Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  Privalov didn’t know about the chain of garages that Zeb had set up all across the country and in many international cities. The garages were veteran owned and operated. In return for a retainer, they kept a SUV fully equipped and ready to go, at each site. They delivered the vehicle to the nearest town or city, wherever Zeb or his crew happened to be, and took it back after a mission.

  Privalov concluded that someone had driven the SUV from Salem airport to the garage, since his men had reported no sighting of Carter at the repair shop. His man at the airport said no Carter had boarded a commercial flight. A man matching that description had been seen near a Gulfstream.

  ‘Where did that aircraft go?’ Privalov asked. ‘To New York,’ his contact responded. ‘It would land that evening.’

  Privalov updated Kasnov. Carter would probably head to the law firm the next day, during working hours.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Kasnov responded confidently. ‘He’s dangerous,’ Privalov told him. ‘I love those kind of kills,’ came Kasnov’s cocky reply. Privalov wished he could share that confidence and after another bout of pondering, checked out Gruzman. If Kasnov was brute force, Gruzman was a surgeon.

  Gruzman confirmed he was available and would be happy to decline any conflicting jobs that came up, if Privalov paid him a retainer. Privalov put him on retainer and turned to the business of the next Death Club fight night. It would be in Florida.

  Kasnov was poring over Carter’s file when Zeb landed at JFK and hailed a cab to take him downtown. He breathed deeply, inhaling the unique scent that was New York. Gas fumes, oxygen, rubber, the faraway smells of food, and the ocean. The air felt different from any other city in the country. It fed off the energy of eight million people who commuted, worked in offices and stores, moved money, and often, moved the world.

  Home. He gave the address of a downtown hotel to the cab driver and tuned out his attempts at conversation. By the time he had checked into the hotel, Kasnov had made plans for killing him.

  Kasnov had decided to take the direct approach. It was risky, but he had done it before and had all the equipment for it. A fast Yamaha, one of its latest superbike models that he had painted a matte black. False license plates. Leathers. Helmet with no marking. A getaway car parked two blocks away from the law firm’s offices. An HK UMP that spat six hundred rounds a minute. Surveillance equipment. He made a last minute check on his gear as Zeb was toweling his hair and emerging from the hotel’s shower, a borough away.

  All done. Zeb Carter would be dead the next day and Kasnov would have another successful kill on his record.

  Cuthbert and Bros LLC had black engraving on a brass plate mounted on the wall next to its imposing entrance on Pearl Street. The front of the building had white columns that extended high and dwarfed any human entering its marbled lobby. A security desk was opposite the entrance and was manned by two suits who looked competent and alert.

  Polished floor on which footsteps echoed. Shining brass elevator doors. Another suited man just at the entrance who had his arms crossed in front of him. The law firm’s entrance and lobby was designed to make a person feel he was entering hallowed ground.

  ‘Here for Jesse Cuthbert,’ Zeb told the first man who looked in his direction.

  ‘You have an appointment, sir?’ the man looked Zeb up and down and took in his Tee and jeans. They were neat, the T-shirt was tucked in, but it wasn’t normal wear in a law firm.

  ‘Nope. I’m from the FBI. I need to talk to him about a client.’ Zeb produced a badge which was genuine. It had been issued to him on a previous mission that he had forgotten to return.

  The suit examined the badge and flicked his eyes over Zeb again. A federal agent in jeans.

  ‘I’m undercover,’ Zeb told him helpfully.

  The eyes flicked up to his face to see if Zeb was joking. Zeb wasn’t.

  Jesse Cuthbert was in his seventies, tall, patrician looking, a full head of white hair that was neatly combed, and was immaculately dressed in a pin-stripe suit and a red tie. His face was angular and clean shaven and his eyes peered keenly from underneath bushy eyebrows. He looked as if his forefathers had stepped off the Mayflower.

  They had. Meghan had mentioned that when she had briefed Zeb.

  ‘Which client of ours are you interested in, Mr. Carter, and why?’

  ‘Mike Klattenbach. He was found murdered, earlier this week. A payment of half a million was made to his wife the next day. Why?’

