by Ty Patterson
‘Yeah,’ Meghan replied. ‘You planning to go to Colombia now?’
‘No. To Queens. You remember Josef Longoria?’
Beth’s snapped up from her doodling pad, her mouth opening in shock. ‘You’re going to talk to him? He’s out to kill you. You destroyed most of the Crimson Brotherhood, his gang.’
‘He’s got a connection to Envigado. His brother’s very high up there.’
‘They are gunning for you,’ she yelled, ‘you can’t just go in there and say pretty please call your brother for me.’
Zeb couldn’t help smiling at the vehemence in her voice and at the angry expressions on his friends’ faces.
‘That’s exactly what I intend to do.’
Bwana and Roger rose half an hour after Zeb had left, and shrugged into their jackets. Bwana gave a silent thumbs-up to the twins, while Roger winked, and they left as silently as Zeb had.
Zeb liked to work alone, especially if there was someone like Gruzman on his tail. To draw the threat away from his friends. What he didn’t know was his friends had a rule. Zeb would be shadowed by two of them at all times. Bear and Chloe had been on his six when he had met Gaspar, ready to take out the two hitters if needed. It was Bwana and Roger’s turn, this time.
Zeb wasn’t alone, even if he thought he was. He never would be.
Chapter 23
The Crimson Brotherhood had been founded by Josef Longoria and his brother Luis, to smuggle narcotics from Columbia into New York. The gang had grown rapidly, its quality of powder drawing clients from all boroughs. Growth had been accompanied with violence when other gangs muscled in on them and tried to wrest back lost territory.
The two Longoria brothers were no stranger to violence. They had been in the Envigado along with their eldest brother, Alphonse, and had started early in the killing game. Josef had killed his first man, another gangbanger, when he was thirteen, and Luis had executed his first victim at fifteen. Alphonse had a head start on them. He had killed when he was eight.
Josef and Luis had come to America illegally when they were in their twenties and had set up the Brotherhood. They had reached out to Alphonse who supplied them with powder and the Crimson Brotherhood became an extended arm of the Envigado.
The Brotherhood was close to a hundred gangbangers in Queens and Brooklyn, when Zeb had busted them.
Closing down gangs was something The Agency left to the cops, but in this instance, the Crimson Brotherhood had rented out their warehouse to a terrorist cell. Zeb had been after the cell, when the Brotherhood had gotten in the way. In the shootout that followed, Zeb had shot Luis in the leg and had wounded Josef in the shoulder. The two brothers had escaped, but their gang was destroyed when the NYPD arrested most of their members.
Word had filtered back to Zeb, that the brothers had sworn vengeance on the man who had injured them. They knew him as Carter. Zeb’s contacts in the NYPD told him they were rebuilding the gang and were currently twenty strong.
‘Josef and Luis own this Mexican eatery in Queens,’ the contact told Zeb as he went to the subway. ‘It’s a money laundering operation that we have raided several times, but the brothers have always escaped. They deal in crack now, buying it from Puerto Ricans, and also have a gambling and prostitution house. They are small time, but can grow fast.’
‘You planning to kill them?’ the contact questioned, knowing some of Zeb’s background.
‘Nope. I need their help.’
‘And how do you plan to get that?’
‘By asking nicely.’
The Mexican restaurant was two streets away from the Van Wyck Expressway in South Jamaica, sandwiched between a boarded store and a liquor shop. Graffiti adorned the walls on the street and a few street lamps were alight, even though it was the middle of the day.
A couple of men were lounging in front of the restaurant when he got closer. One of them, his pants nearly to his knees, stared evilly at Zeb but made no effort to stop him. Zeb pushed open the door and occupied an empty table. The restaurant had a few other customers, a couple of families, but most of its tables were unoccupied, even though it was lunch hour.
The servers were all male and some of them had the gang’s tats that they made no effort to conceal. Probably the gangbangers’ families come here to feed. A server placed a stainless steel jug on his table, a couple of glasses, and took his order.
‘I want to meet Josef,’ he said.
