Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Did you give any interviews?’ Zeb cut off the cop mid-diatribe.

  ‘Yeah, one,’ he caught himself quickly and his eyes flashed angrily. ‘That’s not the point. You were reckless, careless, and could have caused death and mayhem.’ He savored the words for a moment and caught himself when Chang chuckled.

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter. The commissioner wants to close this case quickly and shut down the media machine.’

  ‘Maybe if you stopped giving interviews…’ Chang trailed off and raised his hands in surrender when his partner turned on him.

  ‘Any idea who the shooter was?’ Zeb asked them.

  ‘Nope. His features weren’t recognizable.’ Pizaka replied and was about to continue when his partner interrupted.

  ‘That can happen when you collide with a bus.’

  Pizaka sighed in resignation, removed a pair of shades from his jacket, polished and wore them and adjusted his suit. One always had to be camera ready. A reporter might turn up anywhere, anytime.

  ‘Too early for identification,’ he straightened when he caught Zeb’s sardonic look. ‘The lab says they’ll process the body fast. Maybe another hour or two.’

  ‘Was he after you?’ Chang slid forward in his seat, levity disappearing from his face.

  ‘Yeah, I think so.’ Zeb replied and spent the next hour briefing the two cops on the events in Oregon and his meeting with the law firm. They voiced theories for a while, but they all knew they were speculating. They had dead bodies but no leads.

  It was evening and rush hour had started when he left the cops after hearing Chang’s gleeful ‘Splattered,’ one last time. He waited for several moments inside the building, looking out at the street, but nothing pinged his radar.

  He stepped out and climbed into the SUV that came to a stop in front of him. Meghan; she had been waiting patiently while the cops had been interrogating him. Her green eyes were missing their sparkle as she waited for him to buckle up and it was only when she joined the traffic that she broke her silence.

  ‘How did he find you?’

  Chapter 11

  The same question had been troubling him. He retraced every move of his in Oregon. The high desert. The body. Garav. Portland. Back to Dalton. Portland. Bevcic. Salem. New York.

  Wait!

  ‘What?’ Meghan snapped her eyes at him when she felt him still.

  He didn’t answer. He leaned forward and dialed a number on the vehicle’s dash. It rang twice before a gruff voice boomed in the SUV.

  ‘Doug.’

  ‘Doug, Zeb here.’

  ‘Man,’ Doug’s voice sharpened. ‘I’ve been meaning to call you. You know those wheels we picked up from Salem airport?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There’s this device we found. Stuck to the undercarriage, near the left rear wheel well.’

  ‘What’s it?’

  ‘It’s a GPS tracker. You know one of those–’

  ‘I know. Any particular make or marking on it?’

  ‘Nope. Common brand. You can get it in Walmart. I dusted it for prints too. Nothing.’

  ‘Is it still active?’

  ‘Died, yesterday.’

  ‘So that’s how they had eyes on you,’ Meghan murmured when Zeb hung up. ‘I still don’t get it how they knew you’d be at the law firm.’

  Zeb didn’t reply immediately, letting his mind empty itself and play with the various jigsaw pieces. ‘Where else would I go?’ he said slowly. ‘They could identify me from the SUV in Oregon. Knowing I had some knowledge of investigation, they guessed I would know about the half mil.’

  ‘Those muggers?’

  ‘Probably not muggers.’

  ‘This is about Klattenbach, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He hopped out of the vehicle when Meghan stopped outside the law firm’s office to let him out. He nodded at her wave, suppressing a smile. She knew I would want to question Cuthbert again. She was planning to surprise me when I came the first time. Spotted the killer and honked. She’s got smarts.

  Jesse and Conrad Cuthbert were genuinely shocked at Zeb’s bald narration of the shooting. Conrad gasped a couple of times and one time, Jesse Conrad rose and peered out of a window as if the gunfight was still live.

  He drew his head back in and shook it in disbelief. ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That was your doing?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He swiveled his chair and eyed the holes in his wall for a moment. ‘You want to know how that man knew you were here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We can’t help you. We don’t know either.’

