by Ty Patterson
The Everglades spanned a million and a half acres of wetlands in southern Florida. Mangroves, sawgrass prairies, and pine flatwoods. The Everglades had them all. Then there were the alligators, male ones that grew to eleven feet and weighed close to five hundred pounds. They prowled the wilderness area and while not many humans had been killed by them, they remained a fearsome sight.
They were one reason Privalov and Voronoff had chosen the Everglades as the site for the fight. Their customers were willing to pay astronomical prices, as were the fighters. Both, customers and fighters, had made preparations to get there, and were now awaiting final directions from Privalov.
The actual site was a remote spot within the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation, in the heart of the Everglades. Privalov had initially wanted to host the fight in the sawgrass prairie, but logistics had proven to be a problem. His RV needed firm land, as did the SUVs and other vehicles his people needed.
Flat, firm, ground, was best and hence this spot. His RV was already in position, at its usual three miles from the fight night. His men were clearing the dense growth, not by much, just enough to allow free movement for the fighters.
He had planned a special ending for this particular fight, but was now focused on the logistics. The Everglades were a very popular tourist spot and hence in-person attendee numbers were restricted to just fifty. All fifty were being monitored by Privalov’s men. The Death Club had more than recovered their costs from those fifty.
The fight spot had spotty cell phone coverage and hence Privalov had informed the online members that the live streaming could be flaky. They didn’t mind. They hit the pay button and the Death Club’s coffers grew. Privalov did promise them a video download once the event was over.
Vroman, a Slovenian pedophile, Byars, a Hungarian killer, Nandor, a Uruguayan drug dealer, Correia, a Brazilian rapist, and Mireles, a Tunisian terrorist, were the fighters. No Americans. Carter was still out there, he was still looking into Klattenbach’s death. Privalov wasn’t going to complicate matters by selecting another American fighter. His chosen brawlers were ready, in different locations in Miami, under the watchful eyes of Privalov’s PIs.
The Fight Night would be for just two hours, each fight for twenty minutes, with a short interval between each fight. No round robin format. No knockout rounds. Grigory’s program determined the order of the fight and the viewers and the participants would just have to accept it. Last man standing would get the million dollars in cash. The dead loser’s nominee would get a half mil through the usual insurance policy that all fighters had to sign up for, and the rest would get two hundred thousand each.
Privalov called Grigory over a secure connection and turned on his screens. Grigory was already in the Reservation, in the RV, and he flew the drones at Privalov’s command. The drones fed computers in the RV, which relayed the stream to Privalov’s apartment in Miami. Yeah, the drones worked, the streams worked, even if a little blurred.
‘Perimeter?’ Privalov asked.
‘Secure,’ Grigory got a drone to fly around the perimeter and the lookouts waved at the flying craft.
‘I’m heading out.’
Privalov checked one last message, from Voronoff, before leaving for the site. The exchange was still on, Voronoff told him. The flasks were on their way, carried by a Mexican, one Miguel. Miguel’s photograph was circulated to Privalov’s men and his phone number was on everyone’s cell. Miguel was to make contact with any of Privalov’s men who could be identified by the armbands they wore.
The buyer’s reps had arrived too. They too had secure means to make contact with Privalov. The buyer himself would be attending the fight night. A Death Club Fight Night near Miami? He wasn’t going to miss that, however perilous it was for him to travel.
‘Carter?’ Voronoff questioned him.
‘Gruzman,’ Privalov replied with just that name. It was enough for Voronoff. Gruzman was like a heat seeking missile. He never failed.
Privalov reached his RV at seven pm and took a minute to appreciate the beauty of the Reservation. Deep stillness, the croak of frogs in the distance – for the site was near a waterway – the sounds of animals even further away. Was that a wolf? Were there wolves in the Reservation?
‘Yeah,’ Grigory confirmed as he joined his boss and the two stood under the starry night. ‘Bears too.’
‘Bears? We could have–’
‘Bit difficult to capture a bear, get it to behave, and do our bidding,’ Grigory laughed.
