A Touch of Revenge nb-2

by Gary Ponzo

  Matt moved to the window, pulled up the blinds and looked out over the stretch of grass that surrounded the hospital. A camera crew from a local TV station was setting up their equipment in the parking lot. The sheriff had just been shot and it would certainly remain the lead story for another day or two. A slow parade of cars meandered past the news crew, while pedestrians were pulled aside by a female reporter eager for a scoop.

  Matt still felt like a foreigner in the mountains of Arizona. He wouldn’t be there if not for reuniting with Steele … or his ex-partner deciding to leave the Bureau for a simpler life. Matt wasn’t sure which circumstance drew him more.

  He felt Steele’s fingertips on his shoulder.

  “Tommy just wants to help,” Steele said.

  “I know what he wants,” Matt said to the window.

  The truth was, Matt didn’t know how hard to press. He missed Nick’s direction. Nick and Tommy were closer than most brothers. It would be so much easier if Nick were lucid enough to share his thoughts.

  A hearse slowly made its way around the perimeter of the parking lot. It was there for Afran Rami’s body. Something about seeing the hearse gave him a sudden sense of perspective and he reached over his shoulder to touch Steele’s hand on his back. She responded by leaning closer. He’d never thought about spending his life with the same woman before he’d met Steele. Now he was getting caught up in the moment. The hearse slowed as it passed in front of the room. Hodgen’s Funeral Home was stenciled on the side of the door. Matt got a good look at the driver as he went by.

  “Maybe we should all go and have ourselves a talk,” Matt said.

  “Now you’re making sense,” Tommy said.

  • • •

  Kemin Demir slowed the hearse to a crawl as he observed the reporters doing the dance of the news story. Nothing excited Americans like a juicy story. And Kemin was prepared to give them a grand one. The sheriff who was shot would be killed while recovering from an assassination attempt. An assassination which would have been successful had Kemin fired the rifle and not Temir Barzani’s nephew. Unfortunately, Kemin wasn’t in the position to question the decisions of his leader.

  Barzani was clever enough, however, to allow Kemin to finish the job that his nephew couldn’t accomplish. Nick Bracco and his partner were both going to pay for killing Kemel Kharrazi, the greatest leader the Kurdish Security Force had ever known. The KSF needed to appear cohesive and there was no better way than retribution.

  Kemin parked the hearse in the exact spot the regular driver had instructed-just before Kemin slit his throat. The ceramic knife he carried was sharp enough to decapitate a two-hundred pound man, yet light and invisible to a metal detector.

  Kemin got out of the hearse and pushed the buzzer next to the large white door in the rear of the building. A moment later, a man in blue scrubs and a fabric mask dangling around his neck glanced at the hearse and waved Kemin in.

  “You here for the Rami kid?” the man asked.

  Kemin nodded.

  The man gestured to a silver gurney where a teenage boy lay naked. Rami was a severe shade of white, as if his entire body was sucked dry of blood. The room was dark, but for the silver spotlight which hung directly over the kid’s body. The place smelled like a giant pail of antiseptic cleaner.

  “Hey,” the man said. “Where’s Larry?”

  “Sick,” Kemin said. “I just started on Tuesday, so this is all new to me.”

  The man seemed to understand and as expected, he appeared eager to show Kemin how much he knew. These Americans and their bold appetite to exhibit their knowledge.

  “Do you have the paperwork?” the man asked.

  Kemin produced the proper sheets of paper and the man pointed to a doorway. “Through that door and up the stairs to the Administrator’s office. Ask for Merle. He’ll sign the papers for you, then come back and I’ll help you load the body.”

  Kemin smiled. “Thanks.”

  Once he was inside the guts of the hospital, he knew precisely where to go. His informant scouted the vicinity hours ago and relayed all of the necessary information. One deputy was guarding Bracco’s door and two FBI agents were inside the room with Bracco’s wife. They would not be expecting such a brash attempt and Kemin was salivating at the opportunity to surprise them.

