by Ty Patterson
‘Felix,’ Meghan cupped her phone between her shoulder and ear and slid into a pair of jeans and a tee. ‘You don’t know how important that was.’
She hung up on the amazed fence, and considered waking Beth, who was in the neighboring apartment.
Let her sleep. Two of us aren’t needed.
Their apartments were in the same building as their office. She jabbed the elevator button, her mind whirling as she considered Hidalgo’s call.
A game.
She rushed to her screen and woke it up.
Logged into the link they had found on Kloops’ records.
The online game came up.
Felt as if she had been punched in the gut when she saw the two new characters. Female. Brown hair. Green eyes. Twins. She read the descriptions: Hard-as-nails private investigators. Formidable record in putting away criminals. Have gone up against Mexican cartels and terrorists. Supported by a team of former Special Forces operatives.
She sat in a daze as the pieces fell into place in her mind.
It is the ultimate role-playing game. Nikolai creates characters who are all someone rich, famous, or powerful in real life. He opens the game to anyone who has an interest in killing. They bid.
Beth and I aren’t famous, she argued with herself.
No, but we threaten him. Which is why he created our personas and wrote us up that way.
She gasped when she saw the bid amounts next to their characters. He has hooked his audience by mentioning cartels, terrorists.
His audience … people like Kloops who have money and who like killing.
Her fingers danced over keys and brought up previous characters who had been eliminated.
Commanded Werner to find correlations in real life.
The supercomputer was one of a kind, its original program developed by a pair of Stanford graduates. The NSA had heard of its capabilities and had come calling. Zeb and Broker had outbid the agency and had acquired full rights and title to the software.
Thereafter, Broker, who was one of the best intelligence analysts in the Western world, had improved it. He was also a hacker.
The sisters had further enhanced it when they joined the Agency.
Werner had no match, and it returned results quickly.
A Russian pop star killed in a spectacular shooting in Moscow during a concert. A British diplomat shot at close range when he was in a St. Petersburg hotel’s restroom. An American billionaire knifed as he was exiting a restaurant. Meghan remembered the headlines as the incidents had occurred.
More than fifty kills in five years. All of famous, powerful, and wealthy people.
All in Russia. Except for Angie Konstantin.
Meghan searched for her character, and there she was, right at the top, just beneath the female PIs. Billionaire’s daughter. Loads of attitude. Well-protected. Several attempts failed.
She froze when she saw that a bid had been recently accepted for her.
She grabbed her phone and called Zeb.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The shooters’ vehicle raced down Amsterdam Avenue, blasting past several red lights. A cab honked angrily; a truck swerved to get out of its way.
Zeb followed, several car lengths behind. His headlights were turned off. But they’ll know we’re chasing. Not much traffic for me to blend in.
He wasn’t worried that the hitters would know about their pursuit. It was their getting away he wanted to stop.
He stomped on the gas just as the speakers announced an incoming call.
‘Can you take it?’ he asked Angie, who leaned forward and pressed the console.
‘Zeb!’ Meghan’s voice. Strained.
She’s awake?
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s a game,’ she rushed. ‘There’s another hit on Angie.’
‘Yeah, we know,’ the heiress replied, her face lightening in a smile despite her fear.
‘Angie? You’re with him? What’s going on?’
Zeb couldn’t help nodding in approval when Konstantin’s daughter replied in a short burst. No wordy descriptions, no dramatic pauses. Angie was learning by association with them.
‘What do you mean, a game?’ Zeb asked when the heiress finished.
His lips tightened when Meghan explained. Eyes on the fleeing vehicle, which was still rocketing away in a straight line down the avenue. Conscious that traffic would increase when they hit midtown.
Chances of them getting away will increase.
‘Do you know who’s won the bid?’
‘It’s a player, but they don’t have descriptions. Only the characters do.’
‘Can you find out?’
‘I have put Werner on it, but don’t get your hopes high.’
Something in her voice.
‘What else?’
‘Beth and I,’ Meghan said softly, ‘we are characters, too. Bids on us are rising.’
Zeb felt a roaring in his ears. Darkness rose in him and threatened to engulf him. He swallowed, summoned his control and let the consuming rage dissolve into his bloodstream. The blackness inside him had a purpose. It sharpened him, gave him an edge. He called it the beast. It’s not yet time to be unleashed.
‘Let me find out,’ he told her, and when she had hung up, he snatched a glance at Angie.
Wide eyes. Pale even in the dim light inside the vehicle. Staring at him.
‘Do you trust me?’
‘With my life,’ she replied instantly.
‘Get down. Stay down. Don’t raise your head until I say so.’
She slid her seat back and crouched.
‘There are belts on the floorboards for such situations. Fasten them. The door is cushioned. Lean against it,’ he said. ‘It will be a bumpy ride.’
He sent the SUV flying forward. It was big, bulky, but it had several hundred horses racing under its hood, a customized engine that could outpace most street vehicles.
The getaway vehicle was a Yukon. He could see its plates as he got closer. Shadows inside, but he couldn’t be sure.
No one fired at him. They know that will alert the cops.
They flashed past an intersection, horns blaring, two vehicles speeding at a suicidal pace.
