by Ty Patterson
‘Back off,’ he warned.
Zeb tensed, ready to make a move. The men weren’t pros. A pro wouldn’t go for hand combat. He didn’t know who they were, but the man with the gun didn’t look like a novice. Still, there were ways to defeat a drawn gun. A police cruiser’s siren sounded in the night and changed the dynamics.
Zeb felt rather than saw the gunman’s finger tighten and flung himself to the ground. A bullet chipped concrete in his face and he squeezed his eyes tight for a second. His Glock was rising, aiming, when he opened them, but the men were fleeing, fast, even the one with the broken nose.
He got to his feet and was tempted to follow them, but cooler reason prevailed. It could be a trap. They know the city better than I. He stood listening for a few moments and the running feet soon faded away, as did the cruiser’s wail.
He berated himself for not handling the situation better. Three amateurs bested you! He shook his head in self-disgust. Neutralizing three hoods of the kind he had just faced shouldn’t have tasked him. He kicked a pebble and watched it roll under his vehicle, when he remembered one of the attacker’s words. He patted his pockets. His phone and his gun were still on him. His wallet was missing.
Was that all they were after? Were they muggers? If they were, it figures he didn’t shoot to kill or injure. A gunshot wound would have brought a whole heap of different trouble on their heads. His wallet didn’t have anything vital in it. A couple of hundreds. My cards. My business cards. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced. The SUV had wads of bills in different denominations stuffed beneath the floorboards. The wallet didn’t have anything in it that linked to the agency or to his investigation.
Maybe that’s all they were. Muggers. Bevcic’s men would have been more dangerous. And would have used guns or knives. He fired off a message to Werner to de-activate his cards and drove out of the parking lot, keeping an eye out for his assailants. He saw no one and other than a couple of delivery vans, there was no traffic.
He went past Bevcic’s restaurant; it was closed for the night. He will have disappeared. It will be difficult to find him now. He kicked himself mentally one last time and headed out in search of a hotel.
He found one, at the edge of the city, on the I-84. It looked clean, had enough parking spaces and more importantly, had a diner. The clerk behind the counter stared at his face for several seconds before hastily checking him in when Zeb narrowed his eyes.
He went to the diner and found a corner table with his back to a wood-paneled wall and thanked the server who brought him a pot of coffee. The diner had twenty tables, most of which were empty. A trucker stared into his coffee mug at one, a bleary-eyed family tucked into a very late dinner … or was it an early breakfast? A woman was hunched over her plate, seated across from her husband or boyfriend, at another table.
Zeb paid no attention to any of them. He placed his order and turned on his screen. No news of Bevcic. It looked like he hadn’t gone to the cops. Why would he? Werner reported no update on Klattenbach’s investigation. It confirmed that the state police were the lead agency and that Garav would be out of the loop. Not surprising.
The first inkling he got that the night wasn’t over yet, was when a voice intruded on his thoughts.
‘That’s my money, bitch. You don’t have the right to give it away.’
Zeb looked up. It came from the couple’s table. The man was glaring at the woman, uncaring of the looks that came their way.
‘He was a veteran, Larry. Homeless, and it was just ten dollars,’ she squirmed in her seat, making herself as small as possible.
‘It. Was. My. Money,’ he waved his dinner knife at her, threateningly. ‘You don’t spend it or give it away, not without my say so.’ She looked away from him and flushed when she met Zeb’s eyes. She turned her head away quickly and made herself even smaller in her chair.
Zeb went back to his dinner. It was warm and he hoped the man would stay quiet till he was done. The man didn’t. He continued his tirade, in a harsh voice that was audible throughout the diner. His language made Zeb clench his fists and his insides tighten. He forced himself to relax. Dinner. Then bed. That’s all Zeb wanted.
‘Hey, buddy, leave her be,’ the family man called out, giving a wide smile.
Angry Man glared at him. ‘Mind. Your. Own. Business.’ Someone had drilled into him that speaking slowly emphasised his meanness. It worked. Family Man turned red and made a move to rise, but was restrained by his wife who whispered at him. He settled back and turned back to his meal and for a while, the diner returned to normalcy.
