by Ty Patterson
‘He’s nobody. A chollo,’ Pico groaned, making his agony look worse than it was. If he could get the man to step back, give him some room, there was a handgun within reach. Taped to the bottom of that couch a few feet away. Pico turned his head and pretended to retch, hoping the man would move.
He didn’t. The stranger regarded him dispassionately as if he was some specimen under a microscope. ‘What was he carrying?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pico lied. ‘He was just a chollo. He paid us money to cross the border. Hundreds of chollos use us. I don’t know anything more about Miguel.’ Pico racked his brain trying to place the stranger’s accent. It looked like he was from Central Mexico. That was a vast region, he could come from any place there. His eyes were dark, his hair was brown. No clues there.
Pico mimed retching again, jerking his body savagely and got his body an inch closer to the couch. Now, if he could distract the stranger.
‘You want money? Cocaine? Take it. They’re in the basement. I can show you,’ he started rising, but the stranger slammed him back to the floor, hard. At least, he was another inch closer to the gun.
‘You called Miguel. You told him to carry the flasks to New York. To some fight. Talk to me, Pico.’
He knows a lot. And with that, Pico lunged to the couch, a hand reaching out, fingers wide open, seeking. There, just another few inches and then he would show this stranger. Got it!
He snarled at the stranger, kicking out as he bent his body to turn the gun. The stranger was still watching him, still unmoving. He was still crouching. Did he have a death wish? Pico would help him die, but first he would have some fun. He would slice the man’s–’
He pressed the trigger and bared his teeth at the stranger, waiting for red to blossom on his shoulder. Nothing happened. He tried again. No difference. He threw the gun at the stranger and wriggled savagely.
The stranger waited a beat, and moving as if he had all the time in the world, fired a round into Pico’s thigh.
‘Let’s start again, Pico.’
Pico spilled everything he knew half an hour later. ‘I don’t know,’ he sobbed, pain, anger, and humiliation lacing his voice. ‘I got the flasks from Vasquez and gave them to Miguel.’
‘You didn’t ask what was inside?’
Pico coughed and wiped the blood from his mouth weakly. ‘No one asks Vasquez anything. We do what he asks.’
‘Who runs the Death Club?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pico gasped, willing the stranger to just go away, for blackness to envelop him. Anything to make this terrible, lancing agony go away.
‘The first fight was in Miami?’
‘It was not the first. They have many. Miami was one.’
‘Now he’s going to New York?’
‘Si, si. How many times I have to tell you?’
He cowered when the stranger looked at him impassively. That same look had been on the stranger’s face when he had broken Pico’s fingers. As if he was watching rain fall or paint dry.
‘There’s a fight there,’ Pico hurried. ‘He is to give the flasks to someone.’
‘To whom?’
‘I don’t know. Vasquez was going to tell me later.’
‘Where’s the fight?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pico replied helplessly. Didn’t the stranger realize Vasquez ruled the Crescents. He, Pico, was just an ordinary gang boss trying to earn a crooked living.
‘Vasquez was going to tell you, later?’
‘Si,’ Pico agreed. Now, the stranger was getting it. ‘But not now. Now he will call Miguel directly. Tell him where the fight is.’ Was the stranger thinking of hunting Vasquez?
‘You will never find him,’ Pico spoke daringly. The stranger might have captured him, but Vasquez? He was the devil. ‘He hides in the Sinaloa mountains. Every day he moves. No one knows where he is. He uses a cell, but changes the number after two or three days. He sends a message to us with the new number.’
The stranger seemed to be lost in thought, and didn’t appear to hear Pico. ‘In ten days, you said?’
‘What?’ Pico was confused.
‘Miguel was to hand over the flasks in ten days?’
‘Si, I already told you. Now eight days left.’
‘Where are his wife and daughter?’
‘With Vasquez, señor,’ maybe if he showed some respect, he would live.
‘You touched them?’
