by Ty Patterson
Zeb shrugged. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are. These guys, whoever they are, are very smart and well connected. They found me pretty quickly, although I made it easy for them by using my name.’
Hall nodded in agreement. ‘Agree on the smart bit, but well connected? Why do you say that?’
Zeb unfolded a finger. ‘Steve Morrow. Only someone who knew about him would use that name.’ Another finger went up. ‘The woman. She’s been dead for close to two weeks now. Yet no one has her missing anywhere. I think her records were erased.’
Hall sighed. ‘Gotcha. You plan to stay long?’
‘Dunno.’ Zeb smiled. ‘Relax; I’ll shoot only if I am shot at.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. You shoot to kill and there’s enough killing in this city without you adding to the body count.’ Hall grumbled as he showed Zeb out.
Now what?
Zeb stopped to put on his shades and used the moment to survey the street. Nothing stood out. No men ducked out of sight suddenly.
Next steps? I don’t have any. Till I know who I am up against, I’m playing a waiting game.
He drove for a couple of hours randomly, dipping in and out of streets, cutting through red lights, through Hollywood to Los Feliz and he started to circle back when he reached the west side neighborhoods.
No tails. No tracker on my SUV.
His SUV was an anonymous black and before heading to meet Hall, he had changed its plates. The plates were registered to a dentist in Griffith Park. The address was genuine, the practice’s phone number was manned by a calling service Broker had put in place.
He checked into another motel, this time using another cover and chose a room which overlooked the parking lot. He freshened up and hit the street and it was when he was idly reading a poster on a store-front, that the idea struck him.
He called Hall and learned that the LAPD had no information on the dead woman. He rang Knowle and Rogers and found that she was still Jane Doe. He ran his idea past them, Knowle was enthusiastic, but Rogers demurred. He had to run it up the tree.
Zeb hung up, thought for a moment, and dialed another number. He watched an ice cream vendor skateboard past - only in L.A. - and focused on his phone when a cool voice answered.
Clare heard him silently and when he had finished, she said simply,’ Go for it. I’ll sort out any heat if it arises.’
She stopped him before he hung up. ‘You remember Prince Abdul, the Saudi royal whose daughter you rescued?’
‘Yeah, that was a long time back. What about him?’
‘His brother died recently. He was wondering if anyone from us would be visiting to pay our respects.’
Zeb looked at the phone in bemusement for a moment and brought it back to his ear.
‘Zeb? Are you there?’
‘Yeah. I was wondering if I heard you right.’
She laughed, ‘Yes, I gathered that. He called me and said your presence would be appreciated.’
‘He doesn’t know me. All he knows is that a black ops team rescued his daughter.’
‘He doesn’t, but he wants the lead agent.’
He kicked himself mentally when she fell silent.
Of course, there’s a political element. They are our key ally. She can’t and won’t ask me to go, that isn’t how we work.
‘I’ll go on Friday. Just me. No need to take the others along.’
‘That’s fine; I’ll let Prince Abdul know.’
Friday is five days away. Time enough for what I plan to do.
Two days later, Zeb’s advertisement ran on the front of two Wyoming newspapers and on the inside page of the Los Angeles Times. It displayed an edited picture of the dead woman with a call to help identify her. A helpline number was listed.
By mid-afternoon, the woman’s identity, Elena Petrova of Cheyenne, was established.
By evening, a few people were unhappy on a ranch near Evanston, Wyoming.
Chapter 9
The ranch was three thousand acres and was stocked with cattle as well as a few head of horses and sheep. It nestled at the foot of the Uinta mountain range and its land was rich in water and feed; its livestock were fat and healthy.
Jason Studelander, who passed for Steve Morrow in Pinedale, wasn’t feeling happy. He had to report to his boss, Luke Wasserman, and it wasn’t going to be a jovial meeting.
The hoods he had hired in Los Angeles had failed. The 38th Street gang bosses said Carter had disappeared. They had feet on the street looking out for the man, but there was no knowing where Carter had gone.
The men in Pinedale had failed too. Studelander had underestimated Carter. However, when Wasserman had spoken to Carter in the parking lot and he had subsequently left town, they all had figured it was the end of the matter.
Then the man had returned to town and had followed Morrow’s trail to Los Angeles. The FBI’s intervention hadn’t deterred him and at that point, Wasserman had ordered Studelander to wipe Carter out.
Eliminating men or women came easy to Wasserman and Studelander. Both had military backgrounds and had become mercenaries when the private military contractor business opened up. Wasserman had initially served in Africa; assignments that had taken him to Somalia, Nigeria, Sudan and many other hotspots where he had built a reputation for coldly and ruthlessly getting the job done. From Africa, he graduated to Europe, where he worked in Serbia and several Balkan countries. He then moved to the United States, which became his base.
He worked with a tight knit team of fellow mercenaries, of whom Studelander was one. All of them were known by different names in those days. Some of them, like Wasserman, even had different faces. Studelander’s career path mimicked Wasserman’s but for the viciousness. Studelander was comfortable with being a killer, but Wasserman was different. Wasserman was a psychopath.
