Trigger Break

by Ty Patterson

  Zeb fiddled around with its controls for a moment and then deleted his photographs and handed it back.

  There was no trace of the darkness or the beast when he approached their lobby. Bitterness remained. Helplessness was there. Not at Levin, but directed at himself, for not doing more, for not…

  He stopped, breathed deeply and closed his eyes. The white boxes opened. The emotions went inside them and they slammed shut. The boxes disappeared and all that remained was white. White walls in his mind. Empty.

  None of his friends looked in his direction when he entered the office. They were all there even though it was night. Levin looked uncertain, regretful. Holly looked stricken, her lips quivering. Probably berating herself for telling Levin about Murphy. Mulan was by her side, swallowing nervously. Wondering what she and Holly have gotten into. Things moving too fast for them. Not fully taken in Shira and Theresa’s deaths. Not able to grieve either.

  He went to a vacant apartment before anyone could speak, took his time showering. Blasts of hot water followed by cold. He dried himself, put on a spare set of clothing and returned to the office.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Levin rose and addressed him in Hebrew. ‘My anger. It has been my weakness. I didn’t mean it, Zeb.’ His hands were clenching and unclenching, his eyes moist, his voice breaking.

  I’ve never seen him like this. Not even after Shira’s death.

  Zeb went and hugged him. ‘We’ve both lost people. Nothing needs to be said.’

  ‘So you’re okay if I set my kidon free?’ Levin chuckled wryly.

  Zeb shook his head ruefully and caught the twins’ eyes.

  ‘Where’ve we gotten?’

  ‘We? Who’s we?’ Beth scoffed. ‘Meghan and I do all the hard work while you guys go gallivanting. We, he says!’

  And with that, normalcy was restored.

  There were several threads that the twins and Broker were running down. Who had hired the Vietnamese killer brothers? The corporate connections behind the killings. While Enamoto and Tseng had denied any involvement, which Zeb believed, it couldn’t be a coincidence that both women were killed while selling their companies.

  There was the intelligence forces angle. Was there an elaborate plot to weaken the secret services of the Western world? Intelligence agencies could be attacked in various ways. Their agents could be exposed. Their systems could be hacked. Or the children of their heads could be killed.

  There could be something in the women’s lives. That was another thread, and the last one was the TKWC. Why were their members being targeted?

  The twins didn’t have much, which didn’t surprise Zeb. Whoever was behind the killings was a sophisticated operator.

  ‘One or more of those could be false trails,’ Bear mused from his couch. He propped himself on an elbow as a thought struck him. ‘Is there a pattern?’

  ‘What pattern?’ Meghan queried.

  ‘The first killing was by sword. The second was a movie set. Anything to link the two?’

  She bit her lip, considering his words. ‘Not a bad idea, Bear. I’ll get Werner to run some algos. Looks like those few brain cells you have are still alive,’ she said cheekily.

  Bear gave her a mock glower and settled back. It wasn’t surprising that he and the rest of Zeb’s people came up with flashes of inspiration. Bwana and he were members of Mensa. Roger read philosophy in his free time, while Chloe could debate science with a Nobel laureate. Broker was considered to be one of the best intelligence analysts in the world. The twins were whip-smart.

  They aren’t mere blunt hammers. Zeb stifled a smile and cocked his head at Levin. ‘What about you? I know you’re investigating too.’

  ‘Of course I’m investigating,’ Levin huffed and then grimaced. ‘We’re at the same place as you folks. Nothing stands out. I thought Murphy would be—’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Zeb cut him off. ‘Let’s check with Mandel.’

  Mandel Leclair took the call even though it was late night in Paris. He knew Zeb very well and always picked up the American operative called. He spoke crisply, but the flowery words that he normally used were absent. Levin and he exchanged condolences, their voices sounding heavy and momentarily defeated.

  ‘The police arrested the equipment rental agency’s officers, But, Zeb, that’s a meaningless gesture. That agency doesn’t have a clue. They were hired by a Hollywood production house that doesn’t exist.’