Pico knew what the stranger meant, but before he could answer, two men entered the room. Both were in similar bodysuits as his captor, both were masked, however, one was black and while the other was fair-skinned like the stranger. The dark man’s eyes seemed to bore holes as he waited for Pico’s answer and while there was nothing on his face, Pico sensed danger.
‘We were going to release them, senor, once Miguel delivered,’ he answered carefully, the threat in the room making him forget the pain inflicted on him.’
‘That’s not what he asked,’ the black man rumbled.
Pico moistened his lips, instinctively drawing back on the floor. ‘I might have slapped the woman, senor. I forget.’
‘Is that all you did?’ the black man joined the stranger and crouched over Pico.
Pico couldn’t escape from the two pairs of expressionless eyes. He looked away, thinking furiously how to respond. Of course he had tortured the woman. The girl too. They were his to play with till Miguel delivered. Admitting that though, would kill him.
‘I didn’t, senor, but if any of my men did, I don’t know. I was not around all day to protect them.’
‘He’s lying,’ the black man swore and lunged forward. He caught himself quickly at a sharp glance from the white man and contained himself.
‘Are they alive?’ his captor asked Pico.
Pico nodded vigorously, knowing how close he had come to dying. ‘Si, senor.’
‘What would happen if Miguel was found with the flasks? Before he could deliver?’ the stranger seemed to be engrossed with the flasks and the delivery.
They were just flasks, Pico wanted to tell the captor. Who cared what was in them? He wisely refrained and told what Vasquez had conveyed.
‘Miguel was to open them, senor.’
Flasks. New York. Death Club. Eight days. Open if anyone found him.
Zeb could feel the sense of urgency rising in him, the longer Pico spoke. He was sure Pico had confessed everything he knew, which wasn’t much. However, it was enough to send alarm bells ringing through him.
He huddled with Bwana and Roger and made swift plans. ‘We need to leave him alive. Vasquez should not suspect that his operation has been compromised.’
‘How will we do that?’ Roger scratched his cheek and wiped his fingers on his fatigues. ‘We can’t contain news of the attack. The whole neighborhood would have known by now. Besides, if he leaves–’
‘You’re thinking of Rodriguez?’ Bwana guessed.
‘Yeah. Domingo and Rodriguez,’ Zeb confirmed. ‘They are on standby. They’ll babysit Pico and make sure nothing leaks back to Vasquez.’
Domingo and Rodriguez were former Mexican gangbangers who had seen the light, and now operated as bounty hunters. They took out gang lords, broke up drug supply chains, captured gangsters, all for a fee. That fee was usually paid by covert agencies from both sides of the border. Sometimes Mexican families or entire towns or villages hired them to rid them of a menace.
All the cartels were gunning for the two men, but the two men were wily and had learnt from the cartels. They had their own networks in the gangs, snitches who they paid well. The two weren’t alone; they had a trusted network of men they worked with and could call up at short notice.
Zeb had done several favors for the men and knew he could count on them. ‘They can be here in an hour’s time.’
‘What about the coverage?’ Roger persisted.
‘Cordova is taking care of that. Rumors will leak that the Tuxtla Crescents were attacked by the Sinaloa cartel. That’s what the newspapers will r
eport. The neighborhood won’t know any better.’
‘What about the wife and daughter? The cook and the woman in the room … they are terrified. They didn’t say a word. Not even when we said they would be protected,’ Bwana glowered at Pico who was lying several feet away, bound, mouth taped shut. ‘We could rescue them.’
‘Bwana, he said eight days,’ Zeb cautioned his friend. ‘We have to choose.’
‘We’ll come back? We’ll free them?’
‘We will,’ Zeb promised him.
Domingo and Rodriguez arrived a couple of hours later, escorted by Cordova. ‘Senor, these two are the men you mentioned?’
‘Yes, Cordova. Maybe you should forget you saw them,’ Zeb thanked him.
‘I know them well, senor,’ Cordova cracked a smile. ‘The police are hunting for them. The cartels too. They’re friends?’