Wasserman’s reputation grew in certain circles and reached a certain man in Washington D.C. who was good at putting men in touch with one another. That man called another man, who knew yet another person.
Their principal’s agent reached out to Wasserman, interviewed him and hired him. Wasserman became the principal’s chief trouble shooter, smoothing out the obstacles in his paymaster’s path.
Smoothing sometimes involved bribing, occasionally raping and most usually killing brutally. The principal’s enormous reach ensured that all such obstacles just disappeared off the face of the planet and were never heard of again.
Until this man, Zeb Carter, stumbled across Elena Petrova’s grave.
Studelander drew a deep breath, wiped his shoes on a mat outside the ranch’s entrance and headed inside. The entrance hallway was deep and wide, it opened into an enormous living room that had a log fire crackling in it at all times of the year. Rugs and throws were scattered on the polished wooden floor and couches were strewn across the room. The walls were adorned with hunting trophies and the heads of animals. There were photographs of celebrities visiting the ranch, including a couple of presidents.
Wasserman stood alone at a long table that shone in the dim light. He had a sheaf of papers in his hand which he thrust at Studelander silently.
Studelander read them swiftly. They had Carter’s bio – his Army history, his days as a military contractor, his security firm. His family, friends, associates, and clients were all listed. His shoe size and undergarment preferences were listed. His eating habits, his martial arts experience, his last recorded shooting scores – they were all there. Wasserman had access to the country’s best intelligence networks. What’s more, he could influence them.
‘This isn’t a concerned citizen. He’s capable and dangerous.’ Wasserman’s voice was smooth and liquid and was a stark contrast to his cold green eyes set in a hatchet face. ‘That idea of going to the press with Petrova’s photograph – genius.’
There was no admiration in his tone, just an acceptance of ability. The eyes blazed with fire when they rested on Studelander. ‘If you had picked better shooters and planned the kill b
etter, it wouldn’t have come to this.’
Studelander’s stomach clenched in the sudden silence. Wasserman didn’t like mistakes, let alone two of them. He had seen Wasserman gut a man on that very wooden floor. A log crackled in the silence, but Wasserman didn’t blink, his eyes remained unmoving on Studelander.
After long minutes, he reached out and took the papers from Studelander’s nerveless fingers and fed them in the fire. He turned over the logs with a poker and after brushing his hands, he turned back to his lieutenant.
‘Where’s he now?’
‘We have lost him. He still has his room in the motel, but he’s not staying there. We are calling every motel in a five-mile radius. I have men looking out for his vehicle too.’
‘The LAPD has a security camera database and a facial recognition program. We have access to the LAPD, talk to our man and see if the database has Carter on it.’ Wasserman gave a name to Studelander and pinned him with his green eyes again.
‘Find him. Finish him this time. Make it clean.’
Or what happens to you will be dirty. He didn’t have to voice the words. They hung heavy in the air. He turned his back on Studelander and heard the man stumble from the room.
Things had been moving so smoothly - the assassin had completed the Saudi royal job and would shortly get his next target – and then this Carter had to turn up. Carter had found the body. Then he had made the woman. He could….
Wasserman erased the thought from his mind. Carter would be found and eliminated and the principal’s plan would progress. The principal wasn’t aware of Carter’s existence, very soon, there wouldn’t be a need.
Zeb exchanged furious texts with the twins, Broker and the rest of his crew.
I’m going alone. This isn’t a mission. I’m just going to pay condolences to Prince Abdul.
Everything turns into a mission sooner or later with you, Broker responded. You need to be covered.
That royal palace is one of the safest residences in the world. It isn’t a war zone.
Doesn’t matter. We’re coming with you, Beth chimed in. You went to Wyoming for a holiday and look what happened.
YOU ARE NOT.
They got the message finally and the texts dried up. He made another call to a private airfield in New York and got their Lear readied to fly to L.A. and thence to Riyadh.
The jet had been funded from the royal’s rewards, and their investments now more than covered its running costs. It had two pilots who were both ex U.S. Air force, both had seen combat, and knew their way around weapons. Both were part of their trusted crew.
Zeb made a few more calls and went to meet another contact, the editor of the L.A Times.
‘Elena was one heck of a journalist. I was shell-shocked to see her picture in my paper and to read that she’s dead. She was an amazing woman.’ Clint Parrish rocked in his chair in his glass walled cabin that overlooked a vast floor filled with desktops and people scurrying about as they put together the next day’s paper.
Parrish’s forehead shone in the harsh light, a light sheen of sweat on it reflecting the light. Zeb could see himself in the man’s thick glasses.
‘I thought she worked on the East coast?’ Zeb queried him.
‘She did, but she gave up the daily grind, moved to Wyoming and became an independent journalist. She wrote for us frequently. At least two of her pieces resulted in several Los Angeles City Council members being investigated and then arrested for corruption. Great woman.’ He shook his head and nearly fell off his chair.
‘How did she pick her stories? Did she specialize in anything?’
‘Politics. Her stories were all political, either local or national. She brought down four senators for sleaze and corruption; she also interviewed the last three presidents. She was well known in D.C. and New York, a journalistic celebrity.’
‘You know what she was working on?’
