agony into a box. Tossed it away. It focused on the immediate threat. Three men. Average height. Too dark to make their eyes out. No weapons. That was interesting. The man at the front pocketed Zeb’s wallet, gave a signal to the other two, and charged.
Attack!
Zeb feinted, ducked the incoming swing, grabbed the hand and dislocated the man’s shoulder. A scream rang out in the quiet night. Zeb’s leg trapped the assailant’s feet and a roll of the hips sent the attacker flying towards his companions. The three men went back a couple of steps, before regrouping and coming at Zeb.
Silent fury filled Zeb. He smashed one man’s nose, and with a savage blow to his throat, felled him. The able man stopped his forward run and looked at the fallen man and the one with the dislocated shoulder. He slipped his hand inside his jacket and came out with a handgun.