by Ty Patterson
The sheriff watched him out of the corner of his eyes as Carter buckled himself in and after issuing a few more instructions to Packman who was staying back to retrieve the body, set off on their bumpy ride.
‘What kind of consulting?’ he broke the silence finally when his companion made no effort to converse. The man’s barely moving. I’ve seen more animated statues, he grumped to himself.
‘All kinds. Perimeter security, premises, protection of executives,’ Carter replied without elaborating anymore.
‘Big firm?’
‘Nope. There are eight of us. We hire contractors if we need more people.’
Garav drummed his fingers on the wheel, fiddled with his radio, and finally burst out. ‘Heck of a thing. We had one accidental death in the last five years, a drunk who mishandled his gun. We’ve never had a murder. Heck of a way to die, out there.’
Garav felt the weight of Carter’s stare and shifted in his seat. His butt was acting up again, but he didn’t want to yield to the itch in the man’s presence.
‘You’ll know who he is, soon enough.’
‘Yeah? How do you figure?’
‘If he was in the Army, they’ll have his DNA records.’
Garav turned red at the blindingly obvious answer and laughed self-consciously. ‘You must be thinking we’re dumb hicks. Small town sheriff, what’ll he know?’
‘It would have come to you, Sheriff. I had more time to think about it. Don’t run yourself down.’
The softly spoken words were strangely comforting to Garav as he relaxed in the silent presence of Carter.
Zeb stood apart from the sheriff when they reached the motel, giving him space to verify Zeb’s story. He wandered to a wall which displayed a map of Oregon and rested his finger on Portland, the largest city in the state. I can continue my hike or…he turned to the reception desk when a shout interrupted his musing.
Garav was hunched over his phone, barking questions, his back to the desk, one hand gesticulating furiously. Zeb waited till he had finished his call and had warded off questions from the woman behind the desk.
‘A problem?’ he asked Garav.
The sheriff raked his hands through his hair and glared at Zeb in anger, a rage that Zeb knew wasn’t directed at him.
‘Cherie Klattenbach lives in Dalton, about an hour from here, at the edge of the county. Nice, classy, lady. Can do no wrong. She’s got a lovely daughter, Morgan. Morgan and my kid were classmates.’
Zeb waited, knowing the sheriff was going somewhere with his rambling.
The sheriff looked out of the motel, in the direction of the desert, his eyes unseeing.
‘That’s Mike Klattenbach, out there. Cherie’s ex-husband.’
Chapter 3
Arkadian Privalov rose from his uncomfortable seat and yawned, his fingers brushing the roof of the sand colored RV as he stretched. Privalov’s six-foot-seven-inch tall and muscled frame filled the inside of the vehicle and made it look small.
Privalov had been in the RV since the day before the fight, three days ago now, planning, organizing, and making sure everything went just right. He didn’t go to the fight scene himself, he had men under his command who managed the spectators and organized the floodlights. He had more people who manned two perimeters; one was half a mile away from the fight, a loose circle that was tightly guarded, while the other was a further mile away.
Privalov based himself in the RV, his central command, and monitored the fights, the arena, and the perimeters. During the fight he had three drones in the air which sent feeds to monitors in his command vehicle. One drone circled the fight, another circled the first perimeter, and the last one surveyed the outer ring of guards.
He also had men posted on the nearest highway or access road, during each fight, and in the nearest towns as well. He had a police scanner in his RV that would alert him of any law enforcement movement, and often bribed small town police officers to look the other way.
Privalov had been running the fights for a long while now and had perfected their operation. Not one fight had come to the attention of law enforcement. Not a single fight had ever surfaced in the media. There was an internet betting channel for the fight, there was a live internet relay that went out all over the world, the underground network of spectators was growing, as were the fighters lining up to participate.
Not a squeak to the outside world despite all that, Privalov smiled grimly and ran a hand over its stubble. It made a rasping sound and reminded him to take a shower.
He patted the shoulder of the other occupant in the RV, Grigory, the drone operator and computer whiz, and disappeared into the bathroom.
His boss, a man in New York who even Privalov, ex-Spetsnaz-turned-mafia-king-turned fights-organizer, feared, had come up with the idea of the fights. His boss had been visiting a harsh Siberian prison, one that was closer to a gulag in its condition and treatment of its inmates, than to a modern penal facility, when a fight had broken out among inmates.
His boss had watched in fascination as the guards made no attempt to stop the fight and instead, cheered the fighters on till one of them died. The victor had ripped off the dead man’s ears, had stuffed them down his uniform, and had raised his blood-stained hands in victory. The watching guards had applauded him briefly and had then brutally felled him with their truncheons. In the prison, there would be only one victor – the guards.
His boss had come away with the idea of organizing underground fights, to the death, and the Death Club had been born.
The first fight took place in the cold winter of Siberia, in a snow-laden forest, with ten fighters and fifty spectators. All fighters were ex-cons and had been carefully vetted. Each and every spectator was similarly scrutinized and extensive background checks had been carried out. The spectators, then, had paid a paltry thousand dollars to witness men killing one another.
