by Ty Patterson
‘Now,’ Meghan whispered and with that, he exited swiftly, checked that there were no curious eyes on him, and changed the front plate. He went to the rear and screwed in a new plate over the existing one.
He went back to the cab and pressed a button and panels on the sides and top of the truck revolved instantly and the previously green truck with brand markings of a non-existent shipper, was replaced with the logo of a well-known national carrier.
He removed his shirt, put on an armored vest, covered it with a black combat shirt, and washed away the tats from his arms and face.
He waited for the night to set in and when it was dark enough for his purpose, grabbed a long canvas bag, and set out to one of the industrial units to the side of the warehouse.
He vaulted over a chain-link fence and ran between parked cars, keeping well away from surveillance cameras. He reached an emergency exit, forced it open with a lever from his bag, and climbed the stairs swiftly, quietly.
Seven stories later, he was on its roof. Fifteen minutes later, he was settled with his McMillan Tac-338 on its bipod, its Leupold Mark 4 scope snug against his eye, the unloading yard and the rear of the warehouse, clearly visible.
‘Ready,’ he spoke in his throat mic and got acknowledgements from the twins, Zeb, and Roger.
Roger was on the roof of a unit opposite the yard, with his sniper rifle. Zeb was in his box truck, within a stone’s throw of the yard, a lurid magazine and the wrapper of a taco to support his cover if anyone was curious.
The buildings had been reconned by the twins who had identified the shooting points and the modes of entry. The equipment came from their store in the office. All of them, including the twins, were outfitted for combat.
The waiting commenced.
Zeb had reclined his seat as far as it could go, and lay relaxed with his eyes half closed. A screen rested on his belly and showed images from the NYPD’s drones. He knew the cops and FBI agents had filtered in and were in position. He didn’t try to identify them, his focus was on the yard.
He had looked hard at the images and video feeds, Roger, Bwana, and he had gathered, trying to make out Zho. Zho wasn’t to be seen. Doesn’t surprise me. He wouldn’t be so careless.
Dark came, but traffic in the industrial units didn’t ease. Shipments had to be made, goods had to be received, and shifts had to be operated.
Trucks entered the warehouse and each time they did, a flurry of activity ensued. Cranes came to life and people rushed out of its dark maw and unloaded or loaded the vehicles.
He could almost sense the watching law enforcement officers lean forward in dry excitement each time a vehicle rolled in the yard. Each time, the vehicles unloaded innocuous contents. Cables one time, wooden pallets another time, machinery, a third time.
‘They rent out the warehouse to other shippers too. It’s not just silk and spices that they deal in,’ Beth clarified, as if reading his mind. ‘Sarah called Broker to check where we were. He said we were around. She wanted to know where. He didn’t say and told her we wouldn’t get in her way.’
‘I bet she wasn’t too happy with that answer,’ Roger drawled in their ears. ‘Bwana, you awake?’
‘Yeah,’ came the answering rumble. ‘I will fall asleep though, if you keep talking.’
Zeb emerged from his box truck at eleven pm. He kept to the shadows and using the parked vehicles as cover, walked as if he belonged, on the sidewalk opposite the front of the yard. He crouched behind the wheel well of an empty truck and peered cautiously.
Beth and Meghan had launched their drone the previous hour and it flew soundlessly, high above, its cameras watching. It hadn’t picked up anything concerning.
The yard was brightly lit and had a few men rolling what looked like barrels. They were in vests and loose trousers, gloves on their hands that moved in a blur on the cylindrical shapes.
One of them said something that made all of them laugh. A shoulder was clapped and they retreated inside the building once their job was done.
Feels normal. Too normal?
Zeb settled on his haunches for a long wait, his Glock within easy reach.
The hour changed and a new day started. Nothing much changed at the warehouse. Another hour went by with Roger cracking a joke. ‘Just to check if you folks are around,’ he said.
Meghan gave him the verbal equivalent of the middle finger and asked him to pipe down.
Zeb tensed when an engine sounded in the distance and lights outlined the shapes of still vehicles. Two beams emerged from the approach street and the growl became louder as the vehicle came into view.
A truck. With a container.
‘This could be it,’ Meghan spoke his thoughts.
The vehicle turned smoothly into the yard and the warehouse sprang to life. More floodlights turned on and seven men rushed out from its interior. They gathered around the now stopped vehicle and talked to the driver.
He climbed down from its cab and answered their questions. An argument seemed to ensue with the workers gesticulating furiously and the driver shaking his head in denial.
