by Ty Patterson
‘Shira spoke to their CEOs. Said it was harassment. That it wasn’t helping their cases. The Japanese companies stopped immediately. But the Chinese companies didn’t. One rep said it wouldn’t be good if they didn’t win the bid.’
Zeb could almost feel the twins quiver in excitement. Maybe this was the break they were looking for.
‘You’ve got—’
‘We have everything here, sir.’ Holly handed a file to Levin. ‘We thought Shira might have mentioned all this to you.’
‘No, she didn’t.’
‘I have one more copy.’ Mulan brought out another folder when she saw Meghan trying to read over Levin’s shoulder. ‘I have a third copy as well. We were planning to give it to the NYPD.’
‘We’ll pass it on to them. We are consultants to the NYPD,’ Zeb replied to her in Japanese. He handed her his NYPD card and took the third set of documents from her unresisting hands.
Mulan Yao looked at him in astonishment, but before she could say a word, there was the sound of pounding feet outside the door.
‘Down!’ Zeb yelled and dove off of his couch. He lay prone, facing the door at an angle, his Glock covering it.
It burst open. Levin’s aide entered and blanched when he saw Zeb and the twins covering him. He raised his hands instinctively and sought out Levin.
‘There’s been one more killing, sir. Mandel Leclair’s daughter.’
A split second of shock before a low moan broke out from Holly Nicholson.
‘She’s one of us.’
Chapter 11
Senior had gaped when Junior had told him of the plan to take down Theresa Leclair, Mandel Leclair’s daughter.
Junior had been practicing with his sword, his body moving like a ballet dancer’s as he went from thrust to parry, attack to defense, his arms whirling, the steel blurring and slicing air into thin ribbons.
‘Come again?’
Junior laughed and stopped his swordplay. He wiped his face with a towel, swigged water from a can, and outlined the plan again.
Senior had been dumbfounded. The sheer audacity of the plan stunned him. This is why everyone likes Junior. He comes up with these outrageous ideas. And they usually work.
‘That’s too…’ He struggled for words.
‘Too high-profile? That’s what Papa wants. Now get to the organizing, Senior. I’ve done all the thinking.’ Junior smiled and clapped his brother on the shoulder.
Senior had recruited a kill team of mercenaries. Four men who would carry out the actual work. He liked the number four. It had a special significance, especially for those in the business of death.
He organized a wider team to support the mercenaries and set the rest of the logistics in motion.
The plan went down just like it was supposed to.
* * *
There was high traffic density as drivers approached the Arc de Triomphe, one of the most famous monuments in Paris. The Arc had been commissioned to commemorate Napoleon’s victory in Austerlitz, and it soon became a focal point for victory parades.
It was also a significant chokepoint for traffic, since the Arc was at the center of a star from which twelve avenues radiated. Tourists, either on foot or on buses, flocked to visit it and take pictures. Parisians drove around it on their way to and from work. Tourists and everyday commuters meant traffic. A convergence of roads meant traffic.
There seemed to be another reason for the traffic that particular day. A movie shooting.
There were signboards on the lampposts that warned drivers of possible congestion. Those enormous arrays of lights, sound boxes, technicians walking around with cameras and mics on the pavements, were additional clues.
There were changing vans on the pavement and bunches of men huddled together, talking purposefully. Food stalls were erected to serve coffees, tea, and baguettes. A man went around with a megaphone, calling out instructions that no one seemed to heed.
Drivers slowed down and craned their heads to see if they could spot any French actors. There were a few gorgeously dressed women and men, but none of them were the headline stars. Maybe they were shooting a TV series.
Not all the French drivers were interested in spotting any stars. Many of them swore, Merde, honked loudly, and tried to overtake, but there wasn’t any room. The result was a bottleneck that extended to over a mile.
The logjam made it easy for what went down next. In fact, the traffic build-up had been planned.