  ‘No cameras, Mandel? No images?’ Zeb prompted.

  ‘No. Nothing. Those drivers who were hassling her bodyguards, they were fake too. They have disappeared.’

  ‘Was she dating anyone?’

  ‘Yeah. A British banker. He is clean. She didn’t tell anything to me or my wife. No stalkers. No harassment. Her emails are clean. Her phone records are bland.’

  ‘Their work emails and phone calls too,’ Meghan whispered. ‘Both of them. Nothing in there.’

  Another call to Chang, who said their progress was slower than the twins’. That too wasn’t surprising. The NYPD had to follow rules and procedures. The Agency didn’t.

  ‘Those shooters, Qureshi and Aswad, they were lone men. There are messages on their phone. To each other. They felt threatened by the interrogation. They were determined to go down in a blaze of fire. They got their wish.’

  ‘No cameras around Van Cortlandt Park. None that showed those killers enter.’

  We know that, Meghan mouthed at the phone. Her sister glared at her to shush her.

  They heard papers rustling, muted talk. Pizaka, probably.

  ‘Enamoto was very eager to speak to us. Usually these business executives lawyer up and take their time. He called us. Met us alone. He was also sporting several bruises,’ Chang narrated suspiciously.

  Meghan hung up on him and regarded Zeb thoughtfully when Zeb didn’t rise from the phone. She recognized the expression in his eyes and knew there was something on his mind.

  ‘Call Alex,’ Zeb told her.

  ‘Zeb?’

  ‘Alex, where’s Susan?’ No pleasantries exchanged.

  ‘Right now, she’s fast asleep in her apartment in Marylebone.’ It was past midnight in London, but he sounded alert. He was aware he, his agency, or his daughter could be under attack. ‘I have good people around her. They brief me hourly.’

  ‘She needs a driver.’

  Sir Alex Thompson’s frown was apparent in his voice. ‘She has one. One of my best people. There’s a security cordon of cops around her office and her apartment building. We don’t need any more protection people.’

  ‘Alex,’ Zeb repeated without inflection. ‘She needs a new driver.’

  Chapter 17

  ‘They are the same, aren’t they?’ Junior questioned his brother as the two men watched the recording from the cameras outside Banh’s house.

  Senior bent over the keypad and froze the video. A black man and a blond guy. Walking with easy confidence. He went to another folder and pulled up the previous recording, when Banh had had his visitors.

  ‘Yes.’

  He shut down the video player, leaned his butt against the computer desk and crossed his arms. ‘It means they have identified the brothers. There’s no other reason those two would return.’

  ‘Carter didn’t return. Carter would have come.’ Junior jutted his lips out stubbornly. They knew the brown-haired man who had first interrogated Banh was one Zeb Carter.

  The business empire had teams of computer specialists, many of them hackers. The hackers worked in the legal as well as the criminal side of the fiefdom. It hadn’t taken them long to match the brown-haired man’s image to a security firm in New York.

  Zeb Carter. Ex-Army. The website gave some details of his Army career. Most of it was bland. Carter now advised corporations on perimeter and executive protection. The site didn’t reveal who else he worked with. No list or pictures of who his associates were.

  ‘We have to assume these two are with Carter. We still haven’t found how that man is involved,’ S
enior reasoned.

  ‘We’ll know in a day or two. My people are checking with their contacts in the NYPD. He could be with the police. We should eliminate Carter. Quickly.’

  Junior’s phone chimed before Senior could object. He listened for a moment and nodded. ‘Papa wants to see us.’ He started walking out without waiting for his brother. Whirled, when Senior hadn’t caught up, and found him adjusting his tie.

  Junior didn’t need to adjust anything. He wasn’t wearing a tie and looked the image of a billionaire playboy. ‘Enough preening,’ he smirked. ‘You look like the head of a billion-dollar empire.’

  Not if I can help it, he corrected himself when Senior joined him.

  The patriarch was in his office when his offspring entered after a deferential knock. They sat when he bade them to, after bowing deferentially.