Empty space opened up ahead. A long stretch of avenue on which he could see no traffic.
Now!
The turbocharged engine responded easily. Torque flowed through its transmission, spinning its wheels faster, putting asphalt behind them.
The escaping vehicle’s tail lights flashed momentarily as it approached another intersection.
‘Brace!’
Zeb crashed into its rear.
Metal screamed and plastic shredded. The impact jolted him and thrust him savagely forward. His belt bit into his shoulder and neck. He had eyes only on the vehicle in front, which rocked and yawed sideways, smoke arising from its wheels.
Angie cried out.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ she mumbled.
He didn’t hear anything more. He was out of the vehicle, crouched low, shooting out the Yukon’s tires. Most people were disoriented after a crash; he was counting on the shooters to be in a similar state.
He ducked behind the Yukon’s rear. Snapped back when the driver’s side opened.
Peered out again. Saw a man lurch out and fall.
He leapt forward, grabbed the hitter, turned him around to face the vehicle, his Glock tight against the man’s neck, using him as a shield.
Another door opened. A barrel thrust out.
He shot through the crack, moving sideways, dragging the driver with him, his Glock roaring in the night, punching holes in the windows and tearing through the sidewalls of the Yukon.
‘Stop!’ a voice yelled from inside, ‘Don’t shoot!’
The driver tried to resist. Went limp when Zeb struck him savagely in the temple with his Glock and pointed it back at the vehicle. One arm around the man’s neck, holding him upright, almost choking him. The other, aiming the gun
at the shattered Yukon, which trembled on its suspension as bodies inside moved.
‘Come out. Hands above your head. Empty,’ he warned.
He had only the driver to use as cover. It wasn’t ideal, but he had no choice. Time was of the essence.
Before the cops show up and these shooters disappear into the system.
‘Don’t shoot, man,’ a voice wavered.
The passenger door opened wider. A hitter emerged awkwardly, his hands high in the air.
‘Turn around,’ Zeb snapped at him. ‘Face the vehicle.’
Zeb moved, dragging the unconscious driver with him, and positioned himself behind the shooter.
More cover.
A second heavy climbed out, turned around and faced the vehicle without being prompted.
Zeb looked over their shoulders. Two shadows in the rear.
‘Ask them to come out.’
‘They’re wounded, man,’ one of the hitters responded. ‘The crash and your rounds got them.’
‘Get them out. No, just one of you. Don’t reach for any weapons.’
The shooter who had spoken shuffled towards the Yukon. He bent through its door, leaned inside and whirled around suddenly, an AR-15 in his hands.
Zeb double-tapped him instantly, dropping him, then trained his Glock inside the vehicle.
‘Don’t shoot,’ the second shooter moaned, his hands cupping his ears, his body shivering. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’
‘Get your friends out,’ Zeb ordered him.
The man stepped over the body, grabbed a heavy, dragged him out and laid him on the street. He drew the second man out.
One had a chest wound; the other had a gash in his neck. Both were bleeding profusely, their eyes flickering.
‘Who were the shooters at the apartment?’
‘Them three.’ The survivor pointed at the bodies on the ground.
‘Turn around.’
The heavy faced Zeb, his eyes bloodshot and wary.
Zeb let the driver fall and stepped aside.
He lowered his gun and shot the heavy in the thigh.
The man fell, screaming, clutching his leg.
Zeb watched him yowl for a moment and then asked.
‘Who are you?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Amsterdam Avenue near West 108th was cordoned off and flooded with cruisers by the time Meghan and Beth arrived.
Four am. The city was waking up. Pizaka looked fresh, as though ready to go into a corporate board meeting. His suit was crisp, his shirt unwrinkled, as he sipped coffee from a paper cup and nodded at the sisters.
Meghan and Beth flashed their NYPD creds and approached Zeb and Angie. The older sister had woken her twin after ending her call with Zeb. She had briefed Beth hastily and, after pulling up Zeb’s location, had detailed her findings to the cops as she had driven down.
Konstantin’s daughter had a heavy jacket wrapped around her body, a dark bruise on her forehead.
‘My fault,’ she told Meghan when the elder sister shot her a questioning look. ‘Zeb asked me to belt myself. I didn’t. I wasn’t expecting him to crash into the other vehicle.’
‘How many dead?’ Beth surveyed EMS teams as they bustled.
‘Only one,’ Chang appeared at their side holding two coffee cups. They accepted the drinks gratefully as he continued. ‘Zeb shot him. Three more are injured.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Harlem Stone Mafia.’
Beth nodded in recognition. The street gang had been in the news for several drug deals and killings.
‘What’s the connection to Angie?’ Her sister swallowed her drink and threw the cup into a trash can. ‘We didn’t find any link to them. No threats from them.’
‘They said there was a reward for killing her. That’s all we got out of them. They clammed up immediately.’
Meghan watched Zeb, who was standing to the side, watching the heavies climb into a police van. He felt her gaze and came across. ‘Low-level shooters,’ he told them. ‘One of their captains — that’s what they call their senior leaders — is a serious gamer. It looked like he knew of Nikolai’s game. Went for the bid.’
