Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Are you coming?’ Privalov asked his boss. Voronoff never attended a fight, but this one was close to his home in New York.

  ‘No, I will watch from Chelsea.’

  Werner was sucking data, terabytes of it, and processing it rapidly through its chips. It worked in a grid with a few other supercomputers and that magnified its speed and processing power.

  However, it didn’t pick up anything with the keywords. Nothing flagged it. There was another algorithm, however, that the twins had written the night before. That algorithm got it to flag any event that was unusual, even if it wasn’t connected to the mission.

  That particular algorithm made it send two photographs to Meghan, Beth, and Broker, at twelve pm. The images were from a security camera in Shinjuku, a Tokyo district. One image showed two diners at a table, their sides to the camera, and another had the two men emerging, their faces clear and sharp.

  Werner wouldn’t have bothered with the images but for the identity of one of the men.

  Broker and Beth were in one SUV, Bear and Chloe in another, and Meghan was with Bwana in a third one. All three vehicles loosely circled the office building, and had screens in them that connected to Werner. Broker was the first to spot the images and he stilled when he recognized the figure.

  ‘What?’ Beth leaned over his shoulder and looked at the images. ‘Who are they? You recognize them, don’t you?’

  ‘One of them,’ Broker answered slowly, his mind whirling. ‘That was taken eight months ago. In Japan.’

  ‘I can see that,’ she exclaimed impatiently and punched his shoulder. ‘Who is whoever you recognized?’

  Broker pointed to the figure on the left in one of the photographs. ‘That is General Hyun-Joo.’

  ‘Korean?’

  ‘He is North Korea’s military chief.’

  ‘Who’s the other one?’

  ‘No clue.’ Broker fired a command and got Werner to identify the second man.

  Beth looked out of the window trying to connect the pictures to the mission. ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘How’s this important?’

  ‘It might not be,’ Broker replied heavily. ‘Not to this mission. But General Hyun-Joo never steps out of North Korea. Never.’

  He forwarded the pictures to Clare, tried to think a connection, and then broke off when Roger spoke in their earpieces.

  ‘We have got the address. It’s a residence in Rutherford, New Jersey.’

  Chapter 28

  Zeb headed out of the office building with Roger following him a step behind. He didn’t look in the Chevy’s direction. He went purposefully to their beat-up sedan and set off when Roger climbed in. It was one pm.

  The Death Club’s site had ordered him to be at the fight location at one forty-five pm. Vinegar Hill to Rutherford took about forty minutes. He figured it didn’t matter if they were late by few minutes. He was a gangbanger. Punctuality wasn’t his forte.

  He took the Brooklyn Bridge, cut across the lower part of the city and entered the Lincoln Tunnel. He noticed the watchers made no attempt to hide themselves and followed him just a car length behind.

  ‘Broker’s on your tail. Far behind. The rest of us are taking other routes,’ Meghan informed them through their implanted devices.

  Neither Zeb nor Roger responded. Their car could be bugged.

  They reached Rutherford at one forty pm and ten minutes later, were outside the gated house. Two men approached their vehicle, one of them gesturing at Zeb to lower his window.

  ‘Name?’ the man demanded.

  ‘Navarro,’ Zeb replied, grouchily. ‘Loya, my driver,’ he pointed at Roger.

  The man checked a list of names on a page and flipped to another sheet. He brought out a security device from a pocket and turned it on.

  ‘Code?’

  Zeb recited a number that had been generated on Navarro’s page. The organizer entered the number and punched it another sequence of numbers. The device beeped which seemed to be good, since it went back into his pocket.

  My number was probably one half of a longer one. He had the second half. Good security. A better one would have been biometrics, but no fighter would permit that. They’re all criminals.

  ‘Who was your first kill?

  ‘What?

  ‘Who did you kill the first time?’

  Zeb thought fast, recollecting all that Navarro had told him. ‘You think I keep notes? It was a hitter from another gang.’

  You were fifteen years old, Meghan prompted.

  ‘I was fifteen. Have you killed anyone?’ Zeb glared at the guard.

  The guard blinked. No one had asked him that question. ‘Who was your second kill?’

