by Ty Patterson
They had several such hideouts in the city.
He hadn’t used a few keywords, which meant he was not under duress. Nor was he injured.
He wended his way to a department store, picked out a couple of items of clothing, ripped off the tags and went to a changing room. At all times, he kept his head bowed, away from prying cameras.
Masis looked different when he emerged. The muted orange jacket drew attention to him. But now his gait had changed, he walked on his toes, he projected confidence.
They were small things, but the human brain put them all together when identifying a person.
Masis wasn’t the knife-man anymore.
He hung inside the glass doors of the department store and watched the outside world go by.
Carter didn’t show.
He emerged, hailed a cab, gave an address.
He changed his mind when he was nearing it, gave another address.
He boarded a bus when he exited the taxi, and sat in it till it reached the end of its journey. He took another cab and returned to the department store.
He journeyed aimlessly for three more hours and when he was sure that Carter or any possible pursuer had been evaded or had died of boredom, he started for their hideout.
He walked the last three miles after alighting from the bus, joined the throng of people hurrying home.
A left turn, a straight-ahead, a mile after a right turn, brought him within two blocks of the apartment.
It was when he was crossing a darkened street that it happened.
A leg shot out.
He stumbled.
Chapter 12
He fell, rolled, immediately knowing who had tripped him up. He kept rolling, rose and faced the shadowed figure.
Carter!
He would recognize that posture anywhere.
He attacked, a flurry of blows aimed at Carter’s throat, groin, and body. Carter sidestepped, parried some of them and counterattacked.
The city was silent, but for their harsh breathing. A solitary light threw their shadows on the wall, shapes that moved in a blur and sometimes merged in with the pavement.
His fist caught the side of Carter’s neck, a satisfying grunt emerged, but before he could follow up, his hand was grasped and a lock was applied. He slipped and that helped break the lock.
He was off-balance for a moment, the hammer blow that caught him, threw him back.
Carter didn’t follow through. ‘I don’t want to kill you.’
Masis’s leg shot forward in a short brutal arc and brought down Carter. His leg swept back and forward, caught the falling man in the abdomen.
Carter seemed to bounce. He slithered back swiftly but before he could rise, Masis kicked his hands away and he fell prone.
Masis pounced on his back, removed the broken blade, its largest piece that he still carried and aimed it at Carter’s neck.
It never reached its target.
Carter was rolling even as he was thrusting down; the sudden move threw Masis off.
Carter’s hand swung. A block of concrete numbed Masis’s left shoulder. Carter’s hand!
The hand rose again.
Masis head-butted him.
Mistake!
Carter caught him around the neck with an arm lock.
Carter’s arm flexed, choked the breath out of Masis.
‘Who are you?’
Carter’s voice was low, even, despite the exertion, and in that moment, with his breath being squeezed out slowly, Masis knew he would lose.
He jabbed ineffectively with the blade.
Carter parried it away.
Masis twisted his neck, trying to look his captor in the face.
There was no give.
We have a code. The words hammered inside him in tune with his rapid pulse.
Masis tried one last move.
He gathered his legs underneath him and heaved.
Carter was resolute, immobile.
We have a code. He pictured Ajdan and Shiraz, an apology swept through his mind.
His hand moved of its own volition and the blade buried itself deep inside his own neck.
Zeb released him immediately, tried to stem the flow of blood, but the assassin knew what he was doing.
The blade had cut through his carotid and was buried deep. It acted like a seal, dislodging it would pump the blood out in great spurts.
Zeb fumbled with his phone, started to dial 911 when the killer moved again.
He withdrew the short piece of steel, brought it down again, this time in his throat.
His glittering eyes looked back at Zeb in triumph, even as dark fountains spurted out of his neck and splashed on the wall and pavement.
Drops landed on Zeb’s face. He ignored them.
‘Who are you?’ He asked urgently.
The killer’s mouth opened soundlessly, his teeth shone briefly, but no sounds emerged.
Zeb stayed with him till the light faded from the killer’s eyes.
He removed the GPS tracker from the back of the killer’s neck, pocketed his phone, searched the rest of his body, found nothing else and emerged cautiously from the alley.
The GPS tracker was a wafer-thin, malleable shape that was enclosed in a skin-colored fabric that had adhesive on one side. It was designed to be slapped onto the human body stealthily, and once applied, was barely detectable.
Zeb had palmed the tracker the moment he had left Casper’s chess table and during the grappling with the assassin, had managed to apply it to the back of his neck.
He had tracked the killer on his phone and had caught up with him when the signal approached the alley.
He wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt, and commenced a slow jog that would take him, circuitously, back to his hotel.
He went through a mental checklist as he ran.
Check out. Check into another hotel.
Burn clothing.
Trace prints on gun and blade.
Break down phone.
The killer’s eyes stayed in his mind, as if mocking him. You won’t find anything on me.
Three miles in his run, sweat streaming down his face, after having given it thought, Zeb agreed.
The man was a professional. But I have to try.
A day later, in another bland hotel, the TV spouted news of a man found dead in a deserted alley, with his throat and neck cut savagely.
