by Ty Patterson
Not all along, Zeb thought, but didn’t bother to correct him. ‘How do you contact this John?’
He shook his head and winced as the movement sent a lance of pain through him. ‘Dude, you don’t get it. I don’t have a number for this John fucker. He contacts me, I don’t. He called me a few days back and said he didn’t like failures. I didn’t know what that meant. Next thing I know, Perez is dead and my other guys have disappeared. I’m sure they’re in some concrete mixer somewhere.’
‘I called the cutout, and he just said I was dead meat. I told him there was nothing I could reveal about John, and he said that didn’t matter. I checked in this place as soon as that call ended. And what do I find? You on my tail too!’
Zeb’s fingers itched as he considered taking his gun out and plugging the gangster as he heard his cry-me-a-river lament. He’ll either be killed by those other guys, or the cops will get him.
He turned to leave when Cargill started laughing, a half-sobbing, half-guffaw sound that Zeb didn’t recognize initially.
Zeb’s look made Cargill laugh harder. ‘You stupid prick, you still don’t get it, do you?’
Which was the wrong reaction from a gangster who could soon be dead. Which meant–
Zeb leapt over Cargill’s head and dived behind the couch.
Just as the apartment door broke down.
Chapter 11
Three masked men rushed in, firing long bursts. They stood at the door and swept the room with their weapons.
They ducked suddenly and took a step back through the door as they encountered return fire from the corners of the room just as the apartment turned dark. The sounds of bullets whistling in the air, crashing into the walls and furniture, and breaking the windows filled the air.
A blast swept through the room as the wall-to-ceiling windows shattered, and through the darkness, a shadow detached itself from behind the couch and leapt outside in the dumbstruck night.
Zeb had known he could be stepping into a trap, since Cargill was the only remaining link to the UG, Unidentified Gang. That the gang leader was still alive while the rest of his gang had turned up dead or disappeared had registered on Broker and Zeb’s radar.
He had discussed various exit options with Broker and had rejected all of them. The apartment block had a fire escape and a freight elevator, but those ran into dead-ends. Not ideal for getaways, but he still mounted wireless cameras at their exits. The cameras fed to a storage disk in his SUV.
‘You remember the time my apartment got trashed?’ Broker had asked him finally, once they had run through all their escape ideas.
Zeb’s mind flashed back to the time when a New York crime gang had overpowered Broker and the rest of Zeb’s team and were on the verge of executing them. A masked man had rappelled down Broker’s apartment building and had detonated the glass windows to enable his entry. The detonation and unexpected entry point had provided the shock and surprise element that led to the taking down of the gang. The masked man had used the same abseiling gear for his exit.
Once he had surveyed Cargill’s apartment, he headed to the roof, secured one end of an abseiling rope to the air-conditioning unit, and let the other end, weighted with lead, drop to the street three hundred feet below.
He then returned to the apartment and placed radio-controlled, miniature, shaped-charge detonators at strategic points on the windows.
He expected the UG to come in hard, firing, maybe even tossing in a flash-bang. He could fire back at them, but he wanted them alive.
He looked around inside the apartment. I can still ‘fire’ at them.
He reached into his backpack and withdrew a couple of remote-controlled audio playback devices, selected audio files on them, audio files that were recordings of live gunfire in an apartment, and placed them in two corners of the room.
He had constructed the devices himself and had several recordings on them. Broker had whistled when he’d seen his devices. ‘These gizmos rival the best sound effects I’ve come across in Hollywood.’
His exit route was ready.
Zeb leapt in the night, his left hand outstretched, reaching out for the abseiling rope, which was a foot and a half away. He got a palm across it, pulled his body to the rope, and slithered down rapidly, his specially treated gloves protecting his palms from rope burn.
There was chaos on the street below, throngs of spectators crowding out the vehicle traffic. In the distance was the ever-rising scream of sirens. Some of the watchers were helping people streaming out of the apartment to relative safety. Some others handed out blankets from their cars. Zeb could see at least one coffee flask being passed around in the throng.