The fighters arrived at twelve am, each one of them accompanied by their driver, the person who would haul them back if they lost. The dead loser’s driver would go back, alone.
There were no changing rooms in the vast open. The five fighters stood with their driver, talking softly, not paying attention to anyone. Vroman and Correia limbered up with light exercise and drew the attention of the spectators who were trickling in. The volume of noise grew but was quickly hushed at a single command by one of Privalov’s men.
All the fighters were large, and had tats. Three of them were bald. Two had goatees. All of them were wanted men, hunted by various law enforcement agencies in the world. Privalov briefly wondered how they had come into the country, and then shrugged. It wasn’t his problem.
His cover and that of his men was secure. They were members of an anthropology expedition, affiliated to the Russian Culture Center. They were in the area to video graph the Reservation and promote tourism to that region. They had the blessing of the Russian Embassy and informed the local law enforcement and civic authorities.
Watertight. Privalov and Voronoff had spent years perfecting such alibis.
One am. By now, all five fighters were warming up. All sported a light sheen of sweat on their bodies. Some of them had applied oil so that their opponents’ hands would slip. Privalov scanned the screens in front of him. All fifty spectators were clearly visible, all forming a circle around the cleared-out arena. The buyer was there. His two reps were present.
Miguel wasn’t. That was Voronoff’s problem however. Privalov’s job was to ensure the fight night went off smoothly and if Miguel arrived, to make sure the exchange happened.
Two am. Death Club’s Fight Night in the Everglades, started.
The first bout was between Vroman and Nandor. An organizer held up a board, the side of a cardboard box, with the names scrawled on it, and the two men stepped into the ring.
Raucous cheering filled the air, quickly dying away at a sharp word from the organizers. The fighters didn’t wait for any signal; they charged at one another.
Vroman was the heavier of the two, taller by an inch, but he was also faster. He ducked Nandor’s flying fist and in a move reminiscent of TV wrestling, grabbed the fighter by his waist and flung him on his back.
Nandor lay stunned for a moment and saw Vroman’s approaching stomp only at the last minute. He rolled away quickly, caught the approaching foot and twisted it away. Vroman stumbled, giving time for Nandor to rise and attack.
The two men traded blows, no finesse, no science, just hard brutal blows at each other’s face, chest, abdomen, anywhere they could land. Vroman had a split lip and Nandor had a broken nose by the time they stepped back to catch their breath.
Vroman feinted, Nandor ducked. The taller man tried another move, a half-jab that Nandor parried. It was a ruse. Vroman’s leg came up blindingly fast and crashed into Nandor’s side. Before Nandor could fall, Vroman swung his left and caught the other fighter in the throat. His hand didn’t withdraw. It curled around Nandor’s neck while his right delivered body blows. Heavy hits that made Nandor’s body judder with the impact. Nandor’s red face turned purple as the vice around his neck tightened, cutting off much needed air.
His hands flailed helplessly and he tried to speak, his eyes going to the organizer.
‘Do you surrender?’ the organizer read his expression.
Nandor nodded fast and collapsed, screaming, when Vroman broke his jaw with one last blow.
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br /> The first fight had lasted just ten minutes. Vroman went to the side of the ring where he was immediately surrounded by spectators who congratulated him. The Slovenian didn’t acknowledge them as he emptied a bottle of water and toweled himself dry. Another spectator offered him an alcoholic drink which he declined and shouldered through the crowd and stood away from it.
Privalov kept watching his screens and kept an eye on his mail application. Bets had doubled on Vroman, and a dedicated message board predicted him to win the night. The message board would disappear after the night, its comments erased.
So far the crowd was behaving. They were using the break, some to fuel themselves from hip flasks, others from bottles that they had carried. A few had brought food and were dining out under the night sky. At one of the earlier fight nights, a few spectators had gotten drunk and turned aggressive. Privalov had set the fighters on them and after that incident, no fight night had seen unruly behavior. The fighters were his crowd control, and they were good at it.
Did you spot him? a message appeared on Privalov’s screen.