Parrish gesticulated furiously through the glass partition at a co-worker and when he had cowed the girl, turned his attention back to Zeb. ‘Nope. That wasn’t the way she worked. Once she had a story ready, she would call, outline it, and ask if we were interested. We always were, but she ran it like an auction. Whichever national newspaper paid her the most, got the story.’
‘That was okay with you?’
‘Sure.’ He snorted. ‘Of course we would love to run all her stories, since they were always punchy, but she had to make a living and we don’t have unlimited funds.’
‘You know which paper ran her last story?’
He frowned. ‘Could be us. It was the Domingo Perez one I think.’ He read Zeb’s blank glance. ‘L.A Councilman who ran a porn ring.’ He cackled delightedly. ‘That was one heck of a story. It ran for a few months and got us on top of ratings.’
He flung open his door and yelled at a flunky. ‘Pete, get off your ass and get me Petrova’s file.’
‘You gotta keep them on their toes. These days all they do is go on that Facebook and Twitter shit. Petrova, now she was a real journalist.’ He mumbled and tapped impatiently on his desk as they waited for Pete to turn up.
Pete rushed in, threw the file on Parrish’s desk and disappeared without a word. The editor shook his head, ‘no respect either,’ thumbed through it and passed it onto Zeb.
Elena Petrova’s bio listed her date of birth, hometown, address, degrees, and the various papers she had worked at and the awards she had won. There were clippings of her articles and details of payments made to her.
No record of parents or family, no place of birth. Not enough meat.
He posed the query to the editor and got a scornful reply in return. ‘You think we’re a dating agency, bud?’
He threw a last question at Parrish. ‘She had enemies?’
Another snort. If it had more power, he would have had lift off. ‘Which journalist doesn’t? You can tell how good a reporter is by the enemies he or she makes. Petrova was one of the best. Betcha there are many people who are secretly pleased she’s dead.’
‘I would start with Perez,’ he yelled at Zeb’s departing back. ‘He’s said to have drug cartel connections.’
Zeb fired off another text to Beth and Meghan. Need everything on Elena Petrova.
His phone buzzed in reply. Your wish is our command, Master.
Clowns, all of them. I wouldn’t have anyone else with me, though.
He thought of Perez and Petrova as he stood in line at a burger stall. Perez was sent to prison a year back on the basis of Petrova’s story and her evidence. Would he have organized the kill from inside?
Hall picked up his call on the second ring. ‘Found another body? Or have you killed someone?’
Zeb laughed. ‘Give me time. I’ve just started.’ He turned serious. ‘Perez. Could he have arranged her death?’
‘Funny you should ask. LAPD is now officially liaising with the Rangers and we are looking into this. If you asked my opinion, I would say there’s no connection. I met Perez a few times and while he is a sleazy character, he didn’t strike me as capable of this. But I’ve been wrong before.’
He carried on when Zeb didn’t respond, ‘Bro, let my men do their job. I’ll let you know what they find.’
Hall’s way of asking me to back off from a LAPD investigation. No problem. Next stop, Cheyenne. Zeb thought when he had hung up. I’ll check her home out.
After I get back from Riyadh.
He spent a couple of hours reading the information the twins had started sending through and it was evening by the time he reached his motel.
It was an unpretentious one that catered to traveling salespeople, visitors on a budget and those like Zeb who didn’t want a trail. He walked past the lobby, nodded at the woman behind the desk and as the elevator doors closed in front of him saw her staring at him, wide eyed, open mouthed.
Her look stayed with him and he punched another number on the panel, two floors above his. The hallway was empty when he exited the elevator. The stairs were clear when he drifted do
wn and reached his floor.
He opened the entrance cautiously, saw a couple make their way to the elevator bank, nodded politely at them and walked past his room. He turned back when they had disappeared and approached his door.
No sounds emerged from within.
The crack at the bottom showed no movement.
Why that look on her face? I’ve seen her a few times, she’s always smiling.
He tried to remember if he had seen anything in the parking lot. Nothing had jumped out.
Maybe a welcoming party inside? I can’t wait them out nor can I enter the room till I’m sure it’s safe.
He eyed the hallway up and down and then an idea struck him. He went to the lower floor, waited for a gaggle of visitors to enter the elevator and when it had reached the lobby, he triggered the fire alarm.
There was no initial reaction and then doors burst and heads popped out.
‘Fire,’ he yelled. ‘The hotel’s on fire. Get out.’
Heads disappeared back inside hastily, murmurs became shouts and pretty soon people began streaming out, cursing and swearing. Zeb joined them, pushed his way ahead of the now surging throng and when they reached the lobby, he made his way to his SUV.
The hotel’s staff swung into action and directed people to gather in the parking lot where they stood huddled and shivering. Other staff went to each floor to check all the rooms were empty. Sirens could be heard in the distance, growing louder with each passing second.
Zeb clambered into the rear of his vehicle, extracted a tool kit from a concealed compartment and unfolded a tubular device. It worked like a periscope and gave a telescopic view around bends and angles.
Residents will be scared or excited or nervous. The welcoming party will be wary and will try to blend in. They will also be the ones to get away in their rides. All others will stay put in the lot.