The server looked puzzled. ‘What do you want to order, senor?’ Senor. Didn’t expect that in a gangbanger restaurant.
Zeb ordered a plate of taquitos and repeated his previous request. ‘I want to meet Josef. Tell him I am waiting. I am the Carter. I am the one who shot him in the warehouse.’
The server looked at him disbelievingly for a moment and hurried away when Zeb returned his stare. He joined a bunch of servers near a door and furious whispering ensued. Several looks were darted his way. They’re the B-team. Or maybe the C-team. The A-team will be with Josef.
The families drifted out of the restaurant an hour later, the first sign that the A-team was arriving. The second sign was the slamming of the front door. A sudden silence fell in the dining room.
Zeb didn’t turn. He could see several men behind him in the steel jug’s reflection. Bodies distorted as they came near him, but he could make out Luis, his hands opening wide, as he neared Zeb.
Zeb waited one beat, two beats, and when Luis was just a couple of steps behind, moved swiftly. He rose, took a step to his right, whirled on his right foot, his left hand grasping the back of his chair, lifting it effortlessly, raising it in an arc, and smashing it across the gangbanger’s body.
The chair broke across Luis’s shoulder, a leg ripped his lips, another leg knocked him on the temple and the force of the impact felled him.
Zeb stepped back and raised his hands as Luis collapsed to the floor. Guns came out of waists and jackets and curses and angry shouting filled the air. Josef rushed at him in a rage, a knife piercing the air, ready to cut him to shreds.
Zeb ducked away at the last moment and tripped Josef who went sprawling in an ugly heap. Zeb moved deeper in the restaurant, his hands still raised, his back to one wall, Josef to his right, Luis on the floor to his front, the rest of the gang spread out, snarling, around him.
Josef lurched to his feet and turned, a murderous rage in his eyes. The knife pointed at Zeb again. ‘I’LL CUT YOU OPEN. I’LL DRINK YOUR BLOOD.’
‘I came to talk.’
‘YOU’RE A DEAD MAN.’
‘Talk to me first. Kill me later.’
Josef blinked. This wasn’t how he had imagined killing Carter. The man would beg for mercy as Josef sliced him open. Carter wasn’t even sweating. He stood as if bored with his hands pointing up.
‘YOU KILLED LUIS.’
‘Your brother isn’t dead.’
Luis groaned as if in confirmation and got to his knees. He looked wildly around, and on spotting Zeb, screeched in rage. He staggered to his feet and clawed at his waist for his gun.
‘It’s there,’ Zeb nodded at the weapon which had slid under a table.
‘Huh?’
‘Your gun. It’s beneath that table.’
‘YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?’ Josef burst out.
‘No. I said I want to talk. Shall I lower my hands? I don’t have any weapons. You can check.’
Josef hesitated, suspecting a trap. He rapped out an order to a couple of henchmen who ran outside the restaurant and returned in a few minutes. No cops in sight, they reported.
Josef gestured with his gun and another hood searched Zeb. No weapons, the hood said.
‘Talk. Then I will kill you,’ Josef hissed in an attempt to regain control.
Zeb sat on a chair and crossed his legs. Relaxed. What was there to fear in a roomful of thugs, their eyes brimming with hate?
‘Navarro. I want to know where he is.’
Rage gave way to puzzlement on Josef’s face. ‘Who is Navarro?’ His hoods shrugged.
There was no such man in their gang.
‘He’s in the Envigado. In Colombia. In your brother’s gang. Call Alphonse. Ask him where Navarro is.’
‘YOU THINK I’M HERE TO TAKE YOUR ORDERS?’ Josef screamed showering Zeb with spittle. He sprang forward, his knife heading for Zeb’s throat.
‘You’ll die.’
Josef froze, his blade an inch away from Zeb’s throat, his loud breathing filling the room.
‘You’ll die if you kill me. You know I have friends. They’ll reduce this place to rubble. They’ll kill each one of you. When they’re done, they’ll go to Medellin and kill your brother. You think you’re tough? You haven’t met my friends.’
‘What do you want?’ Warring expressions crossed Josef’s face before he adopted an impassive one.