An irate driver rolled down his window and cursed in colorful French at the vehicles in front of him, at the movie shooting, at the government, and at a cameraman who ran next to him and started shooting.
The driver gave the cameraman the bird and tried to overtake the car ahead, which was edging out too. The two cars crashed and more swearing spilled out from the angry driver.
He swung out of his car, inspected the damage and bore down on the two suits who had sprung out of theirs. None of the three drivers were paying attention to the action scene four cars ahead.
Four masked men ran to a black Peugeot, closely followed by a cameraman and a sound technician. Two broke off and shot through the driver’s window. One of them leaned in and opened the rear door with a gloved hand. A third man leaned inside.
The bench seat at the rear had just one occupant. A woman in her early thirties. Surprise and shock were turning to fear when the man leaned in. She shouted. It got drowned in the sound of honking and swearing.
The single shot didn’t register with anyone. Those who were looking from other vehicles saw a spray of red on the windows. They saw the cameraman speak briefly to the four masked men and clap them on the back. The action shot was perfect. No retake was necessary.
* * *
‘And they just disappeared?’ Zeb asked incredulously, eyes narrowed at the conference phone.
They were in OnePP, having driven there swiftly, crowded in a conference room, with Chang and Pizaka briefing them. Commissioner Rolando was present. Impassive but for the twitching of a muscle in his jaw. Holly Nicholson and Mulan Yao were pale and looked as if they had been punched in the gut.
Which they had been. They had just lost yet another close friend and coworker.
‘Yes,’ Normand Duplessis, Director General of the French National Police, answered in French. ‘Everyone thought it was a movie shooting. No one interfered. Some people even clapped.’
Duplessis broke off when a cruiser’s siren drowned out his voice. ‘The masked men disappeared after the shooting. No one saw where they went. One of the camera crew came out in the traffic and got it moving.
‘The driver who crashed into the bodyguards, he kept them distracted. In fact, more drivers came out and crowded around them. All those drivers are missing.
‘It was very smoothly done. Two hours later, there was nothing to show of the shooting, except the trailers. It was only when an inquisitive tourist peered inside the kill vehicle that the shooting was discovered.’
‘Normand, but surely a movie shooting would require permits.’ Rolando leaned forward, his brow furrowed. He too spoke in French. ‘There would be cops. Security.’
‘Yes, they had permits. Everything was arranged. But the shooting was for tomorrow,’ Duplessis replied angrily. His rage wasn’t directed at Rolando. Someone, somewhere in the French police would feel his wrath.
‘You didn’t get a single person?’
‘Just one. A driver in one of the trailers. He was sleeping. We have arrested him, but he knows nothing. His trailer is part of a firm that rents out equipment to the film industry.
‘We have nothing, my friend. Except one dead body. And Mandel Leclair is a grieving father. An angry one.’
Zeb knew Leclair well. The Agency had helped the French secret service on several missions. He’s as old as Avichai. And no doubt grieving as much. Levin looked tired and weary when Zeb snuck a glance at him. He was talking softly with Rolando, seriously, intently. The twins were with Holly and Mulan, while Broker was with Chang.<
br />
Leclair would have received as many threats as Levin. Was his daughter estranged too? We need more intel. Broker and the twins will start on that once we get back to the office.
‘Zeb?’ Meghan interrupted him. ‘Theresa sat on two companies. Both tech firms. Something to do with the cybersecurity space. Both had bidders. A German and an Australian one.’
‘Do you think we’re all targets?’ Holly Nicholson asked him, a noticeable shiver going through her.
Possibly.
‘We don’t know enough, ma’am. All of you should take precautions. I can recommend some good people who specialize in close protection. Maybe you should—’
‘They should stay here, in New York, for a few days. Change their routine.’ Beth exclaimed. ‘I’m sure the NYPD can arrange protection too,’ she added, directing her remark at Chang and Pizaka.
‘Yes. We can sort that out,’ Chang replied.
