by Ty Patterson
Borodin hulked behind a mahogany wooden desk that was polished to a mirror gloss which reflected his large face.
Six inches and ten pounds on Bwana. None of it fat.
Two chairs were on the other side of the desk, a TV in a corner played a live, silent feed of the club. There were no other furnishings.
The man didn’t stand up as Zeb approached and his eyes never left the arrival’s face as four men stepped in the room and shut the door behind him.
Might as well check out the opposition.
Zeb swiveled and the met the impassive faces of four men, not as large as Borodin but equally hard, all slabs of bone and muscle. Each one of them wore a loose jacket that didn’t hide the guns beneath. They stood a foot apart, cut off exit and stared straight ahead.
Zeb turned back to Borodin, selected one of two chairs, the left one, and dropped in it.
‘Scared, Carter?’ The voice was thick and gravelly and suited the frame.
Zeb laughed genuinely. ‘Maybe you are, Borodin. Or should I call you Bossman? You’re the one with backup.’
Borodin eyes didn’t change. A hairy fist peeked out of a loose, full-sleeved shirt and gestured at Zeb.
‘How can I help you? I’m surprised you are here after threatening my men and damaging their car. You’ve come to apologize I hope.’
‘Keep dreaming.’ Zeb laughed. ‘Feel free to call the cops if you wish.’
Borodin’s eyes blinked and his lips pursed, but he stayed silent.
‘How did you know my name?’ Zeb asked him.
Zeb felt the armrests of his chair.
Rollers. Helps. Doesn’t look particularly heavy which is good. Chair on right is just out of reach.
He planted his feet and moved.
Half an inch.
Black, hooded eyes blinked once. ‘Come now, Carter. You’re famous. You’re all over TV. I recognized you as soon as you mentioned your name.’
‘Why did you kill Lester Benjamin?’
Borodin frowned? ‘Kill? Who?’ His arms spread wide and anger showed in his voice.
‘I’m a business man, Carter. I have a chain of Laundromats, chauffeuring and valeting services, many other enterprises. Killing is not one of them. Cops questioned me a few times and got nothing on me.’
Rile him.
‘It’s just you and me in this room, Bossman, and your goons. Let’s drop the pretense. You’re a gangster. You’re into every criminal activity known. You’ve killed seventeen people, three of them women. All brutally. Three years back you got into organs trafficking. You need those,’ Zeb jerked his head back at the goons, ‘because you’re just another little pissant mob boss.’
A muscle beat on the side of Borodin’s neck. His face flushed, but his voice was even. ‘You come into my office and accuse me? You – ’
‘Shut up. I’ll follow you to Hell and accuse you. What’re you going to do? Kill me? Beat me up? Killing is your preference isn’t it? That and torture. But maybe you won’t kill me. You’re Bossman now. Bossman has flunkies to kill for him.’
Zeb sprang out of his chair and went to the thugs.
‘These must be your best men since they’re in the room with you.’ Their hands darted inside jackets, two guns appeared, he ignored them. He eyed the first man, stood next to him, shook his head and went to the next. Then the third and the fourth.
He winked at two of the men. ‘Hello, guys. How did you get back from that bridge? Bossman didn’t kill you for incompetence?’
The two men who had been in the car, clenched their jaws but refused to meet his eyes.
Zeb stepped back from them and shook his head. ‘Not these. They didn’t do the killing. They’re too tall. You got someone else, didn’t you, Bossman?’
Throw his name back at him. Move another inch. I hope the bug’s working. Will know soon enough.
The bug was disguised as a ceramic dental implant, undetectable by any commercial scanner or detector. Only a trained dentist could’ve made out that it was fake and Zeb had bet his life on Borodin not having one in his security detail.
Zeb and Broker had spotted the device two years back, invented by a couple of university students in MIT. They had bought the patents and hired the students to continue their research. Zeb had used the device on several missions and had asked Clare to share the design with the NSA’s secretive technology division.
The receiving unit was in a nondescript Ford van parked in an alley just behind the bar. The van had one occupant, Broker. Bwana and the sisters manned video cameras at the various exits.