  Adrenalin rushed through his veins as he walked up the stairs and entered the second floor of the patient rooms. He spotted a directory and counted down the numbers on the doors like the launch sequence of a rocket ship. When he was within thirty feet of Bracco’s room he spied the deputy sitting on a chair next to the entrance. The man appeared tired. His legs were spread and his arms were folded across his chest. At first Kemin thought the deputy was examining something on his shirt, but as he got closer he realized the man was asleep. His eyes were completely shut and his chest rose and fell with the cadence of a deep sleep. It alleviated the need for Kemin to slit his throat.

  Kemin took a deep breath and grasped the ceramic knife inside his coat pocket as he leaned against the oak door and pushed himself into the room. Two steps inside the hospital room and he knew right away he was in trouble. Nick Bracco wasn’t in the bed as expected. Instead, a man wearing a brown leather jacket sat on the end of the bed with a purple toothpick in his mouth. The American gangster. The same man who helped the FBI locate Kemel Kharrazi.

  “How ya doing,” the man said. “Glad you could make it.”

  Kemin was about to charge the man when he sensed a presence to his right. Sitting on a plain, armless chair was the FBI agent, Bracco’s old partner. He was aiming a pistol at Kemin and seemed ready to fire it.

  “I wouldn’t move any further if I were you,” the agent said. He was wearing an FBI windbreaker and jeans. Kemin looked around and found no other agents.

  “I am here to kill you and your partner,” Kemin announced.

  The gangster laughed. “He’s got large ones, G-man. You have to give him that.”

  “Take the knife out of your pocket and drop it on the floor,” the FBI agent said.

  Kemin thought about his options. He could lunge at the gangster and kill him before the gunshot would put him down.

  “Now,” the agent said. “Or I start firing.”

  Something in the agent’s voice convinced him to drop the knife. He knew the agent was more of a cowboy than most and it wasn’t time to start an attack. Not yet.

  “Kick it my way,” the agent insisted.

  Kemin kicked it to him and watched the agent pick it up.

  “What else do you have?”

  What more did he need? A good knife and two of the best hands in the KSF.

  “Nothing,” Kemin said.

  The gangster hopped off the bed and walked around Kemin as if inspecting for disease. Kemin felt his wallet pulled from his back pocket so quickly he had no time to respond. The gangster returned to the bed and sat.

  “Let’s see what we have here,” the gangster said, rummaging through his wallet. The man was so close he almost took a swing at him.

  “Look at me,” the FBI agent said. When Kemin turned, he saw no emotion in the agent’s eyes.

  “Where’s Barzani?” the agent asked.

  Kemin had to stifle a laugh. “What are you going to do-put me in jail?”

  “I’m going to get the answers, one way or another.”

  Kemin smiled. He didn’t have a thing to say. The agent could pull every finger from his hands and it wouldn’t have an effect on Kemin’s desire to talk.

  The agent walked up to Kemin and patted him down. Once he was convinced Kemin was free of weapons, he stood directly in front of him and stared. His jaw was tight and his eyes held fire.

  “What are you doing?” the gangster said.

  The agent didn’t respond.

  “What, you gonna slap him?” the gangster said. “You think that’s gonna get him to sing?”

  “Shut up, Tommy” the agent said.

  Suddenly, the gangster had a pistol in his hand.
From behind the agent, the gangster clocked him hard and the agent went down. The agent’s pistol came loose and ended up just a yard from Kemin’s feet. Kemin cursed himself for not being prepared for the opportunity. By the time he realized what was happening, the gangster had recovered the agent’s pistol and waved one of them at Kemin and the other at the agent.

  “Sit down,” the gangster ordered the agent.

  The agent sat on the floor and rubbed the back of his head. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m doing whatever it takes to get to the bottom of this. It’s obvious this dipshit didn’t order my cousin to be killed, so I need to find out where the asshole is.”

  “Listen-”

  “No,” the gangster barked. “I’m done listening. Now it’s time for me to act.” He waved the tip of the pistol to a chair in the corner of the room. “Sit over there and watch.”

  The agent got to his feet and sat down.