The visiting women looked uncertain, still processing the most recent killing. Shock and horror had temporarily disabled their faculties. Zeb had seen it before. It was why terrorists went for shock. It momentarily incapacitated reaction time and rational thinking.
‘They can stay with us. We have enough space on Columbus Avenue,’ Zeb countered.
‘What I was thinking.’ Beth smiled briefly and got back to her call. ‘I’m checking where the others are,’ she responded to Zeb’s questioning look.
Others. Bwana, Roger, Bear, and Chloe.
His team would stick tight until they knew what was going down. The killings look random. But there’s something and someone behind them. It’s not random to the masterminds.
‘We’ll regroup,’ he told Rolando, who nodded. Staying any longer at OnePP would cramp all of them.
‘Avichai, why don’t you stay with us too?’ he asked his friend in Hebrew. ‘We have enough empty apartments.’
Eyes flashing, Levin shook his head grimly, conscious that everyone was trying to follow their conversation. ‘No, achi. I’ll stay in my hotel. My kidon are with me. We won’t be caught unaware again. If someone comes after us…’ He didn’t need to complete his thought. If anyone went after Levin, all bets were off. The Mossad wouldn’t hold back.
* * *
Zeb was deep in thought, figuring out the killings. There could be a business angle to them. Shira and Theresa were in the midst of disposal proceedings. What about the intelligence angle? Both of them were daughters of intelligence heads.
And how coincidental is it that Shira and Theresa went to the same college. Or did they?
He had emerged out of the NYPD building and was on the top of a flight of stairs, to its side. Always to its side. Ingrained habit. There was a cop just off-center of the stairs, speaking on a cell. A few people were climbing up, heading inside the building.
Street level was busy, as it always was in New York. Cabs and buses battled for concrete with cars, trucks and SUVs. New Yorkers shoved through ever-present crowds of tourists.
All those barely registered with Zeb. They were normal.
What wasn’t normal was the car stopping right in the middle of traffic. The two men emerging from it, carrying something long and metallic.
The beast within him exploded to life. Zeb had caught only a fleeting glimpse of the men, his radar sensing something not right, and the beast surged to life.
‘Shooters!’ he yelled.
Chapter 12
Zeb crashed into the twins and the visiting women, all bunched together, and went down on top of them on the stairs. His Glock came up instinctively as rounds peppered the steps and splintered the glass front of the building.
Two men. Spraying and praying. Standing side by side. Pedestrians ducking. Traffic screeching to a halt. Honking. Screaming.
His first shot went wide. He corrected. His position was awkward. Someone below him was writhing. Yelling. Louder shouting from behind him. From inside OnePP. The familiar grey fog enveloped him, blanketing out everything other than the threat vector.
He rolled off the body beneath him, onto the lower step. Ignoring its hard ridges jabbing him. Right arm raised straight as a ruler. Left arm spread out for balance. Both gunmen turning in his direction. The spray coming nearer.
Barrel covering the upper body of the first shooter. Coming to rest on his chest. A fraction of a second to steady himself. A chip of concrete slapped his face. He didn’t blink.
Soft pull of the trigger. The Glock’s round flew straight and true, speeding at over one thousand feet a second. The shooter went down. The second gunman looked sideways at his companion.
When he turned back to resume his deadly attack, a hail of bullets slammed into him. Firing at a police headquarters wasn’t a good move. It had armed cops. Hundreds of them.
During the aftermath. Zeb stood at a distance, the way he usually did when coming down from action. His way of dealing with it. He listened to everything, was aware of all that was happening. But he was more tight-lipped than normal.
His people knew that about him and gave him his space. As did the cops.
The police officer who had been on his phone on the stairs had suffered injuries. Rounds piercing his chest. It looked like he would survive, though the wounds were serious.
Holly Nicholson had a cut on her forehead from when Zeb had slammed into her. Mulan had twisted an ankle. The twins were unharmed. They had lain on top of the TKWC women, protecting them. They had acted without conscious thought. Training and ingrained instincts at work.