  Cuthbert didn’t blink. ‘Mr. Carter, we have over hundred and fifty partners in this firm. We deal with Fortune hundred corporations, as well as individual clients. I don’t know every client we handle. Even if we did, we wouldn’t give out that information.’

  ‘Not even if you were posing as an FBI agent.’

  His thin lips creased into a smile and he looked knowingly at the phone on his desk.

  That’s why they took fifteen minutes to lead me to his office. Someone checked me out. If they had called Sarah, she would have backed me up even without knowing what I was involved in. They had no reason to call her. Probably went through the official number or a help desk.

  Special Agent in Charge, Sarah Michelle Burke was a nationally acclaimed FBI agent, a star tipped for great heights. She was also Broker’s girlfriend.

  ‘I thought you did mostly domestic work.’

  Cuthbert snorted elegantly, no doubt an action refined over generations. ‘Mr. Carter, you really think drawing up and executing wills pays for all this?’ He waved a hand around his office which had framed prints, originals, hangings from its wooden walls. A Pollock. A Monet. A Sargent.

  ‘Our corporate work is discreet. We don’t advertize. Our clients come to us through references.’ He glanced at his watch, a Patek Phillipe, signaling the meeting was over. ‘We can’t help you, Mr. Carter.’

  Zeb didn’t rise when Cuthbert stood up. He reached inside his jacket, withdrew his Glock and placed it on the partner’s desk.

  ‘Does that change your mind?’

  Chapter 10

  Jesse Cuthbert didn’t panic or start sweating. He smiled incredulously. ‘You really think that’s going to convince me? You know where you are? In New Y–’

  Zeb fired into the panels behind the lawyer. The report sounded loud in the confines of the office and for a moment shocked silence followed.

  ‘Good God,’ the lawyer exclaimed, turned to look at the neat hole just below the Monet’s gold frame, and swung back furiously. ‘I’ll call the police.’

  ‘The Monet will be ruined by that time,’ Zeb raised his gun.

  Cuthbert stared at him in disbelief and sank back slowly in his seat. ‘You don’t care, do you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll do this my way.’ He pressed a button while keeping a wary eye on his visitor. ‘Send Conrad in,’ he ordered, when a voice squawked. ‘My office is sound proofed,’ he told Zeb when he had hung up. ‘You’re lucky. My staff have guns. They would have shot you to pieces if they’d heard.’

  ‘I’m sure they would have, sir.’

  Cuthbert frowned heavily at Zeb’s even reply, trying to make out if his visitor was being sarcastic. His silent study was interrupted when a knock sounded on his door and it opened to admit another tall man, silvery haired, wider than Cuthbert.

  That’s where the Bros comes from.

  ‘Conrad, my brother. Partner. The firm has been in our family for generations.’ Jesse Cuthbert confirmed Zeb’s suspicion. ‘Conrad, Mr. Carter has a demand, and as you can see, a gun. He has threatened to shoot our paintings.’

  He explained swiftly and when his brother nodded, he brought out a recording device and turned it on. ‘Let it be known that Mr. Carter has threatened us and any information we reveal is under coercion.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Zeb agreed. ‘Can we get to Mike Klattenbach now?’

  The pair of lawyers took another forty minutes to get to Zeb’s query as they spent more time in what Meghan called cover-your-ass language
. When they got to the murdered man, the answers were anti-climactic.

  Klattenbach had taken out an unusual insurance policy, one that would pay out the sum whatever be the circumstances of his death, regardless of any declared or undeclared illness. The law firm made sure the insurer paid out, immediately.

  Jesse Cuthbert summoned a flunky who brought a file and showed Zeb the policy. He noted the insurer’s name and took photographs of the lengthy document and sent them to Meghan.

  ‘How did you know he was dead?’

  Jesse Cuthbert looked at him as if he was dumb. ‘We have good contacts with the police.’

  ‘How many such clients do you have?’

  ‘A few. None of them are dead. That kind of policy might be unusual to you, but it isn’t unheard of.’

  Zeb walked out of the lobby, frustrated and wondering what his next move would be. No witnesses to question in a desert. Law firm is a dead end. Wife knows nothing. Bevcic is likely to be in hiding. The muggers were probably just that.