Not my business, Zeb told himself. He ate quickly, uncharacteristically for him. He usually liked to take his time over his food, taking in people and his surroundings. This night wasn’t for dawdling. He signaled for another refill and when the server approached, she studiously avoided looking in Angry Man’s direction.
Coffee went down, hot and strong, and his insides leapt in delight. For a moment, all was well in the world.
Then the woman moaned softly.
Zeb looked in her direction. Angry Man’s nails were digging in her left wrist. Hot coffee had pooled on their table and he was pressing her hand firmly in it. Even through the few feet separating them, Zeb could see the fumes rising off the table, and the red splotches on her hand.
Red mist. It came down hard and fast and blinded him to everything else. He rose so suddenly that his chair toppled over with a crash and heads turned his way. He didn’t know it, but his face was cold, so cold that one of Family Man’s kids flinched.
He crossed over to the woman, raised her hand from hot liquid and separated Angry Man’s grip easily. He wrapped towels around her wrist and mopped the spilled coffee.
‘Ma’am, do you need a doctor?’
‘Hey!’ Angry Man shouted at him.
‘Ma’am, I can get you to a medic,’ he told the woman who was looking at him blindly, her lips trembling, her eyes filled with tears.
He saw her properly for the first time. A care-worn, pale face, the onset of wrinkles. Eyes that looked like hope had died a long time back. Limp hair that drooped from her head. She looked like she was in her mid-thirties, but had experienced half a century of life.
Zeb forced himself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. The iron control returned and it grabbed his rage and locked it up in a drawer and kicked it away. In. Out. Control was back Control was good. Control made him lethal. Angry Man just didn’t know of it.
‘I’m talking to you. Who do you think you are?’
‘Ma’am, does he mean anything to you?’ He bent down and looked straight in her eyes.
The woman blinked and finally shook her head. Her mouth straightened and her face got a determined look. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘He used to. Not anymore.’
‘You ass–’
Zeb’s left palm shot out in warning. Something about the gesture made Angry Man cut his words off. Zeb still didn’t look at him.
‘Ma’am, are you married?’
She shook her head and a tear rolled down her face. ‘No. I was planning to leave him.’
‘You, what?’ You bitch – ’
Angry Man roared and his fist shot out, straight at the woman, who cowered and tried to get away. It didn’t reach her. Zeb’s left palm blocked and stopped it. Angry Man strained and threw his body behind it. The restraining palm didn’t give.
Zeb looked at Family Man’s wife. ‘Ma’am, can this lady join you?’
‘Of course. Honey, why don’t you come over here?’ Family Man’s wife had a round face, her eyes were the color of warm honey and her voice was rich and deep. Her welcome couldn’t have sounded better.
Angry Man strained and struggled, showering spittle on Zeb as he swore, unable to rise since Zeb had jammed the table over his thighs. ‘You. Sit. Right. Here.’ he shouted at his girlfriend.
She didn’t heed him. She rose and hurried over to Family Man’s table, without looking at him.
‘Ma’am, your kids might want t
o look away,’ Zeb told Family Man’s wife. He made eye contact with everyone in the diner. ‘Anyone know who this man is?’
A chorus of “Nos” came back.
‘Look away please.’
Everyone looked away.
Zeb finally turned to Angry Man. ‘I hate men who pick on women.’ He upended the pot of coffee and poured the rest of its steaming contents on the table. He released Angry Man’s left hand and easily evaded its punch.
He grabbed Angry Man’s hair and slammed his head on the table and mashed it into the hot liquid. ‘Lesson number one,’ he spoke over Angry Man’s agonized shouting. ‘Always treat women with respect.’
‘Lesson number two. If you don’t, I. Will. Find. You.’ He punctuated each word with a smash and threw the man off his chair when he had finished. Angry Man collapsed to the floor and curled into a tight ball, shuddering in shock.
