by Ty Patterson
The driver will then emerge, purely as back up. Two men will be enough.
Most times.
The man on his right quickened his pace, disappeared behind the rear pillar of the cab.
Zeb pictured it in his mind.
Left hand reaching for a gun inside his jacket.
Right hand reaching for the door.
Head bending.
One last glance at the other hood to check that he was in position.
Fingers spread out to grip the handle.
Zeb lashed out with his feet, slid out of the cab like lightning.
The door flung open as if rocket propelled, caught the hood on his chin and knees.
He groaned, crumpled, and fell.
His gun clattered, bounced once.
Zeb kicked it away, followed it up with a kick to the gangbanger’s groin.
Out of action.
Movement.
The other hood stopped his forward motion, changed direction to come behind Zeb.
The beast flared from somnolence to action in a nanosecond, filled Zeb, powered his left arm, vaulted him over the roof of the cab, his body low, gliding through a thin layer of air.
His right arm came up, the Glock at the end of it.
His vision narrowed. The cab disappeared. The gas station blurred.
Only the hood remained.
The look on his face changed from startled to desperation to panic. His gun arm turned to take in Zeb.
A flower blossomed on his right shoulder, darkened.
Another flower, this time on his left.
He fell back, the gun clattering on the ground.
Zeb landed, kicked the gun away, crushed the hood’s wrists, and took cover behind the cab.
His Glock moved in straight lines, narrow arcs, no wasted movement.
It covered the gas station’s door, through which the cab driver burst wildly, his mouth wide, shouting incoherently.
The shotgun in his hands turned. Its barrel swung slowly, seeking for Zeb.
The Glock lowered an inch. Found his shoulder.
Bottom of breathing cycle.
A depress -.
‘POLICE. DROP YOUR GUNS.’
Zeb’s finger relaxed.
‘DROP YOUR GUNS. NOW!’
His shoulders relaxed, his eyes didn’t stop watching the driver.
The driver’s eyes moved behind Zeb.
‘DROP THEM NOW.’
His shotgun fell.
Zeb dropped his Glock, stepped a foot away from the cab, his eyes still watchful, still on the doors to the gas station.
The first cop came in his sight, then another, the two of them flanking him, their guns trained on him.
‘RAISE YOUR HANDS. STEP BACK.’
Zeb raised his hands, stepped back only when the cab driver was surrounded and a bunch of cops had rushed inside the gas station.
Ajdan was in the kitchen, cooking a simple meal for the three of them. Rice, boiled eggs, lentils, three bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale.
A shout came from the living room.
He raised his head.
The shout came again. He wiped his hands on a towel and went outside.
Masis pointed silently at the TV and raised its volume.
The presenter’s voice was breathless with excitement. ‘Reports are coming in of Chicago P.D. stopping a gunfight at a gas station just a few minutes back. Two men are said to have been injured. Our reporter, Harry Deitch, is onsite and has more for us. What can you tell us, Harry?’
The camera panned to take in the gas station which was now filled with cruisers and TV vans. Ajdan’s eyes narrowed when he saw the signage on the gas station.
‘That’s Churchey’s isn’t it?’
Shiraz bobbed his head in acknowledgement.
Ajdan punched numbers on a secure phone, his eyes never leaving the TV.
‘Those are your men?’ He asked when a voice came on.
A gangbanger, who was known to the cops as Louie Rivera, had been third in command when Churchey had been around.
He had taken over the gang by killing two rivals to the leadership. It didn’t make any difference to the hoods on the street. They still ran women, pushed narcotics, and collected the money.
Ajdan held the phone away when the voice rose and ranted for a minute.
‘Where are they now?’
He ended the call when Louie answered, tossed the phone on a couch.
‘It’s him.’
They watched the TV for several moments and just as Masis was turning it off, the scene shifted to the Chicago P.D. headquarters.
Another reporter appeared on the screen, gave more updates, recited the names of those arrested.
Masis’s fingers stilled on the remote when the last name came up.
Zeb Carter.
Zeb was released six hours later. He was questioned several times by several cops, had stuck to his story of a security consultant visiting the city, who had been held up by the thugs.
The cops tried to break him down, tried to make him veer from his story. He didn’t.
They said the hoods had spilled everything; that he had been harassing their gang, that he was responsible for Churchey’s death.
Zeb gave them the look. They would believe the words of gangbangers over that of a reputable security consultant?
He gave them references. One of those names gave the cops pause.
It was that of the NYPD’s Commissioner. Zeb knew that the Chicago P.D.’s Superintendent was good friends with the Commissioner.
The cops disappeared and when they appeared hours later, he was free to go. All charges against him were dropped.
Zeb stared at them incredulously. ‘All charges dropped?’
‘Which part of that didn’t you get?’ A tired cop answered.
Zeb left before they changed their mind.
He stepped outside and was surrounded by cameras, reporters clamoring for a sound bite to fill the evening news.
He thought for a second, addressed the closest reporter. ‘I am Zeb Carter.’
Masis watched him from a distance.