‘I told you. I want to know where this Navarro is. Your brother will know.
‘Why? Who is this man?’
‘Right now, Navarro is all that stands between your life and death.’
‘You are surrounded by my men. It’s your life and death you should worry about,’ Josef blazed. ‘What has this man done?’
Zeb saw that the gangbanger wasn’t going to give in easily. Neither do I have time for lengthy explanations. ‘Navarro has become a terrorist. He’s heading to this country.’
Josef’s skin tightened and several of his men sucked a breath sharply. A terrorist. They knew what associating with such a man meant. The U.S. intelligence forces, the cops, the FBI, all those bodies would blow them away. Just like that. All their rackets, the powder pushing, the women, all those were puny compared to an act of terrorism on domestic soil.
‘Why should I believe you?’ Josef put on a brave face. ‘You could be lying. You are not even a cop.’
‘Don’t,’ Zeb said indifferently and got up. ‘See what happens in a few days.’ The gangbangers parted for him without protest as he moved to the exit. They started whispering among one another, and then more loudly, as more joined in and started arguing with Josef.
He was nearly at the door when Josef stopped him. ‘Wait.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Come back. I’ll call Alphonse.’
Zeb went back to his chair and watched as Josef called a number and had a low-pitched conversation with the person at the other end. Some of his men had drifted away to lean against walls or sit around dining tables. A few were crowded around Josef, trying to listen in to the call.
Josef hung up angrily, cursed, and tried another number. He didn’t get to who he wanted, and tried a third number. This time his face lit up. ‘Alphonse,’ he exclaimed and chattered rapidly.
He hunched his shoulders and turned his back on Zeb when he felt the seated man’s eyes on him. He Si Si-ed a lot, gesticulated, and waved his knife in the air.
‘Si, a terrorist,’ he babbled and poured out a torrent of words. His listened, his head bobbing, and then his restraint broke. ‘What if it’s true?’ he fumed at his elder brother.
He stiffened at what seemed to be a rebuke from Alphonse, nodded once more and came to his captive. He thrust the phone to Zeb. ‘Alphonse. He wants to talk to you.’
‘Who are you? What’s this nonsense?’ Alphonse was abrupt.
‘Who I am is immaterial. I came to Josef’s place, have busted Luis, and haven’t even been scratched. That should show you what I can do. Josef told you everything. Where is Navarro?’
‘Listen, you–’
Zeb cut off Alphonse in mid-bellow and tossed the phone to Josef.
‘What did you do?’ Josef caught the phone instinctively, his face shocked. ‘That’s my brother. You can’t talk to him like that. He’s the most dangerous man I know.’
The phone rang. He accepted the call quickly and more Si-Sis followed. He handed the phone to Zeb silently and stepped back.
‘WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?’ Alphonse bayed from Medellin.
Zeb hung up without replying. ‘Tell him to be polite, next time he calls,’ he threw the phone at Josef.
Josef was used to being in command. He was a killer. People feared him. He had men and women at his beck and call. His gang was small, yet he was the king of it. He hadn’t come across a man such as the one opposite him. Carter was calm, patient, slightly bored. He didn’t seem to care that he was in Josef’s restaurant, surrounded by armed men. He wasn’t awed that he was talking to Alphonse, the most wanted man in Colombia.
Josef experienced a rare epiphany. Only someone who was so utterly powerful, so confident of himself, could sit there so calmly. He recalled how Carter had demolished his gang all those years back. What Carter said now, must be true. Alphonse was an idiot.
He told just that to his elder brother when Alphonse called, the first time ever he had rebuked his elder brother, and gave the phone to Carter.
‘Don’t hang up on me,’ Alphonse seethed through gritted teeth.
‘I don’t have time for your games,’ Zeb let impatience creep into his reply. ‘Josef told you. Navarro is a terrorist. I want to know where he is. How he can be contacted.’
‘WHY SHOULD I BELIEVE YOU?’
‘Don’t. I’ll promise you this. If you don’t tell me now, in one week’s time, you will not exist.’