  ‘You believe them?’ Meghan asked him when he rejoined her.

  ‘Yeah. They have too much to lose. I’m sure they’re involved in some way, but not knowingly.’

  ‘The insurance company!’ she snapped her fingers. ‘I’ll get Werner to investigate it. Where to, now, Wise One?’

  ‘JFK.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘I’m going back to Portland. Bevcic has reason to kill me. The shooter could be his man.’

  ‘They could be behind the shooter.’

  ‘Likely, but I still have to ask Bevcic.’

  Who are they? He went through people from his past, from various missions, and eventually gave up when no answers came. He boarded the Gulfstream when she dropped him at the airport, settled back and closed his eyes. That’s some organization they have. To move so fast, was his last waking thought.

  Voronoff played with a crystal paperweight on his desk after reading Privalov’s latest update. Carter had survived Kasnov. Kasnov was plastered all over the evening news. The cops had no clue. He grunted in amusement. Since when did cops in any country have any clue?

  He fidgeted in his custom leather seat and frowned as the paperweight spun on his desk, reflecting light. This deal was the biggest he had ever handled, not in monetary terms but in complexity and also in terms of the players involved.

  The general, one of the most secretive men in the world, was the sponsor. He provided the flasks. All Voronoff had to do was smuggle them into America and then ensure they got delivered to the buyer. The buyer had already been identified, a party Voronoff knew well.

  Voronoff had come up with using Mexican people traffickers as a transport mechanism, and the Death Club as an exchange point. It was a brilliant plan, even if he thought so himself.

  The Mexican coyotes were the most successful smugglers in recent human history. They moved chollos, the illegal immigrants, in their thousands across the U.S. border each year. Sure, a few of the migrants got caught and a few coyotes got killed, but the chances of success were still extremely high.

  The Death Club fight nights were ideal for the exchange. Privalov’s security and surveillance was unparalleled, the locations were remote, and the attendees carefully screened. The buyer had been to a few fight nights. That made it even easier.

  The buyer was insistent that there be a fight night in New York on a particular day, after the exchange happened. The deal was at stake, he had warned, if Voronoff didn’t agree to it. Why New York, Voronoff had demurred. Not your business, the buyer had snapped. It is, if my business is at risk. You should have sold life insurance if you wanted to live risk-free, the buyer had come back.

  A fight night had never been organized in a city, let alone in one the size of New York. It was extremely risky. It was also audacious. Voronoff agreed. In any case, he and Privalov were never at the scene of the fight. If the cops crashed the event, they would nail a few convicts and criminals. No loss. Voronoff could always come up with a different format.

  He checked another email. The flasks had successfully crossed the border. The exchange would be at the fight night in Miami. Everything was going according to plan, but for this dude Carter. Even he would be taken care of, Privalov assured him. There was Gruzman.

  Voronoff didn’t care if Carter lived or died. He jus
t had to be stopped or delayed until after the New York fight night.

  Zeb’s Gulfstream touched down at Portland Airport without any delays and taxied to a VIP area that led him past the usual checks and baggage claims. A dour faced man was waiting for him outside the airport, his grey hair catching the lights and casting a halo around him.

  They gripped hands and hugged one another. ‘Long time, Zeb,’ the man greeted him.

  ‘You’re keeping fit, Doug. Looks like the garage’s doing well.’

  ‘Got this ache in my kidneys. They might have to be taken out. I may not last till winter.’

  Doug was one of life’s hypochondriacs. An ache, a twinge, a sprain, just had to be fatal. He devoured medical journals and frequented online forums to find new ailments and spent a bundle on various medical specialists. In his late fifties, he was short, overflowed with energy and had never fallen ill in his life. That didn’t stop him from dreaming up medical issues.

  ‘That’s what you said when you had that tooth removed last year.’

  ‘I survived. Just.’ Doug replied darkly and led Zeb to a black Yukon. He removed a device from the glove box and dropped it in Zeb’s hands. ‘That’s the tracker from the other vehicle.’