Ajdan had assigned him to follow Carter, the moment his name was revealed on screen. Now the name uttered by Herb Parker matched the face that had followed them.
The next step was to follow him, grab him, and question him.
Unbeknownst to them, it was the same question Sarah Burke had posed at Zeb.
Ajdan and Shiraz were on a call with their hacker the moment Masis left.
The hacker now had a name, with details, to go after.
Masis waited patiently, the bill of a ball cap covering his face, his jacket turned up, as the man named Zeb Carter recited his story to the press.
He answered questions, laughed readily, smiled disarmingly.
Masis held his phone up, zoomed the camera in and saw that the smile never reached Carter’s eyes.
They were cool, seeking, looking beyond the banks of the cameras.
Searching for him!
Chapter 11
Zeb was taking his time with the bank of reporters thronging around him. Normal behavior was to avoid the press, avoid interviews, escape the glare of cameras, and keep a low profile.
During the six-hour incarceration he had come to a decision. The assassins would want to know what he knew. He would give them all the opportunity to find out.
The late Churchey’s men wanted petty revenge. He wouldn’t disappoint them; after all he wanted to know if vengeance was their only motive.
He would be bait.
He spent an hour answering all questions, working the media, ensuring that his name would be flashed in the hourly news.
Seven hours since I was arrested. Enough time for my hunters to deploy men.
His inner radar was quiet. He expected it to be. The assassins were good. The gangbangers wouldn’t come anywhere near the police headquarters.
He meandered aimlessly once the news pack had moved off, stopping to eat at
a food truck, using the polished steel front of the truck to watch his back.
No one ducked out of sight suddenly. No passersby turned around.
He walked aimlessly down East Thirty Fifth street, past the usual crowd that hung around a police station. Families, ambulance chasers, hoods, the curious, and the indifferent.
He stood for a moment opposite a college, a research institute, watched as earnest-looking men and women disappeared into its campus, kids who wanted to, and someday would, change the world.
He turned corners, headed down South State Street, was tempted for a moment to catch the bus that came fuming and snorting, all gleaming metal and chrome.
No bus. Will be crowded.
He paused when he stepped on the lush green of Stateway Park, closed his eyes to the sun and felt it warm deep inside him.
The beast slumbered. His radar was quiet.
The guys I saw were good. Very good. They would know how to stalk without signaling it.
A Frisbee landed at his feet. A pigtailed girl came chasing it. He tossed it back to her and got a gap-toothed smile in return.
A shout turned his head.
A football match. Bare-chested men wrestling and grunting as they wrestled on lawn for possession of an oval ball. The battle instinct watered down and shaped with rules as humans moved out of caves, stopped using cudgels, farmed and built towns, then great cities.
He walked deeper, once again wearing his Ray-Bans, turned on the switch and the screens lit up as if by magic.
A family behind him. A lone man. Zeb watched him for some time. The man sat down, removed a sandwich box from a backpack and a bottle of beer.
Not him.
A man hailed him as he walked deeper inside. A black man, seated, at a small table.
Zeb approached him, curious, and when he got closer he saw the man had a white beard that caught the sun and shone silver.
The thick curly hair on his head was grey, his shirt and shorts had seen better days, the loafers on his feet were scruffy.
It was his smile that held Zeb’s attention. It was wide and genuine and tugged at something inside him. The black man’s eyes twinkled and his hand waved at the seat opposite him.
It was then that the small table caught his attention. Neatly laid out on it was a small carpet of black and white squares on which were miniature pieces.
A chess board. A game that originated in India that took battle away from the heat and dust of the plains and brought it into the living room. A battle without loss of life.
Zeb was surrounded by chess players.
Bwana and Bear were aces at the game, but the twins and Roger weren’t far behind. The best of them all was Clare. Her hobby was playing online against grandmasters from different countries.
Zeb got his ass whipped every time he played against them even though he wasn’t a novice.
He glanced in his screens again.
No one approaching threateningly. I’ll give them time.
Zeb took the offered seat, placed a ten-dollar bill next to the board, saw the appreciation in his eyes,
The man reached a hand out. ‘Casper, sir. Chess king of this park. How may I beat you today? Slow or fast?’
Zeb shook the proffered hand. ‘Zeb. Defeat doesn’t care about speed does it?’
Their first moves were cautious, each testing the other out, taking time to think several steps ahead.
Zeb checked his screens periodically. They didn’t indicate danger.
Have I been wrong?
He sacrificed a pawn, at which Casper grinned. ‘You aren’t going to draw me in like that, sir.’
‘Zeb.’
Casper shook his head. ‘This is battle, sir. We treat our opposition with respect, with formality.’ His black eyes twinkled. ‘It’ll be Zeb when you beat me and we share a drink.’
Zeb paused, looked at him with narrow eyes.
How did I miss it?
Casper had the look.
‘Where?’
Casper sat back and returned a thoughtful gaze. ‘’Stan. Two tours.’
Zeb moved. He counter-punched. Zeb trapped his knight, he escaped.
‘You?’