He landed in a small pocket of people.
‘Police. Give way,’ he roared in his command voice, and people fell away from him. It usually worked. Other than a few startled exclamations, no one reached a hand out to stop the masked man clad in black.
He ran behind the building and, once he was under cover, swiftly unzipped his jacket, turned it inside out, stuffed his gloves and mask deep inside, and zipped it back up again. The jacket now sported red and blue colors and featured the logo of a popular sportswear brand.
He completed the loop of the building and joined the throng of spectators, two minutes after he had leapt out in the night.
He took out his phone and aimed it at the entrance of the building and started recording.
Two minutes to remove their masks, wipe their weapons clean, throw them away or bag them, and tidy themselves up. Four minutes to run down the stairs. Stairs not the elevators. Elevators would be crowded. Someone might remember them. Someone might smell gun smoke around them. Six to eight minutes to exit the building, acting like terrified residents, and disappear in the night. Cops will take a couple of minutes more to come to the block, by then they will have gone.
The building continued disgorging its residents for a full half hour. There weren’t many men who matched the build of the attackers and fewer who wore dark clothing. About ten of them. Of the ten, half were high probables. There was something about the way those five moved.
Zeb recorded them all and slipped away in the darkness to his ride.
Once inside his SUV, he reached behind and detached a miniature camera he had attached to the window. The camera – a high-resolution, high-zoom one that could ‘see’ through dark windows – had been recording the entrance of the block all day long.
He stuffed the camera in his backpack, wiped the interiors clean, and exited swiftly.
He had a feeling the cops would be taking a healthy interest in all vehicles parked within a radius of half a mile from the block. He hiked a couple of miles to the bus station, where he spent the night on a bench, and in the morning, walked back to the city and rented a room in a high-end hotel.
‘Way to go, Zeb,’ Broker greeted him cheerfully when Zeb called him on their secure Internet voice and messaging service. He could see Broker on his webcam.
Broker’s shoulder-length blond hair, rugged looks and tall, lean physique did not fit the perception most people had when they thought intelligence analyst. He liked his clothes and shoes, and even now, at home in his office-apartment, he was attired in a blinding white Egyptian cotton shirt over khaki slacks. A dark brown leather belt around his waist complemented his attire. Handmade, Zeb thought.
Broker went to his Jura, filled his cup, and toasted Zeb silently when he approached his laptop.
‘Discretion, Zeb. A quick entry and a silent exit. We agreed on that, didn’t we?’ he chided Zeb.
Zeb ignored him. ‘Fill me in. What’ve the cops got?’
‘They’ve got jack so far. An apartment that’s junked, a landlord who’s desperately unhappy, a mayor who’s screaming blue murder, some vague descriptions of guys going in. And one dead Cargill. They aren’t unhappy about that development, but of course, they can’t advertise that.’
‘Cameras?’
‘Zilch again. Cameras in the dead-ends didn’t pick
up anything. Cameras in the lobby or elevators weren’t working today. Some kind of network issue.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Nope. If they were down because someone tampered with them, must have been the UG. I don’t tamper with third-party security cameras,’ Broker said piously. Those who didn’t know him would have believed him.
‘So what’ve you got?’ he asked Zeb.
Zeb updated him rapidly. ‘Check your mail.’
‘Got it,’ Broker said after a pause. ‘I’ll run all those faces against a tenant list I’ve got for the block. That’ll narrow it down, and I’ll run the rest of the males in a facial recognition program I’ve been toying with. It isn’t perfect, but with some luck, we might get somewhere.’
‘Let’s hunt the cutout too.’
‘On it already. There are ten Chicago numbers that I’m checking out. I got those numbers by hacking into Cargill’s phone records. There are many other numbers he called, but those ten are in the timeline. I’ve already got a few probables, but will be able to narrow it down further very soon.’
‘What if the cutout never met the UG?’