‘Enough,’ Bossman roared and stood up, his chair falling behind.
‘SIT DOWN,’ Zeb shouted back in his command voice that had served him during his army days. He saw the shock race through Bossman as he reached back and hauled his chair and sat. His eyes, killing rage in them, never left Zeb’s.
He gritted his teeth and hissed. ‘I could –’
‘You won’t. Take that call.’
His eyes didn’t have time to be puzzled before the phone on his desk rang.
Bug works.
Borodin’s eyes flicked at the men behind. One of them opened the door, got thumbs up from the hood in the hallway, closed it and shook his head at Bossman.
Borodin grabbed the phone. ‘Yeah.’ His voice was under control, his eyes were back to shining points.
‘What feed?’ He swung to the TV just as the club’s feed disappeared and another appeared. The front of the club. A time stamp ran at the bottom. The feed showed Zeb driving up, the bouncer leading him inside. The feed changed to live coverage of the entrance. Another feed cut in, the rear entrance, a third feed, the service entrance.
Bossman slammed the phone down and yelled in Russian. ‘Check it out.’
The door slammed behind Zeb who replied fluently in the same language.
‘He’ll find it’s true. My people have covered all the exits. They know I’m with you. If I don’t return intact, that feed will go to the cops.’
Shock and fury warred in Bossman’s eyes as he struggled for control.
‘Leave. Go now.’
‘Nope. You killed Lester Benjamin. You meant to kill Broker. Why?’
The door opened and shut behind Zeb. The fourth man.
Borodin’s eyes shifted, read the man’s headshake and moved back to Zeb.
‘We’re done. Take him away.’
Two pairs of hands grabbed Zeb and hauled him up.
‘We aren’t,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ve got a second journal. Benjamin wrote two. You’ve got one.’
Borodin’s face froze and he nodded at the thugs who dropped Zeb back in his seat.
Move another inch. There, just right.
Borodin forced words through his stiff lips. ‘Humor me, Carter. What’s this about a journal?’
Zeb laughed. ‘That got you, didn’t it? You’re itching to tear me apart, to kill me, yet you can’t. How does it feel to be helpless?’
Borodin made an involuntary movement, stopped himself and breathed deeply. ‘Tell me about this journal.’
‘You know all about it, Bossman. Benjamin recorded everything all the times he met you, dates, places, names, locations. That’ll put you away for a long time.
He cocked his head. ‘What made you think about a second journal?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘You didn’t know didn’t you? That’s why the bug. You heard the boys when I searched the apartment and you wondered. You heard them leave a message for Broker, and you decided to nip it there. You ordered a kill on Broker. That was a mistake.’ His eyes drilled Borodin. ‘Big mistake.’
Borodin’s eyes had lost their calm, his deep breathing filled the room.
Zeb donned a puzzled look. ‘Why were you so keen on Benjamin’s store? There are thousands of other stores that you could’ve bought. And why did you kill him? You could’ve stolen the journal.’
The muscle beat faster as Borodin’s fists unclenched and a cruel smile parted his lips. ‘You do
n’t have anything. Prick, you have jack shit, that’s why you’re here.’
A short bark of laughter escaped him and turned into a roar as he chinned in Zeb’s direction. ‘You’ve some balls to come here with nothing. If you had the journal, cops would be here. Not you.’
The coarse humor left his eyes and his voice dropped to a harsh whisper.
‘You know why I had Benjamin killed? Because he said no to me. He said no to Bossman.’ His voice rose to a shout as he brought down a meaty fist on his desk. ‘No one turns down Bossman. That is Bossman’s reputation. The first time he said no, I forgave him.’
Jackpot! I hope Broker’s recording.
‘I didn’t have the organs. My network told me it was impossible to get them in the time he wanted. I also made a mistake. My price was above market. That’s why I let him live that time.’
His eyes glittered. ‘That store is worth millions. The council is planning a major redevelopment of that neighborhood. Benjamin didn’t know about it. Very few people in the city know about it, since the City Council has not made it public. I, Bossman know. I’ve eyes and ears everywhere.’