  Zeb inspected it for a moment, an idea coming to him. ‘You can activate it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why don’t you put it back on the vehicle? Get it turned on, and park the SUV somewhere you can have eyes-on?’

  Doug chuckled, catching Zeb’s drift. ‘Will do. I’ll have some good men on it.’

  Zeb checked into ten hotels and outside each hotel room, he mounted small wireless cameras that would feed to his Yukon. He went to an eleventh hotel, in downtown Portland, and registered using a false name. He had a light dinner in the hotel’s restaurant and set out for a walk.

  He went to Bevcic’s restaurant first. It was still operating and had the same busy feel to it. He didn’t enter, figuring Bevcic would stay away from it for a while. He walked past tourists and residents, window shoppers and families, heading east, deeper into Bevcic’s territory, Gresham. The fancy stores dropped away. Cars became older. Homes became smaller and acquired a tired feel.

  He stood in the recessed door of an empty warehouse on Division Street and watched the street for a while. A few men hurried past him, none of them noticing him. A dog walker went past, the dog turning and sniffing in Zeb’s direction. It didn’t bark.

  Zeb waited till the night turned darker. Eleven pm came, then became midnight. He heard the loud laughter first. It was incongruous on the silent street. Three men appeared under a light at the far end of the street. They were dressed in loose trousers, saggers he recalled Meghan saying, sneakers, hoodies, and baseball hats.

  They walked as if they owned the neighborhood. They did, for it was their turf. Zeb recognized the ink on one man’s neck as they drifted past. They were Bevcic’s dealers. One of them made a crude joke and all three laughed uproariously, bending down, shaking their heads.

  The man nearest to Zeb started straightening when he spotted movement in the doorway. ‘Whatcha doing, man? Perving in that door?’

  That set off another bout of laughter.

  Zeb didn’t reply. He came closer and stopped four feet away, facing the three of them. Loose. Ready. Confident.

  ‘Whore or a sniff? Whatcha want? Only two things a man’s out this late for.’

  ‘I want Bevcic.’

  ‘Who?’ the dealer’s grin started fading from his face.

  ‘Bevcic. Your boss. Chief hood. Whatever you call him.’

  ‘Ain’t no Bevcic in our gang, man. Why do you–’

  ‘Who are you, dude?’ a bearded thug clasped his hands on the first speaker’s shoulder, silencing him. He stepped forward, alert, his eyes going up and down the street.

  ‘Zeb Carter. I’m the one who hurt Bevcic. I want to meet him. Tell him.’

  The three hoods stared at him in disbelief and then the first one charged at Zeb with an inarticulate yell. Zeb stepped aside and clubbed him with his Glock. The hood slammed to the sidewalk and lay unmoving.

  ‘Tell Bevcic to meet me tomorrow. Same time. Write the address on that wall.’ Zeb pointed to the warehouse. ‘I won’t like it if he declines.’

  He holstered his Glock, turned his back on them and walked away. Three seconds. That’s what it’ll take them to recover. He timed his steps. One step, a second. On the third footfall he heard the whisper. The sound of a sneaker on concrete. The slightest change in air.

  His right foot landed. Body weight transferred. His right hand flashed to his jacket even as he spun fluidly. The Glock became an extension of his right arm which swung in a widening arc. His barrel caught the rushing attacker full on his face, ripping through skin and breaking his nose.

  The thug fell with a groan. The groan became a hoarse yell when Zeb stamped on his outstretched fingers. Zeb looked at the third hood who backed away rapidly, moistening his lips nervously.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Zeb told him in the same even tone. ‘Tell Bevcic.’

  He walked away into the night.

  The address was scrawled in white chalk the next evening. A house on Kelly street. Werner said it was rumored to be one of Bevcic’s hideouts. The house was brick walled with a dirty yard at the front. Two cars were in the drive, both of them facing the street.

  Zeb made two passes on his Yukon, the roof-mounted camera capturing every detail of the house. He went to a coffee store, logged into its WiFi, watched the videos and studied the layout Werner had extracted.

