Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  Louise. His plane. Lappuch waggled his eyebrows impatiently when Zeb didn’t reply immediately.

  ‘Not Portland, sir. Dalton.’

  A dog bounded out of the house, yawned lustily and ambled over to sniff at Zeb’s legs. It curled up at his feet and went to sleep when it worked out Zeb was no foe. ‘That’s never happened before. Buster doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’ Lappuch shook his head as if disappointed with his dog and stumped away on his short legs, beckoning at Zeb to follow him.

  ‘We’ll go in Heidi, here.’ Heidi was a bright yellow SUV that he climbed into and set off on a dusty track when Zeb climbed in. Lappuch drove to a rust colored building in the far distance, that grew larger as they approached. A hangar.

  ‘Louise sleeps here,’ Lappuch turned off the engine, his voice booming in the sudden silence. His footsteps crunched as he walked across soft gravel and walked around the massive dome-shaped building. He went to the front and slid open the sliding doors with Zeb’s help and gestured proudly when the hangar was open.

  ‘Louise!’

  Louise was a fire-engine red Cessna that gleamed and showed signs of loving care. ‘Thirty years old, but still flies as if new,’ its owner walked around the aircraft, pointing out the spray nozzles to Zeb.

  ‘Say, you want to take a ride? We might as well, since you have come so far.’

  Dalton was just two hours away, Zeb thought of telling him, but bit his tongue. Meeting Lappuch was turning out to be a surreal experience; the rancher had not once asked him the purpose of his visit and seemed to expect blind obedience.

  Zeb didn’t reply immediately, knowing the aircraft was a single seater one, but he was intrigued when its owner pointed to a modification to the cockpit.

  ‘Got it hollowed out and extended. Built an additional seat behind the pilot’s and got it certified,’ Lappuch patted the window frame. ‘I sometimes take Helen up, she loves to fly too.’

  Helen. Is she his wife? Or a domestic animal? Dare I ask?

  Zeb kept quiet and climbed into the rear, folding his legs tight, and accepted the helmet that Lappuch handed to him. ‘Brace yourself. It can be bumpy,’ Lappuch yelled in his headset and rolled out of the hangar.

  Lappuch flew them over his ranch, pointing out its boundaries, the herds of animals he had, and the Deschutes River. ‘I keep an eye on the river too,’ he turned tight over the water and started heading back to the ranch. ‘There’ve been times when folks gotten into trouble and have waved a white flag. I call the sheriff and he organizes a rescue.’

  ‘Now this’s where you found the body,’ he pointed a gloved finger down, flying low over the spot Zeb had given him coordinates to. ‘It’s on my regular flight path. Some of my animals stray over there and I buzz them back to the ranch.’

  Nothing jumped out at Zeb when looking from above, but then he wasn’t expecting it to. He had wanted to know if Lappuch had spotted anything and it looked like he hadn’t. At least I got a plane ride and quirky company out of my visit.

  Lappuch had one more surprise up his sleeve.

  He drove them back to the ranch where a smiling woman had a platter of cookies and coffee waiting. ‘My wife, Helen,’ Lappuch introduced her. ‘I betcha you thought she was a cow … or a hog,’ he deadpanned and chortled when Zeb looked embarrassed. ‘Everyone assumes the same.’

  He went into an inner room when the small talk had dried up and returned with a USB drive. ‘Louise has cameras underneath her wings. I save the recordings to a hard drive. This has two weeks’ worth of flying. Maybe you’ll find something there.’ His leathery face crinkled into a smile at Zeb’s expression. ‘You thought I was wasting your time, didn’t you?’

  There was eight hours viewing in the USB drive. Zipped and compressed files, one for each of the fourteen days. The last day was when Zeb had discovered the body.

  He had an early dinner in Tony’s restaurant and settled down for a night of watching the desert landscape. The files were more or less similar; the same take-off sequence, the same terrain, Lappuch speaking to himself occasionally, cattle breaking out into a trot whenever the aircraft swooped low over them.