A cold look replaced his self-satisfied smile. ‘This’s useless to you, because you’ll die now. Those people and all that camera shit you’ve got?’
He spat contemptuously in Zeb’s face. ‘Elon didn’t go down to only check on them. My men have gone to grab them. Then all will die.’
He sneered at Zeb. ‘You think you can walk in here, mock Bossman and walk away? Cops have come many times and some of them are dead. You, you’re nothing. You’re an insect.’
‘I crush insects,’ he shouted and jerked forward, his hand reaching beneath the table.
Zeb was moving, on his feet, warned by the sudden narrowing of Borodin’s eyes.
A second’s advantage.
Difference between life and death.
Maybe I’ll still die. No one comes out alive against five. But I’ll take him with me.
His thighs slammed his chair back and sent it spinning in the direction of two men behind him.
The beast leapt inside him, a hand shot out and grabbed the second chair and swung it behind blindly, all one smooth fluid movement, muscle, adrenaline and animal fury powering it.
The seat slammed into two of the men, catching one in the groin, another in his midriff.
Zeb saw both of them fall through the corner of his eye as he dived at Borodin across the desk.
Aim for his left shoulder.
Gun in his hand, arm rising.
Breathe. Concentrate weight. Go under gun arm.
Zeb’s left shoulder slammed into Borodin’s, his dead weight driving the gangster into the wall, and felt the shock of the impact through the man’s body. Pain became heat as his broken rib and knife wound absorbed the collision.
Through the flaring pain he heard the gangster groan as his head rocked back against the wall. His left arm came around involuntarily to grab Zeb.
Zeb’s mind was grey fog as it compartmentalized, boxed the agony and let the beast seek spaces and opportunities for attack.
Zeb stumbled, used that to go under the searching arm, pulled Borodin forward and went behind him
Opportunity.
Left arm under left shoulder, hand over neck, right arm on throat. .
Now.
Power surged through Zeb’s arms as he forced Borodin’s head down, using the man’s resistance to choke him.
Two seconds from standing.
Borodin was Bossman for a reason. He roared again and slammed back his attacker against the wall and a tortured groan escaped Zeb.
Bossman’s gun waved wildly and the two approaching men stopped uncertainly. A wayward gun didn’t distinguish between friend or foe.
Zeb ignored them.
Don’t lose hold. Squeeze.
The beast tightened.
The men took another step forward. The gun arm started turning back. Borodin braced his feet, grunted with effort as he trapped Zeb against the wall and crushed him in turn.
Ignore. Let ribs break. Let shoulder bleed.
Sweat coated Zeb’s arms and made them slippery.
He locked his right wrist against his left arm, flexed his muscles, narrowed space, and narrowed time.
The first man reached them, hands reached out to free Borodin.
Borodin gurgled, his face turned red, but he didn’t let up on his backward push.
The second man aimed a blow at Zeb’s head. Zeb didn’t duck it, he couldn’t and took it on his temple. Saw stars.
His choke loosened. The beast scrambled. The hold tightened.
One man forcing his arms open, Borodin’s inexorable squeeze, the second man raining blows.
Can’t last. Cavalry better come fast.
The grey fog thinned as a fist slammed on his throat.
Lake. Seek the lake.
The lake was where his mind was calm, where he detached from his body. Life began in the lake, death ended there.
He commanded his body to hold, hold till the last breath, and moved toward it.
Another blow and he dived and sound and time dimmed.
The door crashed open.
Zeb didn’t see it.
Voices shouted and a gun roared. Zeb didn’t hear it.
Hands forced his choke hold.
He didn’t respond.
Then from the distance he heard his name called. The beast swam back and peered out. It climbed on the shore and recognized faces.
Broker, Bwana, the sisters. Three men cuffed. Another led away.
Borodin gasping in raw deep tearing breaths.
Oxygen filled Zeb’s lungs and cleared his mind and the beast started fading away, but not before it turned back and snarled.
‘Lester Benjamin says hello.’