The cops had no clues to go on and made the usual noises of progressing on all fronts.
They appealed to people come forward with information, and on that, Zeb turned off the TV and lay back on bed.
Werner had come back with several profiles of Armenian assassins. There was one problem with those profiles. Most of the assassins were either dead, or not in the U.S.
Is that all you can do? Zeb had typed at Werner.
I dig out information, I don’t create it. The supercomputer replied.
He was sorely tempted to call Meghan or Beth. Or even Broker. They knew he was involved in something.
Werner kept track of all them via the GPS sensors in their clothing, and tracked news items related to any of his crew. It sent messages to his team whenever any of them featured in incidents.
His arrest was known to his crew and they had flooded his phone with text messages.
Rog and I can be on the next flight. Bwana had texted.
Nope. Zeb had replied.
Hotshot, it looks like you need us. Meghan had sent.
Nope.
It’s clear you are helpless without us, Beth snarked.
He didn’t answer.
Why did Chicago P.D. release you? A cell suits you. Broker chuckled.
Zeb ignored him.
He crossed his arms behind his head, watched the swirls in the ceiling. They made as much sense to him as whatever was going on.
He sighed and rose.
Time to visit D.C.
‘That man is Zeb Carter.’ Boiler knew that already. He watched TV, but he listened to his ca
ller speak.
He had spoken to Ajdan earlier, had conveyed his sympathies at Masis’s death. He knew Ajdan was hurting, but the pro that he was, he had updated Boiler on various events.
When he had hung up, Boiler knew all there was to know about Zeb Carter. Ex-Army, ran a security consulting business in New York. No links to Parker.
The way he had followed Ajdan and his men, and the way he had taken out Masis, showed he was no ordinary soldier.
Ajdan’s hacker had probed, but hadn’t come up with anything more.
‘His last rank was Major, but that doesn’t mean anything.’ Boiler nodded, knowing what Ajdan was saying. If Carter was Special Forces, his Army record would be redacted.
It was likely Parker and he had served together, might have been good friends, though no such relationship had emerged from digging into Parker or Carter’s backstories.
Boiler sat staring into space for a long while before he issued instructions to one of his men.
Carter wasn’t really his problem. Not unless he interfered in the gang’s affairs.
It was clear he was related in some way to Parker and was following up.
He had no connection to Cezar.
Ajdan could go after him if he wished. The assassin didn’t believe in vengeance, he was a pro.
However, Masis had been a very close friend.
Not the gang’s problem.
Boiler was interested in recovering their money. They had to go about it a different way. Killing people who looked like Cezar hadn’t gotten them very far.
‘Send two or three men to visit those towns one by one. Find out more about those people.’
‘Any update on Carter?’ Burke popped her head over Kowalski’s cubicle in their D.C. office.
‘Nope.’ The junior agent leaned back in his swivel chair with a sign of frustration. ‘Chicago P.D. let him go despite our request to detain him. They didn’t have much to hold him for, but still … now we have no idea where he is.’
The two FBI agents had planned to fly to Chicago the moment news flashed of Zeb’s arrest. However, this time, they weren’t able to secure one of the FBI’s private jets and by the time they reached the airport a few hours later, Carter had been released.
‘He knows more than what he’s letting on.’ Kowalski tossed a ball of paper into a bin and when he looked up, saw the tight look on Burke’s face.
Carter had asked them to look into Parker’s movements, to see if he had visited any East European country.
He had clammed up as usual and performed his disappearing act when they asked him why.
Nevertheless, they dug into Parker’s travel; he had visited many countries, but not for several years and hadn’t set foot in East Europe.
Burke’s phone rang before she replied.
‘Burke,’ she snapped impatiently.
She stilled, her eyes widening. ‘We’ll be down, right away.’
She beckoned at Kowalski and walked away without seeing if he was following.
‘Where’s the fire?’ He panted as trotted to catch up.
‘Carter’s here. Downstairs.’
An hour later, Burke ran her fingers through her hair for the umpteenth time, while Kowalski looked at Carter with a slack-jawed expression.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes, and regained a sense of control.
‘Let me see if I got this right. You tangled with the most vicious gang leader in Chicago, witnessed three assassins kill him. You then faced off three gangbangers, got arrested for it, and it’s only now you’re telling us?’
‘I didn’t see them kill Churchey.’ Carter’s voice was mild.
Burke slapped a palm on the metal desk. Kowalski started at the report, but Carter didn’t even twitch.
‘Don’t split hairs, Mr. Carter.’ She glared at him. ‘You saw them go in, come out, and the next thing we know, Churchey’s dead.’
‘How do we know you didn’t kill Churchey?’ Kowalski asked truculently. He wasn’t just a pretty boy flunky. Carter had better realize it.
‘You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.’
Burke couldn’t control the strangled laugh that escaped her. ‘Trust you! Lord knows what else you’re holding back.’
‘Now that you mention it, one of those assassins is dead.’
This time Sarah Burke, ace FBI investigator, sat slack jawed.