Domingo saved Zeb from answering. He roared in delight, grabbed Zeb and hugged him. He couldn’t lift Bwana and settled for punching his shoulder. Rodriguez, heavily bearded, watched his friend wryly and resorted to a simple handshake with Zeb.
‘Long time, my friend.’
‘Can you look after this guy, Pico? You know him?’
‘Very well,’ Domingo cast a glance in Pico’s direction. ‘We would have gone after him at some point.’ Domingo spoke with an American accent, courtesy of his spending several years with gangs in Los Angeles. ‘What’s the story?’
Zeb broke it down for him and when he had finished, all Domingo said was, ‘it’ll be a pleasure.’
Cordova was silent when he led Zeb and his men back to their Fords. He seemed to struggle with words and couldn’t contain himself when Zeb climbed inside his Ford. He pointed at the collapsed walls, the demolished upper floor, and the bodies in the yard.
‘Senor, just the three of you did this?’
Seven Days to Fight Night
They were in Mexico City just as dawn was breaking, bathing the awakening city in gold and orange. The Gulfstream made haste to leap at the sky and when they had parted company with ground, Zeb made his first call. To Clare.
‘We have a problem,’ he told her. ‘There are a couple of flasks in the country, heading to New York.’
‘Aren’t you in Mexico?’
‘Just left, ma’am.’ He filled her in and waited for her to come back with a response. It was swift and didn’t surprise him.
‘Find the courier. Get the flasks. Unopened. I’ll talk to the Mexicans. Maybe they can go after Vasquez. Get us more intel.’
There could be only one reason for the flasks to be opened in case Miguel was caught.
The flasks were chemical weapons.
Chapter 21
His second call was to Meghan. ‘Drop whatever you are doing. Find out everything you can on something called the Death Club. They organize fights. Maybe to the death.’
He heard her typing rapidly, just as another thought struck him. ‘Check with other covert agencies. Maybe Klattenbach was a plant.’
‘What about Gruzman?’ Bwana called from the aircraft’s bar. ‘He’s coming after you.’
Gruzman. I had forgotten all about him. I didn’t even read the dossier Avichai sent. Zeb sighed in irritation at his lapse and brought up the file on his screen. He surfaced an hour later, made a few more calls, reclined his seat and closed his eyes.
‘Gruzman? We’re going after him?’ Bwana suggested.
‘Nope. He’ll come to me.’
Gruzman had scoured Portland, Dalton, and Burns for Carter and found no trace of him. He visited the hotels Carter had checked in at Dalton, visited Tony’s restaurant, and knew his target had been there, but they hadn’t seen him recently. No forwarding address had been left. No more hits on his cards. It was as if he had dropped off the face of the earth.
Or knew that Gruzman was hunting him.
Gruzman shaved in the bathroom of his hotel room in Portland and considered that possibility. He discarded any leak from Privalov’s side. Nope, that didn’t make any sense. Privalov had paid a hefty advance and just that morning had enquired querulously about progress. That left Bevcic or enemies from his past. Most of his enemies were dead, Bevcic wasn’t. However, Bevcic had only his description and no record of the killer existed at any intelligence agency. Gruzman had seen to that; it had taken a lot of money and a lot of killing, but he was confident no Western intelligence agency knew what he looked like.
He rinsed his razor, toweled his face dry and studied his reflection. There must be a simpler explanation, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to check on Bevcic again.
Voronoff was making his own checks. He called Vasquez and demanded an update. Vasquez, high up in the Mexican mountains, took his call as he was being massaged by a statuesque blonde.
‘The courier’s on the way,’ he replied irritably. The masseuse was good and was loosening his body pleasurably. Voronoff had to call now and interrupt him. ‘I told you, it will happen this time. In New York. On that date.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘We have his wife and daughter. He wants them safe more than anything else.’
He hung up and sighed when fingers dug into his back and stroked along his spine. Running a gang wasn’t easy work. A gang head needed to find relaxation wherever he could.