Chapter 25
A week later Pizaka and Chang were in the Columbus Avenue office. Pizaka wore a smug smile that went with a light blue jacket over a white linen shirt and tan slacks.
‘He’s singing,’ Pizaka stood in front of the picture window and patted his hair.
‘Or rather, one of his men is. But his confession to you is good for us and we struck gold in his office. A notebook with a series of numbers in his handwriting, a code that our cryptologists cracked in a couple of days. Details of various drug deals that we can link to arrests we made. His thug’s corroboration of events will be the final nail.’
‘Mirror’s over there,’ Meghan told him and received a baleful look from him and a wink from Chang.
Chang mouthed. He’s happy. Lots of screen and print time.
Newspapers and TV channels had lauded the NYPD on apprehending BBK as well as arresting Borodin soon after. Coverage meant interviews and Pizaka went where the headlines were.
Pizaka moved away from the window and shrugged a shoulder at Zeb who was sprawled on a couch with his eyes closed. ‘How’s he?’
Zeb had misjudged Borodin. He’d planned to needle the man deliberately so that he’d lose control and perhaps confess, but he’d not reckoned on his killing rage.
He’d assumed the cameras covering the entrances would be enough to deter the Russian. Bossman’s men had spread out to intercept the sisters and Bwana, but those three had been alerted by the bug and were ready and waiting. Along with a bunch of cops led by Chang.
Subduing the hoods took longer than expected and by the time the cops breached Bossman’s office, Zeb was heartbeats away from being overpowered and killed.
Broker stroked his shaggy hair. ‘He pulled some Oriental trick and bought time for himself, don’t ask me what or how. His rib will take longer to heal. But the knife wound will be okay.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘A few more days and he’ll be back at your service to apprehend perps you couldn’t. ’
Pizaka ignored the jibe and looked down at Zeb curiously. ‘Is he asleep? Do you guys always talk over and through him?’
Zeb opened his eyes. ‘Yeah, they do. They get a kick out of it. Any luck with the assassin?
’ He swung his legs, stood up and located Bwana who was sprawled with his feet up on the desk.
‘You heard anything?’
Bwana had been tapping their network for any juice on the mysterious assassin.
‘Nothing, bro.’
Chang thrust a sheet at Zeb.
‘Don’t give up on the NYPD yet, my friend. That’s a likeness of the killer. Three of Borodin’s men saw him with Bossman a few times. Our artist sketched that guy based on their description. The hoods said Borodin hired this assassin for Benjamin and Broker. They met three times, once in his bar and twice at a Laundromat the gang boss owns. We checked security cameras in the neighborhood, witnesses and got nothing there. This sketch is all we have for now.’
Zeb glanced at it and passed it over to Broker.
Average.
What did you expect? A sign on his forehead?
‘Nothing pinged our database.’ Chang continued.
‘Check Interpol.’
‘Okay! You suspect he isn’t American?’
‘I’m pretty sure he isn’t. I think he’s Russian, maybe ex-Spetsnaz.’
Pizaka arched a beautifully tailored eyebrow. ‘You know this how?’
‘I’m guessing that’s how.’ Zeb removed the sarcasm from his voice. There wasn’t any point in riling Pizaka. ‘You see any Americans in Borodin’s businesses? He only worked with Russians.’
‘Check Borodin’s accounts, especially his offshore ones. The money trail might lead us somewhere.’
Pizaka sniffed as Chang and he turned to leave. ‘Thanks, but we know how to run an investigation.’
Someone snorted and he whirled round with a glare but got only blank faces in return.
Zeb was in Moscow the next week, in the back of a cab that looked very similar to the yellow cabs from his home city. He had flown commercial to Sheremetyevo and planned to fly back the same evening.
He would have preferred to avoid the grueling twenty-two hours of total flying, but the man he was meeting was old school, Zeb and he went back a long way.
Grigor Andropov was to meet him in a quiet corner of a hotel lounge in the Basmanny District of the city, a lounge that was miraculously free of tourists.
Nothing miraculous about it. Grigor’s men have probably cleared it.