  I guess Werner could find anomalies in the videos if they existed. There was only one problem in that logic; he could get Werner to execute simple commands. Getting it to search videos was beyond him.

  He had lain awake watching nothing move in the night, in hostile territory; he had watched goats feed all day, for several days. Watching a few videos was nothing, he told himself and pressed the play button.

  It was on the D-3 file, three days before the body’s discovery that he spotted it.

  He only spotted it because he had his eyes close to the screen and was playing the feed in slow-mo. He had no particular reason to do so … other than to stave off boredom. He paused and looped back the section and played it again. There. Right in that sandy bottom where no vegetation grew. That line looked too straight. He didn’t know how to enlarge the video so he took a picture of it and expanded it on his screen.

  Not one line. Four lines. An oval rectangle. A rectangle with rounded edges. One that was almost invisible, camouflaged to look like it was part of the terrain, very easy to miss if the feed had been playing at normal speed. Even in slow-mo, it was hard to detect.

  He compared its location from the body’s. Three miles out. Garav and he had scouted the region, but they hadn’t looked that far. He got Werner to look up the troopers’ case file. They had searched within a five-mile radius, so why hadn’t they spotted it?

  He slapped his head mentally, rose and did a fast fifty sit-ups. He returned to his seat after the endorphin surge and answered his own question. They didn’t spot it because it wasn’t there. He made a note to call Lappuch the next day and get files for the days up to the police search. Maybe for a couple days after, too. Just to be sure.

  He went to the D-2 file. Yeah, the rectangle was there. Same place. It was present in the D-1 file, as well as on the day he found the body. He measured the rectangle on the screen and got Werner to calculate its normalized size.

  ‘Thirty by nine feet,’ Werner told him.

  Thirty by nine. What could be that size, in a desert? At three am he gave up and sought Werner’s help. ‘There could be millions of widgets of that size,’ Werner told him doubtfully.

  ‘Which is why I am coming to you!’

  ‘You need to be more specific,’ was the retort.

  ‘Well, you are the supercomputer. You can use all that brain power, can’t you?’

  Thankfully, Werner didn’t reply and Zeb hit his bed.

  In the morning, Werner had an answer.

  Chapter 14

  Miguel had his moment of madness when he reached Miami, twelve hours before he was supposed to.

  Tucson to El Paso had been his first bus journey in America and his initial wide-eyed reaction had given way to exhaustion. He had slept most of the journey and had been embarrassed that he didn’t have exciting stories to tell Maria and Juana.

  Maria and Juana! His spirits dampened instantly. He hoped they were safe. He prayed that Pico or Hector hadn’t hurt Maria anymore. He touched the flasks in the satchel and vowed to get them to Miami as quickly as he could and hand them over. Then he would unite with his family.

  El Paso to San Antonio was the next journey across the state of Texas. Everything was big, was Miguel’s impression. Big hats. Huge burgers. Big, warm people. Miguel felt comforted. This country would be home.

  He called Pico and gave him an update and closed his eyes in delight when he put Maria and Juana on. ‘I love you,’ he whispered in English – he would speak only in English now in this new country - and looked around if anyone had heard him. No one had.

  He looked up at bus timetables and routes; he would have to make three more journeys. The first one was from San Antonio to New Orleans, where he had to sprint to catch the next bus which was just leaving. He pounded on its body to get the driver’s attention and when he stopped, thanked
him profusely.

  ‘Last stop, Jacksonville,’ he wiped sweat off his face, collected change, and went to the rear of the bus. He seated himself between a student and a mother and clutched the flasks close and thanked the Lord. Missing the bus would have wrecked his schedule.

  Jacksonville to Miami was the final leg and when he reached the Greyhound bus station at Miami International Airport in the morning, his heart burst with pride. He had made it. He, Miguel, who had never stepped outside Mexico, had just completed a cross-country journey across America.

