Death Club

by Ty Patterson

  ‘Not Pico,’ the words grated in his ears. The voice was deeper, harsher, and had none of Pico’s mocking tone.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Vasquez,’ and with that reply, Miguel knew his nightmare had worsened.

  He stumbled blindly in a diner after the call and was momentarily surprised when the server brought pancakes and coffee for him. He didn’t recollect ordering, but then he forgot a lot these days. He usually ate pancakes and honey with relish, however, now they tasted like ash.

  Vasquez! He had heard rumors of the cruel Crescents’s leader, and on a few occasions, had seen the human heads on stakes in remote villages. That was Vasquez’s favored method of punishing those who went against him.

  Maria and Juana were with him now. Pico was saint-like, compared to Vasquez. Miguel stifled a moan and rocked on his chair and jumped when a hand touched his shoulder.

  ‘You okay, buddy?’ a bearded man peered at him from beneath bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Si, Si,’ Miguel nodded and then hastily corrected himself. ‘Yes.’ Only English. Pico had drilled that into him, but it looked like he was forgetting his teaching, along with his grip on reality.

  He placed a few notes on the table and hustled out of the diner as quickly as he could, clutching his backpack tight to his chest.

  Why, oh why had he ever thought of coming to America? He went in search of the Greyhound bus station to figure out his next leg. He had to reach New York in seven days and maybe then his nightmare would end.

  ‘Why didn’t they arrange the exchange as soon as Miguel crossed the border? Why at a fight?’ Meghan doodled idly on a white board which was crammed with her writing and drawing. There was a flow-chart in one corner, a mind-map across the board, and little ovals with names in them, wherever she could find space.

  Despite the clock running down fast, her friends lounged in their office in New York. Zeb was on his couch, Bwana and Roger were practicing throws in the hoop. Broker was there, and so were Bear and Chloe. Beth had texted that she would be arriving in a day, after canceling the rest of her vacation with Mark.

  Finding the flasks was now an Agency mission and everyone had dropped whatever they were doing to join the hunt.

  Clare had a brief call with General Daniel Klouse, the National Security Advisor, who agreed with her. The Agency alone would lead the hunt. There was a risk that the investigation would become public knowledge if other investigative bodies were involved. That outcome could lead to the Death Club organizers changing their plans. Or detonate the weapons.

  ‘You are right,’ General Klouse had concurred with Clare. ‘Let Zeb and his crew do what they are good at. I will contain the other agencies.’ The general was one of the few who knew about The Agency and fully supported it. He had met Zeb several times and regarded him as one of the best covert agents in the country. The twins were like his daughters.

  ‘You’ll get anything you need from me,’ he told her.

  ‘I want Sarah Burke.’ FBI Special Agent Sarah Michelle Burke, was not only a rising star but also Broker’s girlfriend. ‘The FBI’s resources can help us. She can filter whatever we tell her and get those assets to work for us.’

  ‘She’s yours.’

  ‘Because the buyer does not want to expose himself in public,’ Roger drawled and fist-pumped when he scored a basket. ‘Maybe he’s a recognizable figure.’

  ‘Wouldn’t going to the fight be a risk, in that case?’ she objected. ‘And why in New York?’

  ‘Maybe they’re planning something in the city.’

  ‘We still don’t know if they are chemical weapons,’ Bwana snatched the ball from Roger, looped around, leaped high, and slam-dunked. ‘Remember what Clare said? There was no report of any chemical weapons on the move.’

  ‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ Chloe replied without looking up from her screen. She and Bear were tasked with going through every gym, every boxing ring, any location where a fight might be staged.

  Broker was furiously writing algorithms for Werner to use. Zeb? She threw her marking pen at him, angrily, ‘What do you think, Zeb?’

  ‘We have no choice. We have to find him and recover those flasks and whatever is in them. Even if it turns out to be coffee.’ He rose from his couch, slipped on his jacket and headed to the exit.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going? Remember what Clare said? We’ve the best chance of finding Miguel. The other agencies, their hands are tied. You’re not going for your run, are you?’