  ‘Tell me about Paris,’ he commanded them.

  Junior began. The idea and the setting had been his. He had then searched for the right location to execute the plan. They knew Theresa Leclair’s routine. They had eyes on her. The Arc de Triomphe had been the most obvious venue. It was crowded, it was where several movies had been shot. The location was ideal.

  ‘You went along with it?’ The patriarch played with an ornate silver pen, his eyes on Senior.

  ‘Not initially, Papa. I didn’t think there was a need for a show. We could have killed her more discreetly. She would still be dead. There would be less risk.’

  ‘What changed your mind?

  ‘Junior reminded me you wanted to send a message.’

  ‘But not take unnecessary risks.’ The patriarch directed his glare at both sons.

  ‘There’s no risk, Papa.’ Junior was the picture of confidence as he lounged in his chair. ‘The plan was foolproof. We used a mock production house in Los Angeles to rent the equipment. The extras were supplied by an agency who thought we were working on a French action movie.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘In the Caribbean. It was a condition that they had to disappear. There were confidentiality clauses.’

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Yes, Papa. They don’t know anything.’

  ‘The killers are South African, Papa,’ Senior interjected. This wasn’t going to be a Junior show. Not if he could help it. ‘They are back in their home country. We used cutouts. Middle men who we trust. They don’t know about us.’

  ‘Why didn’t you kill them?’

  ‘There was no need. Too many bodies are risky. Even these tasks…’ He trailed off. He saw the glimmer in the patriarch’s eyes and knew his message had been received. There were different ways to test the brothers. Face and honor were important, but only if achieving those were without risk.

  ‘You know why,’ the patriarch thundered. ‘This is not up for discussion. What about the Vietnamese assassins?’

  ‘They are dead, Papa,’ Junior took over smoothly. ‘We used our assassin. He made sure the brothers wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘Why did you kill them and not the South Africans?’

  ‘Senior has a point,’ Junior acknowledged. ‘We should eliminate risk where possible. There is history between us and the Vietnamese. That couldn’t be allowed to emerge.’

  ‘You did the planning’—the patriarch looked at Junior and then at Senior—‘and you did the organizing?’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ they chorused.

  ‘Good. You are keeping track of the police?’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  ‘What about London?’

  ‘You’ll know when it happens, Papa.’ Junior smiled confidently.

  Junior hung back when the patriarch had dismissed them and requested a separate meeting with his father. Alone, he told his father’s EA.

  ‘Yes?’ The patriarch looked over Junior’s shoulder when he approached his desk. No Senior.

  ‘It’s just me, Papa. I wanted to talk to you in confidence.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I am worried about Senior, Papa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s too scared, Papa. He’s too worried about risks. He doesn’t look at the big picture. He is a detail man. Such men can’t rise high.’

  Junior knew he was taking an enormous gamble by approaching his father in this manner. But he had to. He didn’t believe in playing fair. If he could sway his father in his direction, his daring would have paid off.

  ‘Being careful is good.’

  ‘Yes, Papa. But one can dream big as well as be careful. Both are possible.’

  The patriarch leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his face expressionless. ‘If you took over, where would you lead our business?’

  ‘I would take it to the heights you have dreamed of,’ Junior said boldly. ‘I would enter politics and seek to be the most powerful person in the country. I am sure I could do it. You know the following I have.’

  Junior was regularly profiled in business magazines as well as in the gossip columns. He managed his public persona carefully, moving swiftly to kill any stories linked to their criminal enterprise.

  The patriarch gave no indication of his thoughts. He didn’t reveal whether Junior had convinced him or not. He dismissed Junior and swiveled his chair to face the window when his son had exited.

  * * *

  He could do it, the father thought, a thrill running through him. Politics. It had been his dream. But he was too closely linked with crime. Junior, however. He was clean. To the outside world.

  What of Senior, though? He is a good organizer.