Voronoff wasn’t relaxed. He was on another call, this time with the buyer. The buyer was cool, none of the usual bonhomie of the previous exchanges. For the first time, Voronoff wondered if he was supping with the devil.
I’m no pushover, he upbraided himself. I’ve dealt with worse people. ‘It’s on track,’ he interrupted the buyer’s harangue, curtly. ‘Everything’s on track.’
Privalov was the most nervous of all. Organizing a fight in New York was the most dangerous task he had ever taken on. He had killed several people, some of whom he had enjoyed watching die. A Death Club Fight Night in New York was a different proposition.
There were so many moving pieces, so many ways in which things could go wrong. He gritted his teeth and stared at his computer, at the images of the various fighters. It was done now. There was no backing out. The Death Club’s customers had paid a million dollars each for the privilege of watching a live stream. A million dollars each, he reminded himself. The fifty attendees had paid twice that. The fight had to happen.
It was one of the buyer’s demands, after the no-show by the courier in Miami, that had caused him the most problems. The buyer wanted the fight in a particular neighborhood, in New Jersey, in a closed arena, and wanted a clear escape route for his reps. The fight had to be in the afternoon.
‘I had already found a venue in the city. We were ready,’ he bellowed at Voronoff when he heard the latest wrinkle. ‘Does he think I can change venues just like that? These are illegal fights. Does he know that?’
‘Just make it happen, tovarich,’ Voronoff placated him. ‘We are on the defensive here. Remember who he is and what he’s capable of.’
Privalov uttered more choice Russian curses, slammed the phone down, and set about changing the venue. It took time, but you threw enough money at a problem, it got solved quickly. The Death Club wasn’t short of funds. He only hoped the buyer didn’t change his mind, or else, he himself would get on a plane and shoot the buyer.
The new location fit the buyer’s requirements. The fight would happen in New Jersey as he specified. However, since the location was just half an hour by bus or train, he and Voronoff continued to market it as a New York City Fight Night. It wouldn’t be at night, but at some time in the afternoon.
The customers didn’t complain. They just wanted to see more death.
Privalov would give them bloodshed, but this fight, like the Florida one, would be short too. Only two hours, and would have only five fighters. It was too risky to have a longer fight.
The venue was a large basement in a very large house in New Jersey. The house was totally independent, had seven bedrooms, a large garage, and a swimming pool. None of that was very important. The bas
ement had several access routes to the surrounding roads; that was the clincher.
Privalov had bought the house outright. He had paid five million, without even bothering to haggle. The Realtor had been delighted and had expedited the paperwork. Grigory’s men were now at the house, outfitting the basement with cameras, with whatever he needed to provide security.
This time, Privalov was more concerned with his and Grigory’s security. He didn’t really care if the Fight Night was raided by cops and if all the fighters were caught. He didn’t mind if the buyer’s reps were caught too. He cared about Miguel least of all. Voronoff had promised a fight and a clear escape route to the buyer. Privalov would deliver that.
Privalov had bought another house for three million, two streets away from the fight house, and it was there that he would set up base. He looked at his watch and swore. He was to make an inspection, and was already running late.
He grabbed his keys, his phone, and hurried out of his make-shift office in New York.
And committed the first mistake he ever had.
His computer was connected to the internet through a throwaway phone and he had used Grigory’s security protocols to go to the Death Club’s site in the dark net. In his haste, Privalov didn’t shut down his screen, and it stayed online connected.
The temporary office was in an office block in Manhattan, accountants, lawyers, advertising firms, making up the rest of the tenants. A lawyer in the neighboring office turned on his WiFi network, which was unprotected and, Privalov’s computer, spotting a new connection, latched on to it.
It was a very minor error on Privalov’s part. It was enough for Werner.
Miguel was in Charlotte when he made the call to Pico and was surprised to hear another voice. ‘Pico?’ he asked tentatively.