No, he replied. His drones hadn’t picked out Miguel, nor had any organizer seen him. He glanced at his phone to see if he had received any calls. No calls either. He had made sure Pico had gotten all the directions to the location. It was Pico’s job to convey those to Miguel. Privalov turned back to his screens when an organizer held another board up.
The second fight was starting.
A few hours before the Fight Night started, Zeb had decided he would go to Mexico and question Pico, whoever he was. He went through all the intel Werner had extracted on the chapter head. Plaza chief, Werner’s file corrected him. That’s what each gang boss within the cartel was called. There were six Plaza Chiefs including Pico, who controlled the southern territory of Mexico and was responsible for bringing the drugs from Guatemala.
Pico was based in Tuxtla, the capital of the Mexican south eastern state of Chiapas, which had a population of close to three quarters of a million. It was a large market for the Crescents and Pico ruled it with an iron hand. He killed, maimed, and raped, almost at will and had running battles with the larger cartels.
Zeb made several calls to his contacts in Mexico, one of whom was the country’s National Security Commissioner, Adan Urbina. Urbina and he went several years back when Zeb had been involved in joint operations along with the Mexican Special Forces; in one particular shoot-out, Zeb had saved the commissioner from a bomb attack.
Urbina didn’t ask too many questions, deniability had to be maintained, and answered all of Zeb’s queries. The head of the Reaction Special Force, a special forces group in the Mexican Army, would be the right person for more enquiries, he said.
Zeb called Valdez, the head, who went by only his last name. Valdez had been briefed by Urbina and told Zeb everything that he knew about Pico. Lope Cordova, a unit commander of the Reaction Special Force, based in Tuxtla, would know everything about Pico, Valdez concluded.
Yeah, Cordova would still be awake, Valdez laughed in reply to Zeb’s question.
Cordova was awake, sharp, and was eager to help Zeb. ‘Señor wants to capture Pico?’ he asked directly, ‘I can help.’
Byars was facing Mireles when Zeb made his last call to New York. Meghan answered on his first ring as if expecting his call.
‘You’re going to Mexico,’ she said by way of greeting. It was a statement, not a question.
‘I need help,’ he confessed and held his phone away when she shrieked in delight.
‘I knew you’d say that. I had a bet with–’
‘Help is here, bro,’ Bwana’s voice drowned hers. ‘Rog and I are here. Geared out. Ready.’
Zeb outlined his plan; he would meet them in Portland the next day. The Gulfstream would fly them to Angel Albino Corzo International Airport, Tuxtla’s international airport. They would then meet Cordova who would help them in questioning Pico.
‘As easy as that?’ Bwana asked in astonishment.
‘No, you dope. That’s why Zeb wants us,’ Roger admonished his friend.
Zeb received his final call of the night, after Mireles broke Byars’s neck, and the third fight, between Correia and Nandor had started.
‘How are you, my brother?’ Zeb could feel the caller’s smile over the seven thousand miles that separated them. The caller spoke in Yiddish, knowing that Zeb was fluent in the language.
Avichai Levin, the caller, the Director of Mossad, the secretive Israeli intelligence agency, didn’t have many friends; they weren’t a luxury he could afford. Zeb was an exception. The American and the Israeli had bonded instantly when Levin had been a field agent and had come across Zeb in Istanbul, many years back. Working together in hostile environments, not knowing if death was around the corner, had cemented their relationship.
Zeb greeted him in return, asked Levin about his wife and daughters, and the two spent a few minutes bringing each other up to speed on their lives.
‘This man,’ Levin said finally, referring to Bevcic’s interrogator – whose photograph Zeb had mailed to all friendly intelligence agencies – ‘how do you know him?’
‘I don’t,’ Zeb admitted, ‘but he seems to know me.’
He told Levin about Klattenbach, Bevcic, and the attempt in New York. ‘You know him, achi?’ Achi, my brother. Levin was one of a handful of people Zeb regarded as his brother.
‘That’s Gruzman. He’s a killer. South African. We spotted him in Paris last year. We think he was responsible for the Turkish ambassador’s killing.’