  The smile disappeared from his face. Senior wouldn’t stand by silently while Junior took the fiefdom in a particular direction. The sunlight pierced through clouds, entered his office and lit on a ceremonial sword in a glass case.

  He had seen Junior use a sword. There were hidden depths to his younger son that only he could see, only he was perceptive enough to sense. Junior had cut that traitor to pieces. With his sword.

  Junior will sort out Senior. He will have to, if he wants to win. Organizers aren’t hard to find. Visionaries are rare, and Junior is a visionary.

  Still, I have to give them a fair chance. It is the honorable thing to do.

  * * *

  I will win. Junior hurried through the hallways to his office and pulled out his cell. He would take care of Carter. He was sure the black and the blond men were connected to Carter. Once Carter was disposed of, he could focus on those two men. Senior didn’t need to know of this.

  And when the time comes, I will deal with Senior. Appropriately.

  Chapter 18

  ‘Remind me again—why are we crossing the Atlantic?’ Bwana peered at Zeb through one eye as he lay outstretched in the Gulfstream.

  Zeb’s original plan had been to fly alone, after the call with Alex the previous night. However, Bwana and Roger had insisted on coming along. ‘We’ll just take commercial and shadow you,’ Roger had said. He had been vehement, backed up by his friend. ‘You don’t get to see the sights alone, buddy. We’re tagging along too.’

  Zeb didn’t mind the company. While Alex had good people around his daughter, Bwana and Roger were a league apart. He’d caved in without much protest, and as the day dawned, the three of them had boarded their aircraft at JFK.

  ‘Susan Thompson could be in danger,’ Zeb replied softly, not wishing to disturb Roger, who was asleep, his hat over his face.

  ‘I know that, dang it,’ Bwana exclaimed. ‘But why us? Surely Alex and the cops in London can secure her better than us.

  ‘You know something that we don’t,’ Bwana accused Zeb when he got no answer.

  ‘Nope. But so far, we’ve been behind the curve. I want to be there, if they attack…’

  ‘And grab them and see where that leads us,’ Bwana finished for him.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There’s something else. Zeb opened the window shaded and looked at the expanse of blue far below. Tiny dots of white marked the sea. Waves. Freighters that carried automobiles, grain,
ore, and luxuries from one port of the world to another were larger specks. Bear said something. About a pattern.

  Something in his subconscious had stirred at that word. But it was half-formed, and all his mental nudging didn’t bring it forward. It will come.

  He too stretched out and joined his friends in sleep. London would be hectic. If his assessment was right, they wouldn’t be having much rest.

  A man sporting a golfing cap greeted them at Heathrow and took them to their ride, a grey Range Rover. He looked Bwana up and down and shrugged. ‘I would’ve brought a truck if I knew he was coming.’ British humor.

  ‘A package for you in the boot.’ He opened the rear door and pointed at a large gym bag. ‘Try to bring back the vehicle in one piece. The last one had to be towed away.’

  ‘Are you always this miserable, Eddie?’ Bwana grumped as they stowed their bags and climbed inside.

  ‘Nope. You haven’t seen me when I’m down.’ Eddie, their London garage owner, gave them a limp wave and departed with a last shot. ‘Try to stay alive.’

  London. Grey and overcast with a hint of rain. Small roads and vehicles that drove on the wrong side. People who were excessively polite and didn’t speak much. Whose sense of humor was understated and subtle.

  The city had few of the soaring skyrises of New York. It didn’t have the electric feel of its American counterpart. What it had was history. Thousands of years of it that reflected in the Georgian buildings of Central London. In white-columned museums and public buildings. On blue plaques in front of residences that announced a literary or historical heavyweight had once lived there.

  Zeb felt at home in London. He loved the British reserve and the tongue-in-cheek humor. Sure, the narrow streets and the small cars took some getting used to, but that only added to its charm. Strip away the history and the façade, it’s as modern and as fast as New York.

  He drove to a modern glass-fronted building that overlooked the Thames. The lobby was discreet and there was no signboard listing its occupants. A polite suited man stopped them and asked for their credentials.