The fee had grown several fold since then, and the Death Club fights were as well run as any international boxing or MMA championship.
Not all fights resulted in a man dying. Privalov and his boss had learned lessons from the early days – there was a limit to how many people they could make disappear in a single night.
Now, each Death Club fight night had just five fighters. A software program written by Grigory gave them coded names. The same program made the draws and the five men fought one another, in a sequence the program generated. The losers in the build-up fights were severely maimed and many of them ended up being crippled for life. However, they lived.
The final fight was the only one in which the victor killed the loser.
The fighters had to pay to participate, but there were some exceptions. Former soldiers could fight for free. There was something about men who had served their countries, participating in such illegal fights. It added to the glamour of those particular fights.
The combatants came from all over the world, drawn by the prize money, a cool million dollars to the winner. It was not just the winner, but every participant, whether winner or loser, got a reward. Every fighter had to state a relative or a friend, any one person, to whom their prize money would go in the event of their death. The prize money was disbursed to the nominees via an insurance policy that was administered by companies whose ultimate ownership was untraceable. The final winner got the money in cash.
The fights didn’t have referees. There were no time-outs. There were no doctors to render any aid. A Death Club fight night was organized in the open, in remote areas, under the glare of vehicle mounted flood-lights. Spectators, those who attended in person, formed a loose ring around the fighters.
The fights had minimal rules. Fighters had to be barechested. No weapons were allowed. A loser had to explicitly state he was surrendering. The final loser had no such choice. Everything else was game.
Fighters could use any style of fighting, they could wear gloves or go bare-handed. They could kick, maim, punch, or break limbs. They could bite, and draw blood. A loser, a surviving loser
, had to make his own arrangements to leave the scene, if he was maimed.
Every surviving fighter had to abide by several rules. They usually made more money in a single fight night than they had ever earned. That prize money came with a code of conduct. The money couldn’t be flashed about. They couldn’t go into a bar immediately afterwards and buy a round of drinks for one and all. They couldn’t splurge on fancy cars or a home, in the immediate aftermath of a fight.
They had to spend the money discreetly. They didn’t have a choice, since there would be a team of PIs, private investigators, watching over them for two years after every fight night. Default resulted in death.
Initially it was the prize money that was the draw, that attracted the fighters; now the Death Club had acquired an underground cult status and Privalov was in the position of turning away more fighters than he took on. He had to turn down spectators as well, in their hundreds, since only rigorously vetted audience members and fighters gained entry.
Fighters came from all over the world; there were North Americans, South Americans, Chinese fighters, South African men, Russian criminals … there were participants from countries Privalov hadn’t heard of. All were usually ex-cons, active criminals, or ex-soldiers who had fallen on hard times. Most of the fighters had experience of close quarters combat. Many of them knew martial arts of some kind. All of them had fought with their bare hands. All of them had their lives on a downward spiral; the Death Club’s prize money offered them the ultimate opt-out clause.
Every fighter or spectator had to give their real-life details to the Death Club. They had to reveal their family members, their employment, and names of all their friends. Privalov had a team of vetters, a bunch of experienced PIs on permanent retainer, who went through the backgrounds and came back with either a green or a red light.
The PIs didn’t know they were working for the Death Club. They came from different law firms that dealt in messy cases - runaway dads, domestic abuse, bail jumpers, criminals, corporate espionage – all sufficient grounds for using PIs. The PIs were used to some of their clients dying unexpectedly. After all, they were used to dealing with shady clients and knew when to turn a blind eye. If they suspected anything about the Death Club, they kept it to themselves. Staying alive was a little more important than keeping their license.
The gamblers, those who bet on the club’s website on the darknet, were similarly investigated, as was the live feed audience.
The Death Club’s reputation was such that all knew a red light meant a killing. No mercy was shown to anyone who had provided wrong details or whose background didn’t stack up. Privalov’s private army of enforcers took decisive action if a red light turned up, and the defaulter’s body usually turned up in an alley.
The club’s website followed up the killing by posting a picture of the body. It was a stark message to all fighters and spectators. The Death Club lived up to its name.
Privalov and his boss could more than afford the expenses involved in running the Death Club. The Death Club’s turnover ran to eight figures, all transactions were in cash or in Bitcoin. Tax? That was an alien concept.
Privalov had initially organized the fight nights in Russia, Ukraine and parts of Eastern Europe, and in several countries in South America and Africa. The boss had then suggested organizing the first fight night in the U.S.
It had taken a long while to get everything in place, but that first Death Club fight in the U.S. had opened their eyes to the revenue potential in that country. There was something about organizing illegal fights in the most powerful nation on earth; it made the fighters willingly ante up the high participation fee. It was just high enough to ensure only serious combatants applied.