  ‘I’m going out.’ Zeb entered the elevator and disappeared from her view.

  She raised her hands helplessly, ‘Where do you think he’s gone?’

  ‘Out, he said,’ Bear answered helpfully and ducked when a cushion came flying his way.

  Zeb stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the beast inside him come to life and seek out danger. The beast was quiet. It detected no threat. Gruzman didn’t seem to be anywhere near.

  It was time to change that.

  Chapter 22

  Gruzman’s hired by whoever is organizing these fights. No other explanation. Zeb walked swiftly to the Columbus Circle subway and joined the crowd of commuters heading home. Some were heading home, others to meet friends, or catch a show.

  Zeb was heading to meet Gaspar, a Russian, a relic from the Cold War, a man who worked in the shadowy world of assassins and killers. Gaspar used to be a clearing house at one point; he used to broker information on which killer was available or who was busy. He never revealed their identity or which assignments they were on. Maybe he didn’t know those details, but he gave the impression that he knew everything.

  Clients used to come to Gaspar after a security protocol that would have been the envy of the Secret Service. He put them in touch with available killers and took a commission from the client. Sometimes a client threatened Gaspar with exposure, and met a sorry end very quickly.

  A Jihadi group had approached Gaspar for two killers for a special assignment. They wanted Zeb killed, and that’s how Zeb had known of Gaspar. The two killers hadn’t been successful, but had revealed Gaspar’s identity. Zeb had forced the old man to stop his business, but he knew Gaspar hadn’t ended his information gathering. Gaspar’s network was extensive and if there was anyone who would know about Gruzman, it would be the Cold War veteran.

  It’s likely he’ll have a reception for me. He’ll ask his hitters to rough me up. Not kill me, for he knows I have friends.

  Meeting Gaspar wasn’t easy. He had several establishments that acted as fronts; a pawnshop in the Bronx, a Chinese takeaway in SoHo, a dry-cleaner in Queens. He was never present at those establishments. One had to mention a code at any of his establishments to be taken seriously. The code would ensure that Gaspar would hear of the caller. Sometimes Gaspar would send some heavies to verify the caller’s identity, at other times, he would turn up at the caller’s residence in the middle of the night.

  Gaspar didn’t believe in phones or email. He had no use for fancy voice scanners or biometric fingerprint scanners. Everyone had to go to one of his establishments to set the ball rolling.

  Zeb went to the pawnshop in the Bronx and hung around till the server behind the long, glass counter was free.

  ‘Gaspar. I want to meet him. Urgently.’

  ‘This is a pawnshop, sir. Not a dating place.’ The server, who looked like he went to college, polished an expensive looking watch and placed it back under the glass case.

  ‘Tell him.’ Zeb presented his face at a security camera in the ceiling. ‘I want to meet him in the next two hours. Tell him it’s Zeb Carter.’

  The server was uninterested in his card and made a move to toss it in a trashcan.

  ‘He’ll kill you if you throw that away.’

  The server froze for a second and when he jerked his head up, Zeb had gone.

  The call from Gaspar’s heavy came at ten pm, as Zeb was cooling down after his run in Central Park. ‘Jones Alley, one hour.’

  Jones Alley, w
est of Lafayette Street, was private property and was gated. However, Gaspar had worked his magic and the gate was unlocked, when Zeb walked towards it.

  The street lighting was dim and but for the graffiti on the walls, showed no signs of human presence. He pushed the gate wider and went deeper into the darkness, alert, seeking out the old man.

  He heard a slight sound, cloth brushing against concrete. He didn’t falter, and kept walking towards the closed end of the alley. The sound turned into a rush of wind and Zeb fell to the ground just as a heavy loomed over him and swung a ham-like fist.

  Zeb rolled to his back and rearing up, punched him in his belly. He kept rolling even as the heavy’s breath left in a whoosh. Gaspar would have more than one hitter. He was proved right when another man appeared and stomped the ground Zeb had been lying on.