‘Not possible,’ Broker said immediately. ‘These fuckers take jobs only from known people. This middleman either knows the UG or knows someone who does.’
Zeb stayed one more day in the hotel and then hired a car and headed back to Jackson.
‘Krone,’ Broker shouted in his ear.
Zeb winced and transferred the call to the SUV’s speakers and turned down the volume. He was in a Honda SUV, heading in the general direction of the twins, and had been enjoying the wind playing through the window just before Broker called.
‘What’s that?’
‘Who, not what!’
‘Krone, Palisano and Romero. Mercenaries who came out of Bedrock three years back and set up their own outfit. They’ve worked in Angola, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Colombia, many hot spots, and have worked stateside too.’
Bedrock was one of the largest military contractors in the country and supplied specialist personnel to the military and to private clients. To anyone who paid top dollar. Most of their staff was ex-military recruited from around the world; they were hired out to guard oil fields, protect African dictators, undertake deniable ops for the militaries of the world, and sometimes carry out distinctly unlawful acts.
‘You sure about those three?’
‘Sixty-percent match is what my program came back with, which is pretty good.’
He filled Zeb in.
Krone had been a sergeant in the U.S. Army and had seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was a sniper. He was also borderline psychopathic, and the Army had been happy to see his back when he’d done his twenty.
He’d joined Bedrock, and there, he’d met Palisano, ex-Canadian Army, and Romero, who’d been in the Mexican Special Forces. The threesome set up their own outfit after two years with the large military contractor. They earned a rep for taking on any job and executing it by any means necessary.
‘My CIA contact said they would be delighted if these three stopped polluting the earth.’ Broker’s laugh rumbled in the vehicle. ‘I suspect our CIA friends contracted these scum and aren’t happy with the outcome of that job.
‘I’ve more news for you. Jeremy Rodriguez. He’s the cutout. He lives in Washington Park in Chicago, a high-crime neighborhood, which seems fitting given what his day job is. He was one of those Windy City numbers Cargill called. The other numbers are other guys he did business with, but Rodriguez, who goes by Rod, was known to the cops as a fixer and is also on the FBI watch list. The timeline of the calls matches the timeline of the events. In fact, Cargill called Rod a few hours before you had your pleasant chat with him.’
Zeb mulled it over. ‘Krone is still our priority. He and his guys have the training, access to kit, and presumably are well paid. Question is, by whom?’
‘Let’s find them. Then we’ll ask them.’
‘Major Zebadiah Carter.’ The Voice was firm and strong even over the speaker of the cheap phone in the vehicle.
Krone, his bald head gleaming in the evening sunlight filtering through the Escalade’s tinted windows, raised his eyebrows at Palisano and Romero. They shook their heads. The community of private military contractors was small, tight knit, and the three of them kept their ears close to chatter. They would have heard of Carter.
The Voice read their silence correctly. ‘Nope, he isn’t one of your mercenaries. He was Special Forces, dropped out several years back, and set up a security consulting business. That lasted for only about a year or so, and then he just disappeared. He was reported killed a year and a half back, but obviously he’s alive. And he kicked your ass.’
Krone’s fingers tightened on the wheel, but he kept quiet. The hand that paid you had the right to admonish you. Especially if you had fucked up.
The Voice continued. ‘My contacts say he’s got some kinda connection to Murphy, the FBI Director. I asked some other sources about him, they came back and asked why I was asking.’ They heard him stand up and walk around. ‘I tried pulling his Army file, and it had more security clearances than I knew existed.
‘Bottom line, he’s no pilgrim.’
Krone spoke in a voice that sounded like a buzz saw. ‘What about the girls? Where are they?’
‘They’re still in Jackson. But the cops are tighter than their own skin around them. You can still get them, but there’s bound to be blowback.’
Especially if you guys are caught alive. The Voice didn’t say that, but it was clear to all of them.
