Trigger Break

by Ty Patterson

Broker was one of the first recruits Zeb had on-boarded. Friend, ex-Ranger, and an ace intelligence analyst, Broker had had a formidable reputation when he’d worked at the Pentagon. He had set up his own information business, a very successful one, on leaving the Army. He’d joined Zeb at first approach.

  Bwana and Roger had followed. Friends, again. Both ex-Special Forces. Then came Bear, another Special Forces operative. Bear didn’t come alone. Bear lived with Chloe Sundstrom, who was from the Eighty-Second Airborne. She too had joined the Agency, readily. All of them knew one another, had worked with one another. More importantly, all of them shared a deep friendship.

  The last two to join the elite operatives were the twins. They didn’t have an Army background. They were born into an illustrious cop family and had lost their parents early on. They were businesswomen, having their own firm in Boston. Zeb had rescued them from a gang of assassins, while on vacation in Wyoming.

  The twins had pestered Zeb to allow them into the Agency once they’d found out what their enigmatic rescuer did. Zeb had stonewalled them for months, but he had underestimated their persistence. He’d finally caved in and stood aside in bemusement as they took charge.

  They worked with Broker on the intel and logistics side. They managed Werner, their supercomputer. On one mission, the Agency had rescued a Middle Eastern royal’s daughter from a slavery ring. The grateful father had presented a check with several zeroes on it to Clare, who’d handed it to Zeb.

  That reward had funded the purchase of their Columbus Avenue office, a building that the eight of them owned outright. It also had bought them their Gulfstream. There was still a lot left over, funds that Zeb and Broker had wisely invested.

  The twins had done up their office, reoutfitted the Gulfstream, and managed its operation. They brought humor and vitality. They were the Agency’s glue.

  Broker was the only operative Clare had interviewed. After meeting him, she didn’t involve herself in the recruitment anymore. She blindly approved the rest of the operatives. Congratulated herself on finding Zeb, for each one of his picks was top-notch.

  Zeb was the lead operative—however, there was no chain of command, no hierarchy. They were friends. They were family.

  They hadn’t let the president down. Not once, since their coming together as the Agency.

  Chapter 4

  Zeb turned when Meghan tapped him on his shoulder.

  They were ready. All of them formally dressed, all of them serious-looking, because they were heading out to meet Avichai Levin. They took two SUVs, Zeb driving the first, Meghan beside him. Beth in the back, with Bwana. Bear drove the second one, Chloe at his side, Roger and Broker in the rear.

  It took them forty minutes to get to OnePP, One Police Plaza, the NYPD’s headquarters. They were met by Chang and Pizaka, who escorted them silently to the upper floors.

  Chang and Pizaka headed a special unit in the NYPD that tackled high-profile and high-visibility cases. Zeb and his crew had helped them crack several cases in which both the Agency and the NYPD had an interest. The NYPD had taken the credit, which suited Zeb fine. The Agency wasn’t after recognition. The two cops also knew just enough about the Agency not to ask too many questions.

  ‘How is he?’ Beth asked Chang as they went up the elevator, referring to Levin.

  ‘Holding up, considering all that’s gone down.’ Chang was the more laid-back of the two detectives. He was normally dressed in a wrinkled suit, his hair ruffled. He had made an effort for that meeting; his suit was sharply creased, his shoes gleamed, and his hair was neatly parted.

  Pizaka had model-like looks—he dressed like one and was a minor celebrity. He had written a few books, which had brought him fame and accompanying rewards. He thought Zeb and his friends were vigilantes and had a permanent look of disdain when dealing with the operatives. Despite that, the two cops got along well with Zeb’s crew.

  Chang knocked once on a door and opened it at a muffled come in. NYPD Commissioner Rolando rose and hugged them. He knew them all. There was history, good history.

  At the end of the polished walnut table sat a steel-grey-haired man. He wore reading glasses as he flicked through several sheets of paper, making notes on one. Avichai Levin.

  The Israeli’s normally stern face was haggard. His eyes were red. Despite his loss—he was a widower, Shira his only child—he was smartly dressed in a brown suit and a white shirt. He wordlessly clasped Zeb tight and bowed when shaking hands with the twins and Chloe. No words were exchanged. No condolences were offered by anyone. None of them in the room believed in pointless verbosity.