‘I asked, politely,’ Zeb told Chang when the cop stared at him open-mouthed.
‘You didn’t tell us.’
‘You didn’t ask. You wanted to know how many I had killed and how many vehicles I had wrecked.’
‘These dudes are stone-cold killers,’ Chang huffed. ‘They told you all this, just like that?’
‘Only one man spilled. The one who had the thigh wound. I was very polite.’
Chang gave up. He knew how Zeb worked.
‘How did they know where to hit? I thought you had checked Angie’s phone for bugs.’
‘No bugs on it. They tracked her number. The gang is sophisticated enough for that. As soon as she made the call —’
‘You made her call. You wanted to see who else was interested in her.’
Zeb shrugged.
Chang gave him a baleful stare and resumed. ‘This gang isn’t that big. That bid was a high six figures.’
‘Two other gangs got together.’ Zeb waited for a cruiser’s siren to die. ‘They pooled their funds. The Harlem Stone Mafia undertook the hit.’
Chang patted his thinning hair into place. ‘What was in it for them?’
‘Street cred.’
He blew out his cheeks and nodded. It was the way some of the smaller gangs worked. They protected their turf, dealt in drugs and tried to make a name for themselves. One way to do that was spectacular deals or kills. The accompanying publicity would bring more business for them. Such as from other criminal gangs who wanted problems solved but didn’t want to use their own hitters.
‘None of that will be admissible in a court,’ Chang said morosely, kicking at a stray wrapper.
‘None of what?’ His partner approached them.
Pizaka listened in silence and surprised them with his reaction.
‘Zeb did what he had to. No, I am not high,’ he told them. ‘These are small fish. It is Razor we should be worried about.’
‘You know something about him?’ Zeb asked.
‘No, and that’s what worries me.’
Razor was out on a run as the cops were wrapping up the incident. He took a long, looping route from his East Village apartment, along the East River, around Trinity Church, finishing at Tompkins Square Park.
Sweat was pouring off him when he warmed down by practicing a few katas. Joggers and cyclists glanced at him as they passed. There was a balletic grace to his movements. That wasn’t surprising; at one time, Razor had been a promising balletic dancer in Moscow and had dreams of joining the Bolshoi Ballet.
It would have astounded the passersby to know the man they were watching was one of the most lethal killers in the country.
Razor had received the call from his Kremlin boss a few days back. That had been followed by the frantic message from Nikolai. The killer had removed a burner phone from its wrapping, called the former arms dealer, and winced at the torrent of words.
‘Slow down,’ he said, gutturally.
Razor’s voice didn’t match his average looks. It was gravelly, deep, and sounded like stones and mud scraping on metal.
He liked his voice. It scared his victims, and that was an excellent starting point for whatever he planned to do with them.
Nikolai slowed down. He described the two women. PIs, he said, with an office somewhere on Columbus Avenue. They had to be taken down.
Razor’s boss had warned him about Nikolai. That he had some kind of game that people bid for. The assassin’s lips had twisted when he heard that. It was the first time he had heard of an online game transferred to reality. It didn’t surprise him, however. Nothing did.
‘When?’ he interrupted the Russian’s description of the women.
‘As soon as possible.’
‘How?’
‘How what?’ Nikolai yelled.
Razor glanced
at the phone. The man at the other end of the call was losing it. There must be something to the arms dealer, otherwise his boss wouldn’t have kept him around for so long.
‘How do you want them to die?’
The killer could end life in several ways. If a message had to be conveyed to his boss’s enemies, he would use radioactive poisoning. If a natural death was desired, he could arrange a bathroom accident. If a victim needed to just disappear, that could be arranged, too. Torture? He was a master at it.
His question seemed to have made Nikolai pause and think, because the Russian didn’t answer immediately.
‘They should know they messed with me.’
‘A statement killing?’
‘No. That will attract heat. No shooting or knifing, either. That’s too quick. They have to suffer.’
Razor grunted, and as he was about to hang up, Nikolai spoke.
‘They have friends. They are former Special Forces. They have a reputation. Be careful.’
Razor almost snorted.
No cop knew who he was or what he looked like.
Careful?
He was the very definition of it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘How can a killer not be known to any police force in the country? Or abroad?’ Meghan tapped a pencil against a cup.
She and Beth were having a small conference in their office, at midday. The same attendees as the previous one, with one difference. Konstantin did not have Stan. The billionaire had come alone, and when he had met his daughter, he had hugged her.
Meghan had waited for him to blow a fuse. Rail at them for having Angie go through a car chase.
Konstantin surprised them by saying nothing.
Maybe he’s realizing how we work now. And can see that his daughter’s still alive and unharmed.
‘Chang? Pizaka?’ she asked the two cops, the former sprawled in his seat, a cup in his hand, the latter with his legs crossed, a picture of elegance.
‘We’re here to think?’ Chang mumbled. ‘We came for the coffee!’ He took a loud pull, smacked his lips, placed his cup on the table and assumed a thoughtful expression.
‘We checked and double-checked. No Nikolai. There are enough Russian killers in our records, but no one matches the description your informer gave.’