The Voice lost its even tone. ‘You assholes. How difficult is it to get a couple of women who have just one guy with them? You are three men against that one man. You not only let him get away, but it’s possible he's hunting you now.’
Krone’s reply was clipped and hard. ‘No chance of that happening. He doesn’t know who we are. He questioned Cargill, but Cargill didn’t know who we were. Cargill didn’t see us, didn’t know how to contact us, we made sure of that, and he isn’t talking anymore.’
The Voice raged. ‘You dumb fuck, Carter easily escaped you. Don’t you think you’re underestimating him?’
Krone gripped the wheel hard. If the person at the other end of the phone had been in front of him that very moment, he would’ve snapped his neck.
‘We’ll take care of it.’
‘You’d better. He can start asking questions and that’s never a good thing as far as I’m concerned. Grab the girls, deliver them to our friend, and get rid of Carter. This is your last chance. If you fail, I’ll bring the other party in.’ The rage had disappeared from the Voice, leaving it cold and hard. ‘I’ll see if I can find anything more on him.’
Krone hung up and stared out of the window. They’d parked in a rest stop, empty except for a trucker who was catching a nap in his red and chrome Peterbilt. Swirls of air eddied, causing miniature whirlpools that died under the stern gaze of the sun.
‘We have two problems,’ he growled after a while. ‘The girls and this fucker Carter. We need to draw them out somehow. Maybe a trap. The second problem is this guy in Chicago who put us in touch with Cargill.’
Romero nodded. ‘Si. He could finger us.’
‘Hey, we aren’t getting paid to silence the cutout,’ Palisano protested. He was shorter than the two of them, at five seven, but was lean and tough and mean. That last characteristic had made him an invaluable part of the team.
Krone glared at him. ‘You want to leave him alone so that he can rat on us?’
Palisano shut up, and after a while, Krone swung the vehicle around.
In the direction of Chicago.
Silencing the middleman came first.
Zeb drove ten more miles before he slammed the brakes and got a blaring horn and a finger in protest as a pickup truck swept past him.
He eased onto the shoulder of the road and dialed Broker.
‘Cargill’s dead.’ he told Broker.
‘Yeah. So?�
��
‘So who else could lead us to those three?’
Broker saw the connection immediately. ‘Gotcha. Rodriguez might also know who Krone’s paymaster is.’ He drummed his fingers in silence for a moment. ‘Head back to Cheyenne. I’ll arrange the plane for you. You can bet those guys will be flying too. I just hope you get there in time.’
They had taken more than two days to work out that the cutout could also lead them to Krone. Enough time for Krone to eliminate the broker.
‘Rodriguez might not know anything,’ Broker commented.
‘Possible. But we won't know unless we ask him.’
‘You’ve got enough stuff with you?’ Broker asked Zeb.
‘Yeah.’ Zeb knew what Broker meant. Weapons. Ammunition. He had more than enough. To last a war. Or start one.
Which was what he might face in Chicago.
Chapter 12
A Lear jet was waiting for Zeb at Cheyenne Regional Airport.
Years back, they had taken down a terrorist cell in Morocco and in the process had rescued a hostage. A girl who had been treated like a slave by the gang, used and abused by them.
The girl had turned out to be the daughter of a high-ranking royal in a Middle Eastern country. A country that the United States was keen to improve relations with.
The grateful royal had met Clare and had handed over a check. A check which had made her raise her eyebrows.
‘We can’t.’ She had returned the check.
The royal had taken it, added two more zeros and had pushed it back to her. ‘I’ll keep adding till you accept,’ he said simply. He would’ve given away his kingdom for his daughter.
Clare had handed the check over to Broker and Zeb. ‘It’s yours. Do what you wish with it.’
They had bought an office block in downtown Manhattan, all six of them equal shareholders, had let out most of the floors, retained one floor for themselves, and Broker had taken over the basement parking lot. He had converted part of the parking lot into his toy shop – a fully functional garage and a warehouse for all the latest surveillance kit that money could buy, and some that it couldn’t.