  ‘Anything?’ Zeb asked the commissioner.

  Rolando raised an eyebrow at Chang and Pizaka. The latter took his cue and shook his head.

  ‘Too early. Not even twenty-four hours have elapsed.’ He repeated the previous day’s version of the story, with a few more details.

  Shira Levin, Avichai Levin’s daughter, had been in New York for a year, studying music at the Juilliard School. She had a small circle of friends, shared an apartment in Brooklyn with two other girls, and by all accounts led a quiet life.

  She was thirty-two, had no romantic entanglements, and, other than the occasional show, or quiet dinner with friends, didn’t socialize much.

  The route she took, on which she had been attacked, was normal for her. Routine. She had a protection detail, two Israeli men, who usually followed a car length behind. That particular day, they had been four cars behind. Caught up in traffic. They hadn’t seen the killing, traffic obstructing their view.

  The attacker’s SUV had been found in Brooklyn. Abandoned. Clean. No prints. No DNA. It had been reported stolen two months ago. A few bystanders had managed to film the killing on their phones. Those videos had made it to the mainstream media, but the killers still remained unidentified. They were all dressed in black—black sweatpants, dark sneakers, black masks, and black gloves.

  No onlookers recollected hearing any of the killers speaking. It was a quick, clinical kill.

  ‘The media has gone to town, replaying the videos zillions of times. Our toll-free numbers are flooded with crazies. Some claiming to be the killers, others saying they know who the killers are. We’re running down everything.’

  Chang picked up the ball when Pizaka paused. ‘We’re working with Mr. Levin. Drawing up a list of his daughter’s friends. We’ve sent a team to question the girls she roomed with. Another team is at Juilliard.’

  ‘Mr. Levin—’

  ‘Avichai,’ the head of Mossad corrected him in a gravelly voice.

  ‘Avichai is compiling a list of people, threats he’s received. Enemies. It’s likely to be a long list.’

  No one commented. It would be a long list. There would be many people—criminal gangs, terrorists, nation states—who would want to harm Levin, or his family.

  Zeb rose from his chair as Chang continued, and went to a window. The street below was flooded with TV camera crews, journalists, and curious onlookers. There’ll be diplomatic pressure, media pressure, outrage from Joe Public. Levin will want to unleash his katsa and his kidon.

  The katsa were field officers who gathered information, ran agents, and often conducted investigations. The kidon, which literally meant “tip of the spear,” were the elite assassins who carried out the wet work.

  Zeb leaned against the windowsill, his back to it, and gazed reflectively around the table. He was confident Chang and Pizaka would carry out a first-rate investigation.

  He looked in the direction of the woman who sat next to Levin. She hadn’t greeted them. She hadn’t risen. She hadn’t even smiled. Her eyes were grey. Zeb had seen senators and congressmen quail before those eyes. She was his boss, Clare. She had flown down from D.C. to extend her support to Levin.

  ‘I can help,’ Levin cut over Chang and turned to address Rolando. ‘My people can work with yours. We can set up a joint task force.’

  ‘Not at this moment, sir. We have enough resources. If we need more, I
won’t hesitate to call,’ the Commissioner replied diplomatically.

  ‘Avichai,’ Zeb called out when Levin made to protest. ‘Let the NYPD run their investigation. They’re good. Don’t involve your katsas or your kidon.’

  ‘It’s my daughter,’ Levin protested angrily. ‘We can help.’

  ‘Your means are different, Avichai. This isn’t a Mossad mission.’

  Levin’s face grew mottled and he thrust his chair back to rise angrily, when Clare spoke.

  ‘Avichai,’ she chided.

  That was enough for Levin to control himself. ‘I want to know who and why,’ he warned Zeb.

  ‘You will. Chang?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The swords.’

  ‘I was getting to that. We got people to enhance the videos and images and do whatever geeks do. There isn’t great clarity on the sword. It could be an Asian ceremonial sword. It could also be an extra-long butcher’s blade.’