Zeb went over to the family, unaware that his face was still stern and forbidding. ‘Ma’am, do you have any safe place to get to? I can call a cab for you.’
She darted a look at the man on the floor and looked away quickly. ‘Yes. I have a sister in Reno. It’s far, though,’ she replied haltingly.
‘She can come with us. Honey, we’re heading to Vegas. A vacation for the kids. We’ll take you to your sister.’ Family Man’s wife spoke in a tone that brooked no refusal. She shushed the woman’s protests and gave Family Man the look, the same one that millions of women cowed their husbands with. Family Man nodded. ‘No problem at all. We’ll be happy to take her.’
Family Man joined Zeb outside and they transferred the woman’s belongings, a suitcase and a bag, from Angry Man’s car to a Yukon. Family Man slammed the door shut and paused uncertainly, not knowing what to say.
‘It’s alright,’ Zeb told him. ‘I’m experienced at this. He,’ he nodded in the diner’s direction, ‘won’t trouble her again. Or hassle you.’
Family Man stuck his hand out silently and shook Zeb’s, hard, without uttering a single word.
Zeb waited in the dark interior of his SUV till Family Man’s Yukon swung out of the parking lot half an hour later. They didn’t spot him and he made no attempt to make himself visible. He went back inside the diner and gave the manager his card.
‘Call the cops. Tell them what happened. Give them my card. You’ll not be bothered.’
He drove out of Portland and as he left the city, he saw a glowing billboard that flashed ‘Thank You for visiting Portland.’ In the span of a night he had interrogated a gangster, had been mugged, and had rescued a woman.
The mugging had rankled, but saving the woman had more than made up for it.
The woman huddled in the warmth of the Yukon for a long while; Family Man and his wife giving her time and space to collect herself.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered finally and started crying, deep, choking sobs, when the wife hugged her and held her tight.
‘Who was he?’ she asked the couple when she straightened, and rummaged in her purse for a tissue to dry her tears. The wife replied, but she wasn’t listening. Her eyes fell on the unfamiliar brown envelope inside and she stared at it for a moment. That wasn’t hers.
She picked it up, felt its weight, and opened it with fingers that shook. She froze in shock at the thick wad of bills inside. Twenties and hundreds. More money than she had ever seen in her life. She ran a finger along the sides of the notes and felt something sharp. She plucked at it and extracted a card.
It was white, like a business card, plain on one side. Neat handwriting on the other.
Ma’am, that’s for you to start over again. There’s always a better tomorrow.
Zeb was asleep in his vehicle, in the parking lot of a big box store, when she spotted the other card an hour later. On it was a number with a single line. Call this number if you are bothered again.
Zeb had come up with the idea some time back. A network of veterans across the country who would provide whatever assistance they could, for women in distress. The vets were paid from a fund he and the rest of his crew had established, a fund that invested in blue chip stocks and performed well. The vets got a steady income. Women got helped or rescued.
‘Your Batman syndrome gets its reach,’ Beth would smile whenever the topic came up.
Zeb didn’t deny it. It was true.
Chapter 9
Zeb crossed Salem in the night and found a secluded spot near Marion Lake and after pushing his seat back, went to sleep for a good six hours. He didn’t know why he had driven in that direction, but getting away had been foremost in his mind.
He freshened in the lake and after boiling an egg over a small fire, he made his first call.
‘Where’s the bird?’ he asked Meghan when she replied from their New York office.
‘Let’s see,’ he heard a clicking sound, her pen tapping against her teeth. ‘It depends on who you ask. If you asked Bwana or Rog, they would say she’s next to them. If you asked Beth or me, we would direct you to Central Park. If you asked Bear, he would sneak a look at Chloe and–’
‘Where’s the Gulfstream?’ he asked, suppressing a sigh.
‘Why didn’t you say so?’ he could feel the sass in her voice. ‘You need it? Why? Aren’t you on vacation?’
‘Oh, wait! Didn’t you find that body in Oregon, in the middle of nowhere. What exactly were you doing there? Are you investigating that murder? Is that why you need the bird?’