Zeb shrugged. ‘All over.’
Casper considered him for a long moment, nodded finally.
Two men appeared at the bottom of the screen. Zeb glanced at them. One of them was pushing a baby carriage, the other was talking animatedly at him.
Not them.
‘Why this?’ He asked Casper.
‘I came back to a different country, sir. My wife had run away with someone else, taking our child along with her. I was denied visitation rights. I was left with no family. I didn’t have a home. There weren’t any jobs. I was good at chess; it was better than lying down on the street with a placard in hand.’
There was no bitterness in his voice, just calm acceptance, a steely resolution in the tone.
Zeb looked down to find a knight captured.
He attacked. Casper fell back.
The two men with the baby were now in the center of his screen. A hundred yards behind his left shoulder. There were lone figures in the distance, none of whom came closer.
He captured his first victim, Casper’s knight, in a complex move Bwana had taught him. Casper sucked in his breath, rocked back and studied the board.
‘You’ve done this before.’
Zeb didn’t reply.
The baby chair came at the edge of his vision, then the two men.
The beast was silent.
He glanced casually at them, watched them draw parallel.
The animated man turned as if he felt the weight of Zeb’s gaze, locked eyes with him for a second.
He moved on, Zeb turned back to the board.
He played distractedly, paid the price when Casper toppled a bishop.
‘You got to be focused, sir.’
Casper’s voice came at him from a distance.
He looked up.
The animated man was looking back at him.
Zeb moved without conscious thought, rising, toppling his stool, taking a step sideways.
The animated man broke away and fled when Zeb burst into a sprint.
‘What’s up?’ Casper yelled.
‘It’s called a retreat,’ Zeb shouted and increased his pace.
The man, as tall as Zeb, dark-haired, ducked and weaved around the stragglers in the park, moving easily, as If floating just above the ground.
Zeb narrowed the gap, gauged the distance, dived at the man’s legs.
The man turned, but not fast enough, fell, lashed out with one arm and a leg.
Zeb parried, attempted a wrist lock.
The man evaded it with ease. His other hand came up, something glinted.
Zeb knocked the handgun away before it had lined up. It skittered through the grass, came to a rest a few feet away.
The man lunged, rained blows, one of which caught Zeb on the side of his head.
Then he was up, away, running.
Zeb followed.
The gap had increased. I can still bring him down before he leaves the park.
The man swerved, headed to the pigtailed girl, grabbed her and shoved her blindly in Zeb’s direction.
Her thin scream sounded. She stumbled. Started falling.
Zeb skidded on grass, reached her before she hit the deck. He righted her. Turned her in the direction of her folks.
Turned back to the fleeing man.
He had slowed to look back.
Zeb moved.
The man ran.
This time he headed to a couple.
They scattered, but he went closer to them.
‘Keep away,’ Zeb shouted, but it was too late.
The man’s arm flashed once, and then he ran away, a burst of speed putting distance between him and the couple.
The woman fell. Her panicked screams filled the air.
Zeb reached her, bent over her.
Her right side was turning re
d.
He ripped the lower part of her shirt, fashioned it into a compress and applied it to her.
‘Call 911,’ he commanded her partner who was hovering above him, joined by several onlookers.
A man thrust forward through the growing crowd, announced that he was a physician. Zeb left the woman’s care to him and made his way back and out of the crowd.
The attacker was long gone.
He searched in the grass for the fallen gun and when he found it, picked it up by a thumb and forefinger, hunted around till he found a discarded plastic bag, wrapped it around the gun and pocketed the evidence.
Any prints on it will be useless. He’s a pro. He knew I would go to the assistance of the girl and the woman.
But maybe all was not lost. He extracted his phone.
Masis paused behind a food truck across the street from the park and peered back.
He could see no sign of Carter. A crowd had collected around the wounded woman; presumably it had swallowed Carter.
He discreetly wiped perspiration away from his forehead and made his way swiftly down the street, sticking to crowds, blending in.
Just another harried office worker hurrying from point A to point B.
He turned a corner and headed deep into a less crowded alley. Behind a large trash can, he withdrew the knife, inserted its blade in a crack in the pavement and broke it. He made smaller pieces of the knife and pocketed them.
They would be disposed of later.
He had lost his gun. It didn’t matter.
Ajdan, Shiraz and he had burned their fingertips several years back and had surgery performed.
They no longer had identifiable fingerprints. They had smudges which were unintelligible to fingerprint recognition devices. They had killed the surgeon.
Fool. He cursed himself and used stronger words in Armenian.
Carter hadn’t made him but when he had looked back the second time and had seen the dark, probing eyes, something in him had given. Years of discipline broke and he had fled.
Of course Carter would follow.
It was only his swift knifing that had held up Carter.
He pulled out his phone and sent a short message to Ajdan and Shiraz.
Got held up. Can’t make it to meeting.
The three of them had a code they used to communicate with one another. Held up meant that his assignment hadn’t gone down smoothly. The second line told his partners to immediately abandon their apartments and go to another secure hide-out.