  ‘Islamic terrorists use swords, don’t they?’ Bear rumbled from his corner.

  ‘Yeah. We’re looking into that angle too. So far, no terrorist group has come forward to claim responsibility. Later today, we’ll be questioning all those on our watch list and the FBI’s.’

  The watch list was just that, a list of people law enforcement agencies monitored. Some of them were on the list for the media they consumed. Extreme propaganda. Hate preaching. Maybe they had uttered threats publicly. Some of those on the list could have arrest records.

  There was no single list. Each agency had its own, and they often shared such lists with other bodies. The existence of such lists was rarely acknowledged.

  ‘What about criminal gangs? Terrorists? Those the Mossad has attacked?’

  ‘Those too. As soon as we have Mr. Levin’s list.’

  A knock sounded on the door and an officer entered. He whispered briefly in Chang’s ear and departed.

  ‘We might have something.’ Chang couldn’t suppress the excitement in his voice. ‘We got a call from an informant. Someone who’s quite reliable.

  ‘He says the killers were from the Hanoi Brotherhood, a Vietnamese gang in Los Angeles.’

  Levin’s leaned forward quickly. ‘Hanoi Brotherhood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You know of them?’

  Levin hesitated, battling with how much he could share.

  ‘You took out their leader, Bao Nguyen, didn’t you? Last year,’ Clare guessed. ‘I remember reading the reports.’

  ‘They were helping terrorists in Jerusalem. Funding them. We took out the killers and also Bao Nguyen.’

  Rolando’s brow creased. ‘Why would a Vietnamese gang help those terrorists?’

  ‘Snuff films,’ Levin sighed heavily. ‘The terrorists made snuff films and sold them to the Vietnamese. The Hanoi Brotherhood got a new leader, Do An Banh, early this year. He swore revenge on the Mossad.’ He waved a sheet of paper. ‘They’re on my list.’

  ‘We’ll get the LAPD to question him.’ Chang took Levin’s sheet, glanced at it briefly and handed it to Pizaka. ‘You know anything more about them? They would use swords?’

  ‘Yes,’ Levin affirmed. ‘They are not a large gang. Maybe two hundred on the West Coast, but they are very vicious. Brutal. Execution by sword is a common form of punishment.

  ‘I don’t think they will admit anything to your LAPD. Do An Banh will not even talk.’

  ‘He will,’ Zeb said confidently.

  ‘Why?’ Levin asked, dubious, voicing the expression on everyone’s faces.

  ‘Because the person who goes to question them will be Bao Nguyen’s killer.’

  Levin frowned. ‘I can’t expose my people.’

  ‘You won’t have to.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘You’re looking at Bao Nguyen’s assassin.’

  Chapter 5

  Zeb held a hand up when a chorus of protests broke up. ‘You have any better ideas?’

  ‘The LAPD will get him to talk. If needed, Chang and I can fly out. This isn’t one of your…missions.’ Pizaka glared at him, minding his words, conscious of Clare’s presence.

  ‘Why do you think he’ll admit it was his killers? You don’t know who the killers are. There’s no way you can track them back to the Hanoi Brotherhood. Why would he even agree to meet you?’

  Floundering, Pizaka looked at Chang for support and got none. ‘This is no different from any other investigation. If the gang boss doesn’t meet us, we’ll have to do this the hard way. Investigate the gang.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Zeb replied indifferently and returned to his seat.

  ‘That’s it?’ Pizaka asked in disbelief. ‘I thought you’d protest more.’

  ‘It’s your investigation. You should run it the way you see fit.’

  Pizaka searched his face but couldn’t read anything in it. He returned to briefing them: actions that his team would be taking, reporting, liaison points with the media.

  Zeb tuned out after a while and mentally ran down a list of contacts. In Los Angeles.

  * * *

  ‘You’re going to the West Coast?’ Clare asked him in the elevator with the eight of them after the meeting had ended.

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You don’t want the cops with you?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Will you be taking anyone with you?’

  Bwana, Roger, and Bear, standing behind Clare, raised their hands silently.