Three more cops inside the building had cuts and grazes from flying glass. Broker, inside the lobby, had thrown himself at Chang and Pizaka. Quick thinking that had saved the three of them, for rounds had cut through the space they had occupied.
A pileup on the street had injured several New Yorkers. No injuries that seemed to be serious.
Gunmen on the streets of New York were a police commissioner’s nightmare. An attack on OnePP was a declaration of war from terrorists. Rolando acted appropriately and immediately. His face stony, he locked down several blocks around the NYPD headquarters. He brushed aside the media vans who had turned up like bees to honey.
He had a city to protect. Questions to be answered. Were the two shooters acting alone? Were they part of a plot? Did they have accomplices? How did they tie into Shira Levin and Theresa Leclair’s killing? Were they terrorists?
The cops quickly identified the gunmen. Amin Qureshi and Nidal Aswad. They were two of the men the police had interviewed after Shira Levin’s execution. Bwana and Roger, who’d arrived soon after the shootings, had confirmed their identity. They had sat in on that interview.
The two men were known sympathizers of Islamic terrorists and had attempted several times to join the various factions in Syria and Iraq. Cops had been watching them for a long time, and they had been two of the first to be questioned after Shira Levin’s killing.
Some onlookers reported that the men had been shouting while firing. Harassment, one spectator heard. He didn’t hear any more since he was busy diving to the sidewalk, trying to seek cover. Another bystander, a tourist, confirmed she heard a similar word.
There was no cell phone footage this time. Rounds had a way of being indiscriminate. Everyone had been too busy seeking shelter.
* * *
‘I can’t see how these two are connected,’ Bwana mused as he drove through the nearly deserted streets around OnePP. It was evening. They couldn’t accomplish anything more at the NYPD headquarters, and were returning to their Columbus Avenue office. By his side was Roger, and behind him were the twins. Zeb was driving the other vehicle, with Broker, Holly and Mulan.
‘The other kills were clean,’ Roger agreed, stifling a yawn. ‘This one was just lone shooters. Maybe they were triggered by our interrogating them.’
‘You both okay?’ He turned to the rear to check out the sisters and got a flipped finger from Beth. ‘I guess you are. Did you pump any rounds?’
‘More than you did.’ Meghan glared at him ba
lefully. ‘You and Bwana were probably dunking shots in the hoop while we were saving the city.’
‘Us men of action need our rest,’ Bwana replied loftily.
‘I wonder how those ladies are faring with Zeb?’ Bwana chuckled.
* * *
They weren’t having much success. They had numerous questions, but Zeb answered none of them. Broker, normally voluble, took his cue from his friend and fobbed off all those that came his way.
Both men were alert. Checking out their mirrors. Keeping an eye on Bwana’s ride behind them. They didn’t spot any surveillance.
I didn’t expect to find any. Zeb turned into their basement parking lot and waited for Bwana to draw up before alighting. They unconsciously formed a security cordon around the visitors as they led them to the elevator.
The building had several apartments, two of which were Beth and Meghan’s. The others were crashed in whenever needed. Zeb had his own residence in Jackson Heights, but he often stayed at the office during missions.
Beth showed Holly and Mulan their accommodations and went back to their office. Zeb was alone, at a window in the darkness.
He felt her presence and waved a hand without turning around.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said.
Zeb ran through a list of people in his mind. Those who wished him harm. They wouldn’t use Qureshi and Aswad. They wouldn’t go for a random shooting. Nope, those guys were on their own. I’m sure the NYPD will confirm that.
He turned his attention to Shira Levin’s and Theresa Leclair’s killings. Those were sophisticated. They required planning. Eyes-on, to know their routines. The why stumped him.
He turned around motives, ruling out jealous boyfriends and jilted lovers. Maybe the heads of all secret services are being targeted. Those who are allies of the US. Why their daughters? They are softer targets for sure, but why them?