  He savored the bright sunlight and then grew conscious of his filthy appearance. He still had enough money left and went in search of public restrooms. Feeling a new man after a quick shower, he decided to go downtown and explore the city. There was still time for him to call Pico, enough time to discover more of his new home country.

  He took the Metrorail to Central Station and a couple of bus changes later, he was at the waterfront, struggling with a sensory overload of images, sounds, and smells. The yachts on which suntanned bodies lounged. Hotels and food carts of all kinds that catered to all tastes and wallets. Street musicians. Jugglers. It was while in front of the Freedom Tower that Miguel decided he wouldn’t be jerked around anymore by Pico. In this great country, people wrote their own future. Miguel would, too.

  He tossed the phone into a trashcan and walked away.

  Gruzman was in Los Angeles when Privalov green-lighted him. Killing Zeb Carter was a go. The assassin went through the dossier the Russian sent him. There wasn’t much in it, which was understandable since Carter was a former Special Forces operative and his missions would be redacted.

  There was background material on his consulting firm, several photographs, and last known location. New York, where he had taken down Kasnov. Gruzman had followed that killing on the news, the bike chase that a pedestrian had caught on his cell phone. Then, Gruzman hadn’t known that the pursuer was Carter. He had been impressed with the rider’s agility and calmness and now that he knew it was Carter, it made sense.

  This would be a worthy opponent.

  Gruzman had come out of the South African Recces, the elite Special Forces Brigade. He had served in the Fourth Special Forces Regiment for several years, before he had wearied of working for his country for a pittance. Gruzman was a killer. He didn’t sugar-coat it. He knew there was a value to his capabilities and on leaving the Recces, he had forged a career as a private contractor.

  He had initially taken up jobs in his home country. There were enough businessmen who wanted their rivals killed, or politicians who wished a problem to go away. He developed a quiet reputation for getting the job done; for either making the deaths look natural or accidents, or make them a statement. Whatever the client wanted, Gruzman delivered.

  Garrotte, handgun, sniper rifle, knife, unarmed combat; Gruzman excelled in all and had used them all in his kills.

  His first kill in the U.S. was a building magnate who was overreaching himself. At least that’s what his rival claimed. Gruzman didn’t care. The businessman in Texas had to go and it had to look natural.

  Gruzman had killed the man at his home, while the man was working out in his personal gym. He had made it look like the businessman had a stroke during a particularly strenuous workout. Gruzman got a bonus for his clean kill and word of his skills spread through the underground network.

  It reached Privalov’s attention who got him to dispose of a Death Club fighter who was proving to be a nuisance. Gruzman got the job done. Privalov gave him more work. Gruzman didn’t fail him.

  Now Gruzman had the Carter job.

  Gruzman was of average height, blond hair, green-eyed, and concealed his body’s superb conditioning under loose clothes. A shirt that was a size too large covered a knife around his chest. His jacket concealed his shoulder holster. His shoes, Vibram-soled, were customized to hide pressure-activated blades.

  Gruzman was a walking arsenal. He was death on legs. That death was coming to Carter.

  He accessed a dark internet website and looked up hotel registrations all over the country. It was a site that hacked into the major chain hotels and posted their guests’ details. Even their credit card numbers. He got immediate hits in Portland. Several Zeb Carters had checked into hotels, the same night that Kasnov had been killed.

  Portland. Didn’t Privalov say Carter had interrogated Bevcic? He scrolled through the dossier. Yes he had.

  So he killed Kasnov and then headed to Portland. Why? Carter was investigating Klattenbach’s death. That much was obvious. He also knew there was someone after him. Kasnov was a big give-away.

  What was in Portland though? Other than Bevcic?

  Bevcic! Carter didn’t know who had sent Kasnov. Maybe he thought Bevcic had.

  Gruzman sent a message to Privalov. Need to question Bevcic. Where can I find him?