  He slowed as he approached the large doors to don his shades. Something stirred in his mind. Trying to nudge him. To get him to focus on the present. What? Law firm? Jesse Cuthbert? No. Not those. Something else.

  He frowned as he stepped out into bright sunlight and started down the short flight of steps to street level. His muscles tensed instinctively, readying for explosive action. Why? He glanced to his left. Pearl Street wound in front of him and away, two ribbons separated by the yellow lines in the middle, tail lights flaring as traffic bunched up at the light, far ahead on Beekman Street. Nothing there that signaled danger.

  He looked to his right. Cabs. People on foot. A tourist bus, one of those hop-on hop-off ones, SUVs, one that seemed vaguely familiar. A school bus trundled past, faces at his windows, a girl waving at him. He dragged his mind away from the events in the law firm, urging it to rise. To identify the threat his body was prepared for.

  An angry honk from an SUV. Something moving fast. Sunlight reflecting off something … a helmet. A rising arm. A metallic shape glinting at its end.

  Move!

  He flew, finally recognizing the threat, diving behind a food truck, yelling loudly, ‘DOWN. GUNMAN. GET DOWN.’

  The first burst peppered the air and bit into concrete where he had been standing. Now his mind was processing. Sharp. Clear. Slowing time down, just the way he wanted it.

  Another burst went into the truck’s body. Screams and shouts. People diving. A wide-eyed man diving next to him. A woman sobbing loudly.

  Get away from innocents.

  He spotted the bike’s wheels below the truck’s body. It slowed a fraction. He won’t dismount. He’ll go ahead, and try another burst. He’ll expect me to cower behind the truck.

  He ran down the length of the truck, stepping out from its cover. Towards the shooter, his Glock coming up, his body small and low. He fired fast and low, deliberately, not wanting stray shots in the air. He dived again immediately, rolled fast and got to his feet, readying for another burst.

  The biker stiffened for a moment at the unexpected attack. He sprayed at Zeb’s previous position. The rounds went into the sidewalk. One hit a trash can and toppled it. He didn’t fire anymore, intent on getting away. He revved and rubber burned on sidewalk as his machine surged forward.

  Zeb read his intentions immediately and threw caution to the wind. He stepped forward and chased the shooter on foot, his Glock still ready, knowing his pursuit was futile. Runner against bike. He’ll get away. I won’t know who he is or who’s sent him.

  As if on cue, the rider fired in the air and more screams rang out. Traffic scattered away from its path, giving him a clear path.

  Zeb stepped onto the now near-empty street, lined up his Glock and lowered it when another honk, louder, persistent, sounded beside him. A black SUV came up.

  ‘GET ON!’ Meghan. How? Later. Not now. He climbed onto the running board and clung to a roof rail as she surged ahead.

  The biker was still visible, accelerating fast, the helmet turning back occasionally to look at them. SUV versus a bike in New York’s traffic. Still no contest.

  Meghan sensed his thinking. She veered to the sidewalk suddenly, towards another biker who had emerged from behind a bus shelter was preparing to mount his motorcycle.

  Bike’s running. She’s got to get timing right.

  She did. She got just behind the rider and sounded her horn loudly. He jerked in surprise and looked at the SUV. Zeb left its running board in a flowing run and shouldered him away. A hasty apology. Right leg over. Right hand gripping the throttle, accelerating even as his butt landed on the seat.

  ‘Hey. You–’

  No time for helmet. Shooter’s got a fifteen second lead. Got to close that.

  He flicked the transmission to auto and his ride, a white Honda, sped forward. It nearly careened into a passing cab before he corrected it. People were still shouting and yelling. Some were speaking into their phones furiously, while the inevitable few were filming on their cells. Cruisers sounded, in the far distance, their rising and falling wails growing louder.

  He left them behind and tunneled his vision. Noise disappeared. Traffic became a liquid blur. Only the black helmet, far ahead, remained. Past a truck and a cab. The passenger in the cab’s rear seat doing a double take at him as he raced past, body low, head straight.