  Zeb got to his feet and weaved out of the way when the second man attacked. Mistake! The hitter feinted, drew a wicked-looking blade and slashed at Zeb. A horizontal slash that turned into a deadly upward swing. Zeb swung out of the way but came up against the first beefy assailant, who grabbed his hair, and grasped his shoulder, trapping him. The second hitter saw his opportunity and rushed in, blade forward.

  The beast sped through Zeb’s blood, powering his moves. No way was it going to lose to two hitters. Zeb stamped Beefy’s foot. His elbow jammed into the expansive abdomen. A twist of the body to offer the smallest target to the knifeman. An aikido move to clasp Beefy’s right hand. His hips swiveled, his body gathered strength and flung Beefy at the second hitter.

  Beefy shouted out in panic as the blade pierced his belly and the two men went down in a heap.

  ‘You haven’t lost your speed,’ Gaspar emerged from the darkness, clapping softly. ‘These two were my better men,’ he hauled Beefy up easily and turned him around to inspect his wound. ‘You’ll be alright. You’re lucky Carter didn’t kill you.’

  He flicked his fingers and turned to Zeb when the two men stumbled away. ‘They weren’t going to kill you, but why did you spare them? I thought you’d shoot them.’

  ‘Killing isn’t the answer to everything.’

  A muscle in Gaspar’s cheek twitched as if in acknowledgement. Gaspar was in his eighties, but he moved as if he was a couple of decades younger. It was only his pock-marked face, deep sunken eyes, and the shock of white hair that gave his age away.

  ‘Who are you after?’ his Russian accent was still strong despite years of living in New York. ‘And why come to me?’

  ‘Gruzman. He’s after me. Who hired him? Why?’

  That muscle twitched again. Gaspar could have come back with a who’s Gruzman response. He didn’t. He hadn’t lived that long by playing petty games.

  ‘You’re sure?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Gruzman,’ Gaspar whispered to himself. ‘After all this time.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He killed one of my friends. I made it a mission to know all about him. He dropped off the radar a few years ago. Last I heard, he was working for one man. A Russian. I tried to find more, but no one knew.’

  ‘A Russian? Surely you’ll have your contacts.’

  ‘I do, especially amongst my own people. However, this Russian is like a ghost. He has no shadow. I heard this rumor that he hired Gruzman on a retainer. That’s all I know.’

  Zeb had no reason to doubt Gaspar. If Gaspar had heard a whisper, it was true. These rumors weren’t heard at bars in the city. They were whispered by men in private dining rooms where such men met - those who brokered for killers. Who acted as their middlemen and fronted for them.

  ‘I can ask,’ the old man offered and chuckled drily at Zeb’s expression. ‘I don’t like you, Carter, but I hate Gruzman more. The man he killed was like a brother to me.’

  ‘It can expose you.’

  In Gaspar’s business, no one asked questions directly. One dropped oblique hints and got vague replies. Only those in the know could figure out what the question was and what the answer meant. Everyone knew Gaspar was retired and his surfacing, however discreetly, would raise flags.

  ‘I’ve lived a long life,’ Gaspar understood Zeb’s point. ‘If it has to end like this, in finding this killer, so be it.’

  ‘Tell your network I run in Central Park. Every day.’

  ‘That’ll make it easy for him.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ Zeb replied drily and parted company with the Cold War soldier.

  Six Days to Fight Night

  Werner had snatched several bits and bytes from Privalov’s computer just before it had shut down. There was a name. There was the word fight. More importantly, was the mention of New York. Equally significant was the profile behind that name. That profile was similar to Descadeo’s. Werner sent a message to Beth, Broker, and Meghan, as Zeb’s crew were running in Central Park, early in the morning.

  They ran in a single line, the twins at the front, Chloe behind them, Broker, Roger, Bwana, Bear, and lastly Zeb. No one cut across them, cyclists steered wide of them, and other runners made way for them.

  Bringing up the rear gave Zeb the opportunity to watch every other person they came across. Knowing Gaspar, the old man would have met some fellow shadowy men the previous night itself. He would have mentioned the name Carter. And something about a Central Park routine. That routine would get talked about. It would eventually reach Gruzman.