Zeb left the restaurant half an hour later with the news that Navarro was already in the U.S.A.
He had gotten into the country two days ago, crossing the Mexican border illegally and had called his gang from a throwaway phone. He had said something about a fight in New York. His gang knew about his interest in MMA fighting and figured he was heading to some event. There was a glimmer of hope for Zeb.
Navarro had said he would contact Josef in a day or two.
Chapter 24
Five Days to Fight Night
Gruzman got the call from Privalov very early in the morning, as he was heading out of his nondescript hotel in Brooklyn. He had finally traced Carter back to New York and was heading to mount a watch outside Carter’s office, when his phone had rung.
‘When will you finish the job?’ Privalov demanded.
‘When I can.’
‘The timetable has changed. You need to finish it in five days, or else the job’s gone.’
Five days. Gruzman didn’t like being rushed. Still, five days was enough time, especially with this new information he had received the previous night.
Gruzman no longer used middlemen since all his jobs now came from Privalov. However, he still maintained his network, and that network had reached out to him. There was this guy, in Manhattan, the old man whispered when he met Privalov in a restaurant.
They were the only two customers in the restaurant, yet the old man whispered. Habits of a lifetime. ‘Many people want him dead,’ the old man’s skin was like wrinkled parchment. Pale and translucent, with blue veins standing out. ‘Whoever gets him will get paid. Handsomely. Even if there’s no job out on him.’
Gruzman listened. It was one of the many skills he had. He could listen without interruption. He owed the old man a few favors. The least he could do was listen.
‘He has an office in Manhattan. On Columbus Avenue.’
Gruzman was pleased that his fingers didn’t tremble or that his face didn’t twitch. Even his involuntary muscles were trained to do his bidding.
‘His name is Carter. He has become lazy. He has fallen into a routine. A morning run in Central Park, every day.’
‘I can’t take other jobs. I’m quite busy,’ Gruzman let the old man down as gently as he could. Just because Gruzman was a killer didn’t mean he didn’t have social graces.
‘That’s good. Busy is good,’ the old man whispered. ‘I hadn’t heard from you for a long time. I thought this might interest you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Gruzman was genuinely apologetic. In his business, friendships and relationships were impossible to maintain. The old man wasn’t a friend, but he had come through good for Gruzman several times.
Gruzman drove the white van he had rented and joined the early morning lines of ve
hicles on Brooklyn Bridge heading to Manhattan. Some vehicles peeled off and headed deeper, downtown. That wasn’t Gruzman’s direction. He headed up, towards Central Park. He knew where Carter’s office was. It wasn’t far from Columbus Circle. He figured Carter would use one of the entrances to Central Park on the east side.
Gruzman planned to park near Columbus Circle and watch the exits from the interior of his van. Mount surveillance. Learn Carter’s routine. Confirm that routine the next day. Take the shot the day after.
Several miles to Gruzman’s south, Miguel hopped off the truck when it rolled to a stop, and thanked the Mexican driver.
‘Enjoy New York,’ the driver raised a gloved hand in parting and drove away in a cloud of fumes.
Miguel stretched and stifled a yawn. He was in New York. Near JFK. His ordeal was nearly ending. He was in a neighborhood called Springfield Gardens, in Queens. That’s what the trucker had said. Miguel went to search for a diner to have an early breakfast and plan the rest of his day.
Plan the rest of the five days, he told himself.
Luck favored Gruzman. He found a parking space that gave him a good view of the exits. He could also see the side of the glass-fronted building that was Carter’s office, if he craned his head.
He didn’t plan to crane his head or draw attention to himself in anyway. Not that anyone from the outside could see him. The van’s rear doors had dark windows which were one-way only. He settled in a bunk, drew out a pair of binos, set up a camera, kept a notepad ready, and waited.
Josef’s phone rang at seven am. It rang twice before Josef’s hand reached out from under the duvet and grabbed it. He was tempted to ignore the phone, but remembered Carter’s warning.
He stuck his head out and squinted blearily at the screen. He didn’t recognize the number. Very few people had his number. The caller must have got it from one of those few.