  Zeb slammed out of the car, grabbed the guard by his collar and pulled him close. ‘I am Navarro. I came here to win a million bucks. If you don’t let me through that door, you will be dead.’

  The second guard came rushing up and swerved quickly when Zeb shoved the first man in his direction. The two guards had a whispered conversation and consulted the pad in the first man’s hand.

  ‘Go through,’ the second man announced and pressed a button that opened the gates. Another organizer searched them for weapons and took them inside the house and down to the basement.

  ‘That’s the arena,’ the organizer pointed to the large open space. ‘You will fight whoever is drawn against you. Draws are by computer.’

  ‘I know,’ Zeb brushed past him and went to the side of the arena, Roger beside him.

  Large, was Zeb’s first impression. Crowded was his second. There were about sixty people in the basement that ran the entire length of the house. All of them hung around the open space.

  Ten of those present wore the uniform of the organizers. They alone were armed and had guns. A couple of them had knives. He spotted Posada, Eppinga, and Clow, scattered around the periphery of the arena. Each of the fighters had a man next to them, their drivers.

  ‘Stabel’s just arrived. He’s at the gate,’ Meghan murmured

  ‘How do you know?’ Roger asked her without moving his lips.

  ‘There are quite a few drones, high above. Ours, the FBI’s. Even the NYPD’s.’

  ‘Any sign of Miguel?’

  ‘No. Roger, turn around once in a while so that we can capture the entire room. Werner’s running facial recognition programs on the feed. A lot of the people out there are wanted criminals.’

  The basement was white-walled, well-lit, and had several cameras on its ceiling. Zeb searched for any other exits, but couldn’t spot them. He was pushed back to the arena when he tried to move through the crowd.

  ‘Stay here,’ an organizer remonstrated him.

  ‘You really going to fight?’ Roger again, not looking at him.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Zeb whispered. ‘I hope Miguel will turn up soon.’

  The plan was simple. He and Roger would try to locate Miguel in the crowd, supported by Werner’s efforts. They would grab Miguel before he handed off the flasks, at which point, the FBI and the NYPD, who had surrounded the house, would come flooding in.

  The challenge was the size of the crowd and the fact that the basement was a closed space. Anything could go wrong in such a congested area. The organizers could cut loose with their guns. They might never spot Miguel.

  The NYPD had suggested going into the house before Miguel arrived. They had backtracked when Beth had pointed out that there was bound to be surveillance by the organizers. They could inform Miguel, who would never turn up, and the flasks wouldn’t be recovered.

  This is the only way, however flawed it is.

  A whistle blew, hushing the crowd. One of the organizers came forward and held up a hand to further quieten it.

  ‘First fight starts now. Between Navarro and Clow.’

  Zeb didn’t know who gasped in his ear. Whether it was Meghan, Beth, or Chloe. He didn’t have time to figure it out. A hand on his back propelled him to the center of the arena, at the opposite end of which stood Clow.
>
  ‘Remove your shirts,’ the organizer called out.

  ‘Zeb, we are coming in,’ Meghan, strained, urgent.

  ‘NO,’ he managed to be firm without moving his lips as he stripped to his waist and flung his shirt at Roger. ‘Miguel. First priority.’

  The Australian was six-feet-five-inches tall. As tall as Bwana and Bear. Not as heavily built as them. He was punching his right fist into his left palm as he walked slowly to the center, giving Zeb the evil eye.

  Zeb joined him at the center. Kept going. Saw the flicker in the Australian’s eye. And struck before Clow or even the watching crowd grasped what was happening.

  He punched the Australian in the throat with his knuckles bunched together. Followed it up with a wicked hook to Clow’s temple. Clow fell without a sound. His body twitched once as it lay motionless, face down.

  His driver came running and felt for a pulse. ‘He’s alive.’

  ‘You didn’t give any warning,’ the driver yelled at Zeb.

  ‘Warning?’ Zeb scoffed. He faced the crowd which was still in shock at the suddenness of the fight. ‘He wants a warning. Doesn’t he know this is the Death Club? There is no warning. There are no rules.’ He pounded his chest in emphasis, ‘Navarro came here to win. Navarro came here to kill.’