  Privalov got back immediately, with an address. He looked up flights. There was an Alaskan from LAX in four hours. He would take that. Weapons? He could get them in Portland. He wasn’t planning to kill Bevcic. Only question him. Gruzman didn’t believe in needless killing.

  A message was blinking on Zeb’s phone when he woke the next day. ‘Check your screen. Next time, ask for help. It will be quicker.’ Meghan had signed off with one of those faces that poked a tongue out.

  ‘It’s the top of an RV,’ Werner told him when he had logged in. ‘Most likely an Airstream, its luxury model.’

  ‘Wouldn’t an RV stand out in the desert?’

  He brought up several images that Meghan had uploaded when Werner didn’t reply. It looked like she had seen his commands to Werner and had taken it upon herself to save him the hassle of engaging with the supercomputer.

  In one image she had whitened the background; now, it was clear that the rectangle, was up, above the ground. In another image that she had enhanced and had added magic touches to, a faint shadow was visible.

  Well, I’ll be. What’s an Airstream doing in the middle of nowhere?

  His cell rang and he thumbed it on without looking at the screen. Only one person would call him at that moment. Meghan.

  ‘An Airstream Classic. Its roof is of that size.’ He could hear her smiling. Could feel her energy bursting through the tiny speaker. ‘I’ve already put Werner on the job. To check out how many such RVs are out there. See if they can be located.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Zeb?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Next time call me, will you? If you need help with Werner.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He couldn’t come up with a retort. He never could, not with the twins. He changed tack. ‘If I send the Gulfstream back, can you return it with the LIDAR?’

  No immediate reply. She was thinking rapidly working the times, the logistics. Also figuring out what he was leading to. ‘You want to use it over the spot?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You think there might be more bodies?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. But it won’t hurt.’

  LIDAR, Light Detection and Ranging technology fired laser beams at the earth and captured the reflections to create a three dimension model of the topography. The device that Zeb’s crew had was an advancement over conventional LIDAR. It combined Ground Penetrating Radar and infrared thermography to read underground.

  The technology wasn’t perfect, however, since the desert didn’t have a lot of green and was largely an even surface, Zeb hoped it could reveal what was underneath the ground. Like more bodies.

  The Gulfstream flew the next day with the device strapped to its belly, piloted by two experienced ex-servicemen that were in the Agency’s employ. The luxury aircraft wasn’t designed to fly low since it lacked the maneuverability. However, the pilots had handled more than their fair share of different machines in different conditions. Making several passes over the desert was a piece of cake to them.

  The LIDAR sent several petabytes of data to Werner when the runs had been completed and then Meghan took over.
She got the supercomputer to process the data through several custom algorithms and simulation models. She consulted a couple of ground mapping experts at Columbia University, referred the findings to a few professors at Stanford Uni. They gave her an answer the next day.

  ‘Your hunch was right.’ She had spent most of the previous night on the models and had started early in the day. She was bright, sparkly, and didn’t show any trace of exhaustion. ‘The experts say there is a high probability there’s a body, or something, next to where you found Klattenbach. Did you look at that image I sent?’

  He had. She had marked the likely spot, ten feet away from Klattenbach’s location, with an X. There was a 3D model that showed changes in the underground topography that suggested recent digging.

  ‘Six feet down,’ she said. ‘That’s how deep whatever it is, is buried.’

  Gruzman didn’t bury Bevcic. He didn’t need to since the Ukrainian was still alive when he had finished. Damaged, but alive.

  He had located the gangster in his hideout in Kelly Street, surrounded by a protection gang. It was midnight when Gruzman entered the house, taking out the surrounders with surgical precision. He killed four men, and tied and taped three others.

  Bevcic was sleeping alone, snoring loudly, when he entered. He woke screaming when Gruzman poked his thigh with his Sig Sauer and the night began.

  He left an hour later, after washing his hands in the dirty sink and studied his reflection in the cracked mirror. He looked fine. Maybe a little disappointed that Bevcic didn’t know anything more about Carter. The man didn’t have a clue where Carter was or how to contact him.