  Another cab flashed its indicator, wishing to get in his lane. Horn? Where was it? He scanned the instrument panel. The handles. There, that black button. He jabbed it. The horn blared and the cab went back to its lane.

  The horn got the shooter’s attention. He saw the helmet turn and look back. The hitter accelerated. Zeb did the same.

  He’ll have a getaway vehicle. Maybe a block or two, away, if I was him. Maybe in an alley off Pearl Street. Maybe even on Peck Slip.

  Peck Slip was a narrow, cobbled street, a parking lot, right at its entrance. It was less than a minute away. The gunman was eight or ten seconds away. The shooter had his weapon in his left hand, firing it high, randomly, to disperse traffic.

  Eight or ten seconds became six when the random firing worked in Zeb’s favor, giving him open space. He brushed past a Mercedes, going so close that his throttle whispered past its polished side.

  Five seconds. No vehicle between the two bikes. Close enough to see rubber on the wheels. His Glock came to his left hand as if spring loaded. He saw his own reflection in the shooter’s mirror.

  The shooter’s helmet bent. There was wide road ahead of him to accelerate on. He didn’t. His body started turning, his weapon – it looked like a HK, maybe a UMP – straightened and started swinging towards Zeb.

  Zeb read his intentions. He went as close to the yellow lines as he could. He flattened himself on his Honda, as much as he could. One eye on the swinging barrel. Another on the oncoming traffic.

  Both bikes zipping. A flash of white. An MTA bus going the other way. The driver steering away, braking hard.

  The HK was on Zeb, but Zeb was a step ahead. His Glock fired. The shooter flinched and his bike wobbled. He turned his head momentarily, attempting to straighten it and lost time. Zeb’s first round missed. His second round was closer, but still missed and thudded into concrete.

  The third round went straight and true.

  It embedded in the shooter’s rear tire making his bike swerve, right into the oncoming bus’s lane. The shooter tried to correct desperately, yawing at his handle, but the steer was too far gone. He flung his weapon and rose off his bike, to dive away to safety.

  Too late.

  ‘You raced through New York, waving a gun, chasing a shooter. You realize the trouble you are in?’

  The first speaker was dressed in a blue suit, a white shirt, and a red tie. His wingtip shoes were shined to a mirror polish. His black hair was neatly styled and his clean-cut face had graced many book and magazine covers. Pizaka was a media darling and off the back of several successful closed cases, had a parallel career as an author. Despite
his popularity and his rising book income, he remained a dedicated cop and along with his partner, had one of the best closure rates in the NYPD.

  ‘Splattered. Splattered right on the front of an MTA bus.’ There was an air of satisfaction in the second speaker as he lounged in a chair and watched Pizaka question Zeb.

  Chang was Pizaka’s partner and was his opposite in demeanor and in the fashion stakes. His suit looked as if it had just come out of the dryer. His shoes were scuffed, he walked with a lazy gait and his hair looked as if he’d just woken up. His eyes, however, were sharp and piercing and missed nothing.

  Chang and Pizaka, who were good friends as well, headed a special unit that took on high profile and complex cases. They had come up against Zeb and his crew several years back and had soon worked out it was better for their careers to work with Zeb.

  They were aware Zeb worked for a secretive government outfit. They knew of the extraordinary juice he could wield. All that didn’t lessen Pizaka’s desire to put Zeb in his place. Vigilantes, he had snorted once when referring to Zeb and that defined how he saw Zeb.

  ‘The media are already going to town on this,’ he carried on after glaring at his partner. Flippancy. How Pizaka hated it. ‘Shootout on Pearl Street, they’re calling it. You are lucky.’

  He wagged a manicured finger at Zeb. ‘No pedestrian or passersby was hurt. That’s a miracle. Even the bus driver is unharmed. If anyone had been injured or killed,’ he shook his head leaving the words unsaid.

  Zeb knew luck had nothing to do with it. He had noticed the shooter’s careful shot placement even as he had dove. The shooter was brutal, but not stupid. He wasn’t after a mass killing. Those are harder to get away from. He refrained from voicing his thoughts and put on his game face when Chang winked at him from behind Pizaka’s back.