  The crowd roared in approval.

  ‘Very good,’ Beth wisecracked. ‘That’ll get you the badass role in a B-grade Hollywood movie.’

  ‘VORONOFF!’ Meghan whooped before Zeb or Roger could retort.

  Zeb covered up his wince by flexing an arm as if relieving a twinge. He went to Roger who turned half-way, his cameras still covering the spectators. ‘What or who is Voronoff?’

  ‘He’s the man who met General Hyun-Joo in Tokyo. He’s North Korea’s military chief.’

  ‘And this is important, because?’ Roger gestured with his hands to mime a killing blow in case anyone was paying attention to them.

  ‘Because Voronoff is suspected of being one of the world’s foremost arms dealer. And North Korea has chemical weapons and Hyun-Joo would control them. And lastly because, Voronoff is CEO of something called the Russian Cultural Center. Which employs one P.R. Ivalov.’

  The second fight started, between Posada and Eppinga. There was still no sign of Miguel.

  ‘Has Miguel arrived?’ Voronoff messaged Privalov angrily.

  ‘No. The buyer’s reps are here. I’ll arrange the exchange as soon as the courier comes,’ Privalov replied and focused on the fight.

  He too had been taken aback by Navarro’s abruptness. The Colombian had strolled towards Clow and had fooled everyone by his casual approach. There was something about Navarro that nagged Privalov, but he couldn’t be certain what it was. He kept an eye on the gangbanger as he stood on the side-lines, talking to his driver and watching the second fight.

  Posada and Eppinga fought brutally, both men being more or less equally matched. Eppinga was the taller of the two and had reach, whereas Posada had speed. Eppinga rained blows whenever he could and Posada returned the favor whenever he could dart away and attack from behind.

  Privalov looked at the feeds from different cameras. No, Miguel hadn’t arrived yet. His organizers at the gate confirmed that. A cheer from the crowd drew his attention back to the fight. Eppinga had won.

  But Privalov’s eyes were on Navarro. What was it about the Colombian that was bothering him?

  Meghan updated regularly now that Werner had uncovered Voronoff and Privalov’s identities. The former had a residence in Chelsea, but the latter’s whereabouts were untraceable. The FBI sent a surveillance team to check out the Chelsea house and also the Cultural Center’s registered office.

  ‘No Miguel,’ she wrapped up her commentary.

  ‘Any reason for them to hold the fight in daylight? And here?’ Zeb mouthed, as he watched Eppinga walk off, victoriously.

  ‘Still working on those.’

  A couple of organizers wiped blood away from the concrete floor and helped Posada’s driver drag the fallen man away.

  ‘Navarro and Stabel,’ an organizer announced and stepped away from the arena.

  ‘Still no Miguel,’ Meghan, nervous that Zeb would have to fight again.

  No choice. Zeb stepped forward and sized his opponent up. Stabel was the same size as him, same build, the same lean muscles. He was wary and alert when Zeb went to the center of the arena.

  Zeb didn’t repeat the same move that had worked on Clow, preferring to wait for Stabel to attack. The Austrian came in low feinting with his left, punching with his right. Zeb evaded both strikes and danced away. The crowd booed. They wanted action. They wanted blows. They wanted blood.

  Stabel attacked, faster this time, crowding Zeb against the human wall of the spectators and drew first blood when his right fist made contact with Zeb’s face. Zeb’s lips split and a trickle of blood flowed down to his chin.

  The crowd roared. It wanted more blood.

  Stabel rushed forward, his arms moving blindingly fast, catching Zeb in the belly, another strike glancing off his shoulder. Zeb still didn’t attack, ducking and weaving away as much as he could. Which he couldn’t do much of, since he had no room.

  Through the corner of his eye he saw Roger swivel and turn, seeking out Miguel. ‘He’s not here. Defend yourself, for chrissakes,’ Meghan shouted in his implant.

  Zeb caught the movement too late. Stabel’s fist rushing at him. He bobbed but not quickly enough. The force of the blow stunned him and when Stabel followed it up with a vicious kick, he went sprawling.