Her questions came thick and fast, giving him no time to reply. He waited for her to pause, to stop to catch her breath. She didn’t.
‘Stop,’ he told her, finally.
She stopped. He broke it down for her and when he had finished, he heard keys clicking. ‘Trouble magnet. That’s what you are,’ she filled in the silence while waiting for Werner to spit out results. ‘Only you could find a body in the desert and then get mugged. Wait till I tell Beth about that!’
A printer worked furiously in the background, papers rustled, and her voice came back, stronger, as she read out.
‘Cuthbert’s office is near Wall Street. A walking distance from the subway. I’ll send you anything I find on them, but they seem to be yet another family law firm that does standard stuff. Estate planning, wills, divorce, a little corporate work.’
‘You want me to come along?’
‘Nope.’ He knew she was helping out Clare, researching for a mission. The rest of the crew were on well-deserved downtime. He could check out the law firm on his own, or anything else that came up in the investigation.
‘I’ll send the aircraft to Salem. Zeb?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t kill too many people. There are better ways to control the world’s population.’
‘He took apart Bevcic as if he was just another street hood,’ the speaker was short, but his body rippled with muscles as he paced the Russian Culture Center’s office in Portland as he updated Privalov.
‘Is he alive?’ the Russian asked the short man, who was his chief intelligence gatherer. It was an important role. The short man listened to everything that happened on the street, both online and offline, and also tracked any mention of the Death Club, and flagged any potential threat to Privalov.
‘Yeah. He won’t walk for a while, however. His thighs are gone. He’s spitting mad, and wants to rip off Carter’s head.’
‘He will have to find him first. And he didn’t do too well the first time, despite all the men he had around him. Does he know him as Carter?
‘Nope.’
‘Make sure he knows.’
Privalov leaned back in his chair when his intel guy had left and pondered over the night’s developments. He knew Carter would question Bevcic and had people watching the restaurant. He could have taken Carter out there, but it would have been messy.
The muggers, who had been tasked with the job after going through several layers of middle men, had handed in Carter’s wallet. There hadn’t been anything of interest in it. That too didn’t surprise Privalov. A
security consultant would be careful about his wallet’s contents. They had reported that Carter didn’t look like he would back off from his investigation. They had roughed him up, but he had retaliated, hard. They bore the injuries. This wasn’t a man who had any give in him.
Privalov agreed with their assessment and typed a brief email for Voronoff. Package wasn’t delivered. Probably heading to New York depot.
He hadn’t long to wait; Voronoff’s reply came in ten minutes. Use legal team. We are time bound to deliver package.
Translated, it meant Voronoff wanted Carter stopped, whatever means it took. Voronoff was working on a deadline and didn’t want a distraction like the security consultant. Neither he nor Privalov were worried about exposure. They always went through middle men and fake identities and the hoods who did a job never knew who their real employers were.
He closed the browser and went through the directory in his mind. Who could he use in New York at short notice? The psychopath he had used last year? Nope, Carter would go through him like a warm knife in butter. There was that hitter, Kasnov. He had done a neat job on that building magnate. Yeah, he would be a good one. He could move fast. His methods were direct, but that was okay.
He called back the intel guy. ‘Activate Kasnov.’
Two hours passed in which two events happened. Kasnov confirmed he would take the job. Payment was agreed and an advance was transferred from one offshore account to another. Carter’s profile and photographs were sent to a secure email address, as was Cuthbert and Bros LLC’s address. Kasnov acknowledged receipt and took over from that point on.
The second incident was more troubling to Privalov, but not for long. The tracker on his computer showed that Carter’s vehicle was at Salem airport and after a brief stop, was in a garage in Portland. Why would Carter head back to Portland? To a garage? There were enough auto-repair shops in Salem if his SUV had developed a fault. Privalov called a contact at Salem airport and asked him to check if Carter had boarded any flight. In parallel, he sent out a couple of men to check out the Portland garage.