Zeb remembered the assassination; the ambassador’s car had blown up on a quiet street, killing him and his family, instantly. The bomb had no signature, and while a terrorist organization had claimed credit, intelligence agencies in the Western world knew it was a rogue operation.
‘Who does he work for?’
‘Whoever pays him,’ Levin replied, simply. ‘He seemed to have dropped off the radar, lately. Looks like he’s still active.’
‘You got anything on him?’
‘I’ll send you our file. Be careful, Zeb. He’s good. Very good. Skilled in many weapons. Proficiency in many fighting styles.’
‘He’s like you, Zeb. Just like you.’
Chapter 17
Correia disposed of Nandor easily, breaking his left leg in the process. Vroman then broke Mireles’s jaw and nearly killed the Tunisian, in a savage fight that was more intense than it was long. That left Correia and Vroman as the last men standing, the final fight of the night.
The air was electric with excitement, many spectators clapping, some whooping softly. Privalov’s organizers walked through the crowd, calming them, urging more control. It was in no one’s interest if the event was discovered. All would be arrested and given that all the fighters and the majority of the spectators were criminals, that outcome wouldn’t turn out well.
The crowd quietened, not by much, but enough for the last fight to be announced. An organizer slipped off at a command by Grigory, but he wasn’t missed. All eyes were on the small arena in which Vroman and Correia stood.
Correia started off with Brazilian jiu jitsu moves, the first of which was a grappling one that brought Vroman on the ground, on his back. Correia smashed an elbow on the Slovenian’s face and brought forth a roar of rage from his opponent. Correia followed up with a jab at Vroman’s neck but before his fingers could bite into flesh, Vroman retaliated.
Vroman didn’t have fancy moves. He was big. He was strong. He was fast, very fast, for someone his size. He had a few karate chops and blocks, but he relied on his superior strength to overpower his opponents. He now used that strength to throw off Correia. He planted his feet on the ground and with a mighty heave of his waist, dislodged the Brazilian’s hold.
He struck Correia’s temple with a palm which was the size of a shovel, and the Brazilian fell away. Vroman sprang upright, but before he could attack, Correia punched him in the meat of his thigh in a lightning strike. Vroman’s body bowed and je
rked back when Correia whipped a kick at the Slovenian’s face.
Both men fell apart, panting, but not for long. A spectator pushed Correia forward and that was the opening Vroman needed. With a low growl, he punched the Brazilian’s midriff and swung a brutal fist at the man’s face. Correia’s head snapped sickeningly, but he wasn’t out of the fight.
He used the momentum of the blow to evade another fist, turned nimbly and rose high in the air to kick Vroman’s head. The Slovenian fell to his knees and then to the ground when Correia clubbed his head savagely. Correia jumped up in the air, high, bent his knee and landed on Vroman’s spine. The cry that rose from Vroman rent the night, but Correia wasn’t done.
Well aware of Vroman’s strength, he straddled the Slovenian’s back, his face to Vroman’s feet, grabbed the fallen man’s leg and yanked savagely. Vroman’s knee dislocated. The Slovenian kicked out limply with his good leg. It was caught easily by the Brazilian who twisted Vroman’s ankle and broke the joint.
Vroman didn’t give up. He used his left hand for leverage and tried to dislocate Correia by powering off the ground. He nearly succeeded. The Brazilian started sliding off his back, but recovered himself, lunged back, his left elbow pointed like an arrow, and crashed it in the back of Vroman’s neck. Vroman’s head slammed on the ground, a tortuous groan escaping him. He feebly tried to raise himself, but the fight had gone out of him. Correia, sensing victory, pivoted around, applied a choke hold on Vroman’s neck and started squeezing powerfully.
Vroman’s face started to redden, his arms thrashed weakly, and with his last few gasps, he shouted, ‘I give up.’
‘You can’t,’ the crowd roared and urged Correia on, whose biceps flexed and bulged as they tightened inexorably. Vroman would die soon, Privalov calculated as he watched dispassionately on his screen.