  The house had three floors. Each floor had a landing with large windows that overlooked the front yard. Bedrooms with windows to the front. A chain-link fence at the back, around the rear yard. A gate in the fence that led to a footpath that went to a nearby park.

  The park’s probably their escape route. They’ll have getaway vehicles hidden in it. Bevcic will have the entire gang in the house, or as many as he can stuff inside. They’ll be prepared. No nearby houses. Ideal for capturing me.

  Twelve am, Zeb had told the hoods. He didn’t approach the house at midnight. He lay in the park, outfitted in dark combat gear, watching the house through NVGs. A drone hovered above the house and fed images to a screen next to him. He didn’t detect anti-surveillance devices, but he couldn’t be sure.

  At two am, he circled the house and went to its front. Lights were burning and he could see shadows moving inside. A couple of windows were open on the upper floors and he saw the outline of a rifle barrel in one of them. He gave it another hour and then acted.

  He launched the first smoke grenade through a living room window and fired the other through the window to the right of the door. He reloaded swiftly and targeted the upper windows and launched more tear gas and smoke grenades through them. From the rear of the house he heard the first shot and with that, he changed weapons and fired a flash-bang into the living room.

  The shots at the rear came now at regular intervals, all aimed at the rear door. In the park he had jury-rigged a rifle with a remote and a timer and had slapped a full mag in it. Two hundred rounds, evenly spaced, gave the impression there was a big attacking force in the park. That impression would prevent the hoods from using the rear exit. In any case, the drone would spot Bevcic if he escaped from behind.

  He fired two more flash-bangs and uncorked a flask and took a sip of his coffee. There was unorganized returning fire and a lot of yelling from the house. No round came close to where he was – half buried in a trench two hundred yards from the front of the house, on the other side of the street.

  The first white flag appeared out of an upper window. He fired near it and it jerked and fell. ‘Lay off. Bevcic is coming out,’ a voice howled in protest.

  He turned on a megaphone. ‘He comes out alone.’

  ‘Yeah, he will. Just don’t shoot.’

  The front door opened cautiously and shadows moved behind it, before the Ukrainian stepped out, his hands raised.

  ‘Come ou
t slowly. Hands raised. Anyone shoots and you are dead.’

  Bevcic nodded rapidly, his eyes streaming, wheezing and coughing. He moved forward cautiously as he strained to locate Zeb. He hesitated at the edge of the street, waiting for instructions.

  ‘Cross.’

  Bevcic crossed and stood shivering as he peered through the darkness, trying to locate Zeb. ‘Cops will be here soon,’ his teeth chattered. ‘Someone will have called them.’

  ‘Turn around,’ Zeb told him brusquely. The cops wouldn’t come. He had jammed cell phone signals and Werner had arranged for the phone network in the neighborhood to go down. In any case, he wasn’t planning on hanging around.

  He rose silently from his trench and jammed his Glock against Bevcic’s temple. ‘Who was the hitman?’

  Bevcic flinched at the contact. ‘Who? What hitman?’

  ‘The one in New York.’

  ‘I don’t know any hitman. You mean the MTA bus one?’ he started to turn around, stumbled, and nearly fell when Zeb shoved him back.

  ‘That one. Why did you send him after me?’

  ‘I swear–’ He screamed in the night when Zeb’s round grazed his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t swear.’ Zeb told him mildly. ‘Did Klattenbach tell you anything before leaving?’

  ‘No man. He was just my bodyguard,’ Bevcic whimpered. ‘Is this about him?’ He groaned loudly when Zeb gouged his barrel in his graze.

  ‘I ask the questions. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah. Anything, man.’

  The Ukrainian was a far cry from his gang boss image as he trembled in the dark and hugged himself. Zeb almost felt sorry for him. ‘Anyone in your gang knew Klattenbach well?’

  The Ukrainian cocked his head as he thought. ‘Kaspar might know. He and Klattenbach seemed to be close.’

  ‘Call him. He comes out alone or you are dead. His hands should be empty or you–’