  The gangster ordered Kemin to sit down a few chairs away from the agent and Kemin complied. It concerned him that the gangster seemed to be in charge of things.

  The gangster sat back on the bed and placed one of the guns next to him while sifting through Kemin’s wallet with his free hand. He’d pull a card or folded piece of paper from his billfold, then toss it on the bed as discarded junk. Kemin knew there was nothing of true value there.

  The gangster hopped off the bed and appraised Kemin without a trace of fear.

  “Okay,” the gangster said. “You’re not going to tell him anything because he can’t do anything to you. I mean he’s got that whole Constitution thing hanging over his head all the time.” The gangster looked over at the agent. “Am I right? It’s a fucking wonder people even pay their speeding tickets anymore.”

  The gangster turned toward Kemin once again. “There’s nothing he could do to you physically that could matter in even the slightest.”

  Kemin almost nodded. The gangster was getting at something.

  “So,” the gangster said. “What could I do to motivate you?”

  Kemin sat silent.

  The gangster leaned back on the bed again and continued his fascination with Kemin’s wallet.

  “How about money?” the gangster continued. “Is that of any use? Nah, supposedly you guys are rolling in dough. Torture? Naw, too unreliable. You’d probably tell me anything I wanna hear.”

  Suddenly the gangster’s face brightened as he uncovered Kemin’s fake visa.

  “I forgot, you’re from Turkey?”

  Kemin remained still.

  “Holy cow,” the gangster said. “What are the odds? It turns out I gotta couple of friends vacationing over there right now. Well, it’s more of a business trip,” the gangster winked at Kemin. “If you know what I mean.”

  The way the words came out, Kemin stiffened a bit.

  “Don’t do this, Tommy,” the agent protested.

  Kemin wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

  The gangster pulled a picture from Kemin’s wallet. It was a photo of his children from a couple of years ago. They were two and four then. He held it up for Kemin to see.

  “One boy, one girl.” The gangster smiled a paternal smile. “You must be proud.”

  Even though they were both half a world away, Kemin’s throat became dry. He licked his lips. This turned the gangster’s paternal smile into a sinister leer.

  “Cut it out,” the agent said, more forceful this time.

  The gangster grabbed an open tablet computer sitting on a vacant chair and looked at the screen. “Let’s see here,” he said tapping his fingers on the screen. “It says here, Kemin Demir, twenty-seven years old. Birthday, July ninth, oh, here’s an interesting item-last address in Turkey.”

  “That’s confidential information,” the agent barked.

  The gangster leaned back onto the bed and casually opened his cell phone. He began to dial a series of numbers. Too many numbers. As he dialed, he said, “I wonder what time it is over there?”

  Kemin felt his heart pound in his chest.

  As the gangster put the phone to his ear, the agent said, “Tommy, knock it off.”

  The gangster ignored him as he spoke into the phone. “Gino, what’s up?”

  There was a pause, then the gangster said, “Hey, where are you again in Turkey?” Another pause. “Ankara?”

  The gangster looked down at the computer. “Is that anywhere near Sincan? … Oh really, not far at all… Listen, is the Butcher still with you? … Good, and he brought his tools? … Oh, good.”

  Kemin felt his knees become weak.

  “Hey,” the gangster continued, “what’s the weather like over there? …Oh wow.”

  The gangster held his hand over the phone and looked at Kemin. “It’s raining cats and dogs over there.”

  Kemin had spoken to his wife just an hour ago. He could hear thunder throughout the entire conversation.

  “Well, don’t step in any poodles,” the gangster said, then laughed uncontrollably.

  Kemin tried to swallow, but came up empty.

  “Listen, I have some good news for the Butcher.” The gangster stared at the picture of Kemin’s two children as if it were the Mona Lisa. “Tell him I have some fresh meat for him.”

  The gangster held his hand over the phone once again and addressed Kemin. “The Butcher is a pedophile. A real sick bastard, but hey, he knows his way around a carving knife.” He returned to the phone. “Yeah, tell him it’s exactly the cut he likes.” He casually glanced back down at the tablet. “The address is-”

  “Wait!” Kemin shouted. He looked over at the FBI agent. “Are you going to allow this?”