  He rolled away just as Stabel stamped. He rose to his feet and dodged the rushing Austrian who swiveled suddenly and delivered another savage punch. The crowd jeered at his lack of fight. It urged Stabel on, to maim, to punish Navarro for a spineless display.

  ‘Kill him,’ it clamored.

  Stabel rushed forward, momentarily exposing his abdomen. That was the opening Zeb needed. He dropped to his knees, Stabel’s swinging arm sliding in the air above him, and struck the Austrian hard, in the belly.

  The Austrian stumbled. Zeb caught an outstretched leg and elbowed him in the groin. Stabel fell. Zeb smothered him immediately and got an arm lock around him.

  ‘Rog, turn to your left.’ Meghan’s words were nearly drowned in the crowd’s kill him chants. They were now behind Zeb, backing Navarro.

  ‘THAT’S HIM. THAT’S MIGUEL.’

  Zeb turned and amongst the screaming horde, right at the front, he saw the wide-eyed Mexican. He felt the rush of air first, and then a hammer landed on his head, as Stabel lashed out with one leg.

  He let go of the Austrian, brought up his left hand defensively to protect from another kick. Stabel grabbed his hand and twisted it swiftly. Zeb head-butted him. He saw Roger make his way through the crowd, going toward Miguel.

  The split-second distraction was all that Stabel needed. He grabbed Zeb’s throat with his right hand, parried Zeb’s jabs with his left, and squeezed.

  ‘There he is,’ Grigory pointed to the courier on the screen.

  ‘Get an organizer to meet him,’ Privalov didn’t move his eyes from the fight. Navarro was soaking up the punches, just riding the blows. He was fighting strategically, knowing that Stabel would be prepared for his earlier style against Clow.

  ‘This isn’t an ordinary street-fighter. He’s trained. Experienced.’ He didn’t know he had spoken aloud till Grigory wheeled towards him.

  ‘Nothing. Get the exchange done.’

  Navarro had broken Stabel’s grip in a maneuver that he, Privalov, was eminently familiar with. He knew that break-hold, from his Spetsnaz days. A sudden chill fell over him. Now he knew what had been bothering him about Navarro.

  The Navarro on the arena was a shade slimmer than the Navarro on the Death Club’s pictures. The difference was so slight that no one had picked up on it.

  Privalov lunged to his phone and dialed Gruzman’s number.

  ‘Yeah?’ Gruzman answered after two rings.

  Prival
ov hung up. ‘IT’S CARTER,’ he hollered. ‘THAT’S NOT NAVARRO. THAT’S CARTER.’

  The voice that had answered was like Gruzman’s, but he and the assassin had a code. Neither answered their phones before five rings.

  ‘GET MIGUEL TO EXCHANGE. INFORM THE ORGANIZERS.’

  Zeb felt it even as he was driving Stabel back with cutting thrusts. Several organizers looked his way and then started running at him.

  ‘ROGER, GET MIGUEL,’ he yelled.

  He took a knock to his head, rode it for a second, gripped Stabel by his waist and heaved him at the organizers. They went down in a heap, but an attack came from behind, even as the crowd erupted in frenzy.

  He boxed and jabbed. Struck and pummelled as men fell on top of him. An elbow smashed on his face. Something struck him in the kidneys. He retaliated, feral savagery in his blows, reduced to being the most dangerous animal in the world; a highly trained operative fighting for his survival.

  The organizers still came on, smothering him with sheer numbers. He was suffocating. He had no room to move. From the far distance he thought he heard firing, but he didn’t dwell on it. I won’t die like this.

  He bit an ear, gnawed at a shoulder. Someone cried out. A tortuous shriek rang out. He thought the weight on top of him lessened. He got more room to use his elbows. More space, yes.

  There was more oxygen. Then there was more light as the bodies on top of him disappeared.

  Then there was Bwana, leaning over him, his eyes angry. And concerned. ‘Zeb?’

  Zeb didn’t reply, gulping in sweet oxygen. He swiveled his head and saw FBI agents and cops. Spectators on their knees, hands in the air. The organizers, those who Bwana and Bear hadn’t tossed away like confetti, bunched together, surrounded by more cops.