  ‘Maybe, ma’am. I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Let Hall know.’ Jeffrey Hall was the LAPD’s chief of police. ‘He wouldn’t like vigilante action on his turf. Even if it was by his best friend.’

  ‘Was planning to, ma’am.’ Hall was a very good friend.

  Clare walked out of the elevator when it reached the lobby and waited for her team to catch up with her.

  ‘Ma’am, Levin needs to be controlled. He cannot let his people loose.’

  ‘He won’t. He’s a professional. He’s been in the game long enough. In any case, I’ll manage him.’

  ‘I’m coming with you, bro,’ Bwana said softly as they approached their parked SUVs.

  ‘He’s too big,’ Roger shot his friend down. ‘He can’t move fast. He’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I’m your best bet.’

  ‘Rog’s too good-looking,’ Bear said, putting his two cents in. ‘He’s easily distracted by women. I should come along with you.’

  Zeb turned around and faced them. ‘I’m going alone. Chloe, you and Bear go along with the NYPD’s teams. Sit in as they interview the watch list. Bwana, you and Roger talk to our watch list.’

  The Agency had its own list that they had collated over the years. It tracked social media behavior and online subscriptions, monitored emails and camera feeds. Its list wasn’t shared with law enforcement agencies since its method of acquisition was dubious. Broker and the twins had a very loose definition of what was legal when it came to gathering intel.

  ‘What about us?’ Beth flared.

  ‘Your work’s the most important. We’re just the heavies.’ A rare smile crossed Zeb’s face. ‘Broker and the two of you will work on Werner. Check all vehicles. All cameras. All social media posts. Talk to all those people who recorded the killing. Get the footage. There might be more on their phones. And get my name back on the website.’

  Their security consulting website, their front, didn’t have any names on it. During missions, Zeb had his name up on it. The twins tracked the page to see who had checked it out and followed that trail as far as it led. There were a few instances when the badasses they had been hunting had left an easy electronic trail.

  The drive back to their office was silent, each one of them wrapped in their own thoughts. Levin’s face was fresh in their memories. Chloe was the first to break the silence in the second vehicle.

  ‘You’re shadowing him.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yeah. Bwana and I, or Rog and I.’

  ‘Nope,’ Roger drawled from the rear. ‘Bwana and I will go.
The two of you stick with Chang and Pizaka.’

  They all knew Zeb liked to work alone. That didn’t mean they didn’t have his back. Bwana and Roger would fly commercial, shadow Zeb, and pitch in if their friend was in trouble.

  It was SOP, standard operating procedure, for the seven of them.

  * * *

  Zeb took the Gulfstream that evening and reached Los Angeles as night was falling. A short, balding man was waiting for him at the airport. The man gave him a car key and disappeared into the crowd without a word.

  The Agency had SUVs stashed in major cities around the country and internationally. Each SUV was kept in a veteran-owned and operated garage. Every vehicle was identical. Armored body. Cache of weapons beneath the floorboards. Run-flat tires. Reinforced windows. Several gadgets that would be at home in the Batmobile.

  The vets provided the vehicles whenever Zeb’s crew needed them, collected them after each mission, serviced them, and kept them ready for the next call. Zeb paid them from a trust fund they had set up, a generous allowance that more than covered their garage’s operating costs.

  Zeb drove out in the black SUV—they were always black—under the night sky and joined the traffic in the city that manufactured dreams.

  He nosed into the new LAPD headquarters on West First Street, a gleaming glass-and-concrete building, and found a parking space. He gave his name to a burly man behind the desk and went up a silent elevator.

  It was night, but the building was busy. Suspects were being interviewed, cops were on their phones, plainclothes men and women bustled about with files and coffee mugs in their hands. He spotted the ubiquitous doughnut boxes on a couple of desks.

  He knocked at the office he was seeking and pushed open the door when a gruff voice called out. The man behind the walnut desk was large, built like a tank, and coal black; he had a forbidding expression on his face.

  LAPD Chief of Police Jeffrey Hall waited for Zeb to shut the door and only then allowed a wide grin to split his face. Zeb knew there was a running bet in the corridors of the building; whoever witnessed Hall smile would come into a nice pot. As far as he knew, no one had claimed that money.