The attending spectators shelled out the astronomical admission fees without demur. The gamblers and the internet audience didn’t blink when the subscription fees shot through the roof.
Privalov and his boss had planned for all contingencies. They had layers of companies that distanced themselves from the fights. No one had seen them - not the fighters, nor the audience. Privalov’s people, those who were in contact with the fighters and the attendees, were disposable. They were criminals with extensive gang affiliations.
No one knew who owned or ran the Death Club. It just was.
Privalov had a strong cover if his RV or his drones were discovered. At a click of a button, all data would be erased, and an earth-mapping program would come on the screen. The RV was registered to a geological survey firm and Privalov, under another name, was in its employ.
Privalov stayed in the RV for three days at the fight scene after each fight night. The loser’s body was buried in that time and all traces of the fight were erased. The team of organizers were then disbanded and Privalov departed, to start planning the next one.
Privalov emerged from the bathroom and stood in front of a mirror, toweling his hair. He grimaced as he thought back to the night. This one hadn’t gone as smoothly as he wished.
Three days since the fight and they still hadn’t been able to bury the body.
Once the fight was over and all the spectators had left, his men had started digging a deep grave under the floodlights. However, an urgent call from the man on the highway had halted them. The highway watcher had warned of a convoy of police cruisers on the move.
Privalov’s organizers had turned off the floodlights and had melted into the darkness; he had assumed the role of earth mapper. That alarm had proven to be false, but the next two days were similarly jinxed.
A crop-dusting plane had criss-crossed the desert in the daylight hours and had put off the burying.
Then that hiker had turned up, followed by the sheriff.
Privalov buttoned a blue shirt and tucked it into his jeans and joined Grigory at the screens.
‘Where are they?’
‘Burns and Portland.’
Burns was where the hiker currently was. Portland was where the winner was.
Privalov had a problem with both of them.
Chapter 4
Marcello Descadeo waved a large hand in the air and roared, ‘Another round for my friends,’ to the bartender and smiled broadly at the approving cheers and whistles. He caught his reflection in the glass behind the bar; large frame, bald, bearded, tats all over his face and arm, he was a handsome one. He would find some woman to spend the night with and show her what a real man was.
A man thumped his back and clunked his mug with Descadeo’s and shouted something in his ears. Descadeo felt warm and happy. His friends deserved to enjoy his success, even if it was the first time that he had met them. Heck, the whole of Portland deserved to enjoy. He lumbered around to yell out, to call even those on the street, but some element of caution stirred in him.
He clamped his mouth shut and turned back to the bar and grabbed his mug and gulped it noisily.
Descadeo had driven out of the high desert with the rear seat of his Chevy full of plastic bags. The bags were stuffed with bills, used bills, in small denominations. Descadeo hadn’t seen a hundred thousand dollars in one go, let alone a million and every now and then he had glanced back to check he wasn’t dreaming. Nope. The bags were there.
He reached out and grabbed one with his right hand and brought out a wad of notes and smelled them. They didn’t smell anything special, but to him they felt like drugs. He rolled down his window and let fly a few bills in the night air and howled at the sky like a wolf.
A wolf. That’s what he was. He had been a hitter, once, for a Colombian drugs gang. He had gotten into trouble with his own gang for pocketing some of the baggies and had escaped by wiping out a local boss and his lieutenants.
He knew there would be a contract out on him and had made his way to Mexico. There, he had paid a chunk of money to coyotes who had gotten him across the border and into the U.S. He had relaxed a bit, but not much. Looking over his shoulder had become a habit, but when he was in a bar in New Mexico, with some drug runners from another gang, he had thoug
ht of the Death Club.
He had gone to one of its fight nights in Mexico and had registered as a fighter on the spot. He had paid up front and had been told there would be a verification process. ‘What, like the chota, the police?’ he had sneered and had straightened when the organizer had given him a cold stare.
Several months later he had been told he had been selected and could put himself forward for any of the fights on the underground website. He had immediately applied and had been put on a waiting list. He had seen more fights and was confident he would beat anyone he came across.
The high desert fight was pure coincidence; he had gone back to his motel room and had logged into its WiFi, after going through several proxies and had seen the message. A fighter had dropped out, would he be interested?
Heck yeah! He loved fighting. He loved killing too.
The fights had been brutal and unfortunately he hadn’t been able to kill all, except the last one. That last dude had been good, seriously good, and there were moments when Descadeo had felt scared, but he had prevailed in the end.
The organizers had offered him cash or Bitcoin, he had chosen cash. He didn’t trust the electronic currency, even though all gangs used it. An organizer had helped load the bags in his car, all the while repeating the rules, and for a moment, Descadeo had felt like crushing his throat.
He had driven away quickly, the rules floating out of his mind like the wind rushing past his Chevy. First stop would be Portland, to celebrate. Tomorrow, who knew about tomorrow? With all those bills in his car, he could forget about any tomorrow.
He had found the bar on Albina Avenue and after moving the bags to the trunk, had started his party.