Carter rose, went to a water cooler in the room, poured two glasses of water and handed it to them
Burke emptied hers in one gulp and was proud when her voice came out steadily. ‘Care to tell us how?’
Carter told them.
No one moved in the long silence that followed. A door slammed somewhere outside, muted voices came through the thick door and with that, Burke finally broke the stillness.
‘You killed him.’ Her voice was flat, hard. She glanced at Kowalski, who acknowledged her look and searched on his tablet for reports of the dead man.
‘He killed himself.’
‘It’s true,’ Kowalski interrupted her and turned around his tablet computer for her to read the article.
She skimmed it swiftly, then eyed her partner, who dug his phone out and made a call.
Carter sat through it, utterly relaxed. If he was perturbed that they were checking with Chicago P.D., he didn’t show it.
‘The crime scene was clean. No ID. No weapons. No prints. Fibers, some of which matched the dead man’s shirt.’
‘The others will match mine.’
‘Where is it?’
‘It’s ash now.’
Burke straightened, flicked a glance at Kowalski who rose and circled Carter.
‘Mr. Carter, you’re under arrest. You’ll –’
‘For what?’
‘For killing that man. For –’
‘Who said I killed him?’
‘You had an altercation with him. You confessed to it.’
‘Did I?’
She slapped her forehead mentally. This room isn’t wired. Neither Mark nor I recorded him. A rookie would have done better, she berated herself.
Carter’s hand moved for the first time. It approached his jacket.
‘Don’t move,’ Kowalski shouted and rose.
Carter didn’t stop. The hand went inside the jacket.
‘STOP.’ Burke’s voice was high and thin.
She and Kowalski flanked Carter, her eyes wary, her breathing shallow.
Carter’s hand slid out.
‘Relax. It’s just a phone. My gun’s at the check-in desk.’
Burke stood motionless, her heart thumping wildly, one hand still on her hip, close to her gun.
‘Who’re you calling?’ Her voice sounded unnaturally loud.
‘You’ll see.’
He hung up, looked at the two chairs, at them standing, but said nothing.
Kowalski flopped in his chair, said something beneath his breath, something that suspiciously sounded like a string of curses.
Burke’s pulse returned to normal and with it came a biting anger. ‘You came this close to getting shot in a Federal building.’
Carter shook his head. ‘Nope. You wouldn’t have.’
She leaned forward, her rage bubbling, ‘Oh yeah? Why wouldn’t we?’
Grammar, Sarah. An annoying little voice in her head droned.
She gritted her teeth, ignored it and waited for Carter to respond.
‘I could read it in your eyes.’
His voice was soft; he was still sitting relaxed. Assured.
Before she could follow through, the door opened.
Director Murphy walked in, took in the situation swiftly. He nodded at Burke and Kowalski.
‘Leave us.’
Chapter 13
Burke went back to her cubicle, riffled through reports on her desk, tapped a few keys on her keyboard, gave up and sat back.
She wondered what the Director was discussing with Carter. She tried to work out their relationship. She glanced at her phone a
nd was tempted to ask Bob Pierce. She rejected the thought.
I bet he’s telling the Director how incompetent we are. How we’ve gotten nowhere.
The rage returned again.
I am a good agent. No, I’m a great agent. I will deal with Carter. I will see this through. I will crack this case.
Kowalski tapped on her cubicle. ‘The Director wants us.’
She followed him to the room, steeled herself invisibly, entered the room and stopped suddenly.
She was prepared for many scenarios.
She wasn’t ready for the sight of Director Murphy chuckling at something Carter said. The Director waved them in, gestured at two chairs.
‘Zeb tells me you have made a lot of progress in the case.’
Burke’s eyes flew to Carter’s, met an expressionless face. She turned back to the Director.
‘Yes, sir.’
What progress?
‘It looks like there are some Armenian assassins involved? And this gang in Chicago?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She retold the story Carter had narrated and when the Director nodded approvingly, her belly unclenched.
Kowalski glanced at her when she skirted around Carter’s skirmish with the dead assassin.
‘We’ll run his prints and see where that leads us.’ Her eyes flicked in Carter’s direction. ‘Mr. Carter has promised to share whatever he finds.’
The Director nodded absently. ‘None of these developments were in your reports.’
‘I haven’t had time, sir.’ She replied as honestly as she could. Besides, I didn’t know them until a few hours back.
Kowalski couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. ‘Sir, Mr. Carter is quite evasive about who he really is.’
The Director smiled thinly. ‘I believe he’s a security consultant.’
Kowalski began to protest, saw the flinty look in the Director’s eyes and held back.
The Director discussed a few more details, glanced at his wrist, rose, hugged Carter warmly, beamed approvingly at his agents and left.
‘So, we have helped you a lot?’ Burke looked at Carter. ‘The FBI is your private investigation agency?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, and no, Ma’am. I did share what I knew. But in return, please let me know about those prints.’ With that, he too left the room.
Count to ten, Sarah. Deep breaths.
Burke didn’t know she had spoken aloud till her partner laughed. ‘You’ve got to admit. If it hadn’t been for Carter, we would still be twiddling our thumbs.’