  The agent said to the gangster, “Any information you acquire now is tainted. It will never hold up in court.”

  The gangster continued without hesitation. “It’s three, nine, four-”

  “Stop!” Kemin came to his feet. With the reflex of a cat, the gangster pointed the pistol at his chest.

  “Sit down, asshole,” the gangster said.

  Kemin sat.

  “Not you, Gino,” the gangster said into the phone.

  Kemin struggled to gain a normal breath. Part of him wished this was all a big game they were playing, but he couldn’t afford to guess wrong.

  Kemin looked down. “I’ll tell you what you want.”

  The gangster continued his conversation as if he didn’t hear him.

  “I said I’d tell you what you want,” Kemin repeated, louder this time.

  The gangster paused. He looked at Kemin with dark eyes. “You’re interrupting my phone call.”

  “That’s right,” the gangster said to the phone. “Three, nine, four, Evins Street. Sincan. That’s right.”

  “They’re deep in the woods,” Kemin blurted, desperate. “I can give you exact directions. I can take you there.”

  The gangster looked over at Kemin annoyed and kept talking. “That’s right, Gino, tell the butcher to take his time. Work close to the bones.”

  “Tommy,” the agent said. “He’s talking to you.”

  The gangster pulled the phone down to his chest momentarily. “What, you think he’s telling me the truth?”

  “I am,” Kemin insisted. “I am. Please tell them to stop.”

  The gangster frowned. Then he slowly raised the phone to his ear. “Listen, Gino, I’ll call you back. Wait about forty-five minutes and you don’t hear back from me, tell the Butcher to knock himself out.”

  The gangster snapped the phone shut and sneered at Kemin. “This better be good.”

  Chapter 3

  Anton Kalinikov sat at the coffee shop against a window and read the Washington Post with his legs crossed. The front page was consumed with the death of FBI agent Dave Tanner who was murdered in a nightclub parking lot the night before. Kalinikov read the details with extreme interest. He found some discrepancies with the timeline, but otherwise was satisfied with the reporting. There was no mention of witnesses or potential leads. Kalinikov was still
amazed at the amount of details the American press would release to the public.

  He waited for his coffee to go cold before drinking. It was how he was raised to drink the beverage back in St. Petersburg. Back before he was recruited into the KGB. Back when the Soviet agency was the most effective information-gathering organization in the world. The perception of the killers who saturated the KGB was highly exaggerated compared to amount of spies it had. The number of pure assassins never actually reached double digits. It made Kalinikov’s skills that much more valuable.

  Kalinikov was there when they shut the office down for good in the early nineties. Once his job had been eliminated, he began freelancing. To be safe he traveled to distant continents. Places where the authorities had a very low level of sophistication. It’s the reason he’d never worked in America before this trip. Not that he was afraid, just smart. He could assassinate a Brazilian official with a half-hour notice. Very low risk, yet the compensation was still quite high for the job. An FBI agent, however, required some heavy preparation. Four FBI agents required four times the work, which is why at his age he demanded the huge sum to be cajoled into making the trip. It would be his final job before retiring and he needed enough to send him off to a warm island paradise.

  His cell phone vibrated. He pushed a button and saw the text message:

  TRANSFER HAS BEEN COMPLETED.

  Kalinikov smiled. One quarter of his compensation was now in his Swiss bank account. He pushed another couple of buttons and confirmed the transfer. Next, he unfolded a small piece of paper with four handwritten names and crossed off Dave Tanner’s name. Even though Kalinikov hadn’t been to America, he was keenly aware of his targets. All four names listed were the FBI agents who’d made up a squad of six counterterrorism specialists known as “The Team.” There were two other members in Arizona, but they were none of his concern. His responsibility remained with the four agents in D.C.

  Kalinikov didn’t care about who or why, as long as he got paid. From his only phone conversation with his employer, he’d discerned a Kurdish accent. After the death of Kemel Kharrazi it was easy to imagine the reason these four men’s fate were to follow that of the Kurdish terrorist’s.