  Assuming he uses these networks. Zeb watched a dark-haired man standing several hundred feet away, observing them. Not him. Gruzman wouldn’t be so obvious. Besides it’s not even twelve hours since I met Gaspar.

  Later, in the office, Beth’s shriek sent Bwana rolling over from his couch and grabbing for his gun. He relaxed when he saw she was waving a sheet of paper in the air.

  ‘Navarro,’ she squealed. ‘Werner’s got the first fighter.’

  They crowded around her as she read out from the sheet. Navarro. Thirty-eight years old. Colombian rapist. Killer. Drug dealer. ‘MMA fighter,’ she tapped the sheet. ‘He has taken part in several fights, and killed an inmate in a Bogota prison.’

  ‘How do you know he’s a fighter?’ Bwana demanded, ‘and what’s the connection to the club?’

  She broke it down to them, slowing down as she got to the technicalities of Werner trawling the enormous network that was the internet. Several sniffing programs. Working in tandem with other supercomputers, in a grid. Looking for keywords, phrases, audio files. Finding this computer in Bronx which was on a public network for a few seconds. Extracting a page as it talked to the network. Finding Death Club mentioned in the page. Spotting Navarro’s name. Tracking Navarro’s identity, who was a wanted criminal in Colombia.

  ‘I have simplified it for you,’ she waved a hand dismissively. ‘You wouldn’t understand the algorithms, how a supercomputer can suck such data–’

  She stopped when Meghan rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, some of you might,’ Beth accepted grudgingly and beamed when Broker high-fived her.

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ she challenged Zeb when he stayed silent.

  ‘I do. I’m wondering why they broke their security.’

  ‘You’re suspecting a trap, bro?’ Bwana rumbled.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Only one way to find out.’ Bwana’s face lightened at the prospect of possible violence.

  ‘Is there anything else you think of Bwana?’ Beth sighed.

  Zeb got an update from everyone once the humor had died away. The twins would stay on Navarro, check with the Colombian police for any information on his whereabouts. They would get Werner to check airports and other ports of entry for the Colombian’s images. Maybe a camera had spotted him.

  Bear and Chloe had made no progress on gyms and arenas. It was more than likely that the fight wouldn’t be held in one of those public venues.

  Roger and Bwana had reached out to their own networks for anything on the Death Club. Nothing there. They had something on Descadeo. The dead man had been on a spending
spree in Portland, the night he had been killed.

  ‘The bartender saw several rolls of bills in the man’s jacket. He said Descadeo followed another man out of the bar and was never seen again.’ The bar didn’t have any cameras and there were no descriptions for the other man.

  ‘Broker?’

  ‘Nada,’ Broker spun his seat around in disgust. ‘Nothing on cameras. No trace of Miguel. Getting Werner to search for a Miguel in a country of three hundred and fifty million people is pointless.’

  Broker had gotten Werner to run a security camera search at bus and train stations in Miami and New York. Any public transportation point that had cameras. The problem with that was there weren’t that many cameras around. The few that existed, were old and captured poor images.

  ‘He could thumb lifts,’ Broker speculated, ‘in which case he could avoid any detection.’

  ‘What about Cuthbert’s insurance policy?’

  Broker grimaced, rose tiredly, and ruffled Meghan’s hair. ‘Zilch. The insurer has a listed address in the city, but its ownership will take time to unravel. Shell companies in offshore locations.’

  He picked up a squeeze ball and played with it as he continued briefing them. ‘I penetrated Cuthbert’s systems. They have some other policies with that insurer. All of them are above board. I asked Sarah to investigate the insurer.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing,’ he grunted exasperatedly. ‘It’ll take time. She can’t tip her hand lest they find out and word gets back to the club.’

  No leads. Miguel could be anywhere. Navarro? ‘Isn’t Navarro an Envigado hitter?’

  The Office of Envigado was a Colombian drug cartel active in the cities of Medellin and Envigado. It had a hand in several illegal activities; gambling, extortion, money laundering, assassination, and drug trafficking.