He threw up his hands finally and stomped to the rear. He climbed on to the truck’s bed and fiddled with the sealing on the container and flung it open.
Wide open, so that even onlookers from a distance could see right inside. See the shiny blocks of plastic on pallets.
Bales!
Something tingled in Zeb’s spine but before he could analyze it, searchlights suddenly came on and threw the men in the yard in sharp relief.
‘FBI. DON’T MOVE.’ A loud speaker sounded and armed officers burst from buildings and trucks. They raced to the yard, their weapons trained and ready. A chopper came out of nowhere and hovered over the brightly lit yard.
The loud speaker yelled out more instructions that were complied with, by the men in the yard. They raised their hands in the air and squinted in the bright light as the first of the officers reached them.
There’s Burke. Zeb made out her shape, her ponytail bobbing as she ran with two men, racing to the container.
The tingling in his spine became more urgent, the beast rousing and growling. He looked up and down the street and then his gaze narrowed as he took in another vehicle.
The courier truck! It was moving, its headlamps turned off, side panels opening.
Zeb was moving even before he shouted his warning.
‘IT’S A TRAP.’
He crossed the street in three strides, saw men jump off the truck through the corners of his eyes and then they were behind him. The last image he had of them was of metallic objects in their hands. Assault rifles.
‘Burke,’ he yelled again, his legs pumping, his Glock becoming an extension of his right arm.
She turned.
‘DOWN. IT’S A TRAP,’ he roared.
He was close enough to see her eyes widen and her mouth open. He crashed into her, kicked out with his legs and felled the two men with her.
He rolled, carrying her with him, desperately, away from the bright lights. Just in time.
A burst of fire laced through the air where she had been standing.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Zeb and Burke crawled swiftly to the side of the yard where there was cover, provided by stacks of pallets and the body of a crane. The firefight raged on behind them with very few rounds coming their way.
‘I’m okay,’ Burke panted, when she felt Zeb’s searching glance. Her knuckles were white as she gripped a railing on the crane and peered cautiously around at the firefight that was raging heavily.
‘Sarah? Zeb, have you seen Sarah?’ Broker’s urgent voice came through his earpiece.
‘She’s unharmed. Scratched,’ Zeb replied when he spotted the trickle of blood on her forehead. ‘Not by a round.’
‘What about you?’
Zeb didn’t get time to reply. A head peeped around a truck about thirty feet away, and a rifle barrel started rising in their direction. Zeb slammed Burke to the ground and f
ired instinctively. His round pinged off the side of the truck and the head and the weapon disappeared.
‘Bwana, Roger, we need cover.’
‘Dang it, I am providing cover,’ the Texan replied in an injured tone. ‘That critter got away from me somehow. There’s a safe channel behind that truck and past more crates. No hostiles there. They’re all pinned down in the yard. That route will lead you to the entrance where agents are waiting.’
Zeb peered behind them; there was what looked like a route that snaked through equipment and disappeared in the dark where the floodlights didn’t reach. They would have to climb over dense coils of plastic sheets and for a second or so, they would be exposed to the yard. Their legs and lower parts of their bodies would be vulnerable as they ran behind the crane.
It’s not like we have any other option. The hoods will come to the truck, seeking cover, and will spot us. We’ll be outnumbered.
‘On the count of three,’ he breathed.
‘One,’ he grabbed Burke’s arm and brought her to his left.
‘Two,’ he silently requested Burke’s Glock and holstered it under his left shoulder.
‘Three!’
They ran, the volume of firing increasing dramatically, as he blindly aimed his Glock at the yard, squeezing, and just before they reached the coils, he switched handguns in a move untrained eyes would be astonished at.
Burke’s left foot on one coil. His hand under her butt, shoving her up, his body covering her, his gun tracking his eyes, his mind assessing danger, looking at the yard from a different angle, subconsciously counting rounds.
Bodies in the yard. Some law enforcement officers. Many hoods. More than the seven that had turned up, initially. Most of the fighting was by gangsters behind whatever cover they had.
A tall shadow flickered past the mouth of the warehouse, clearly visible under the lights, easily evading the seeking bullets.
Is that Zho? Zeb didn’t get time to answer his own question when a few bullets sang over their heads and hastened their run.
Burke landed on the other side; he followed, shoved her forward, the two of them bending low, covering distance swiftly.
‘Over here,’ a voice called out urgently.
Zeb’s Glock snapped up and lowered fractionally when he saw FBI, stenciled on the man’s jacket. Burke went into a bunch of officers and the last he heard from her was her question, ‘Kowalski?’ and a sigh of relief when someone answered, ‘He’s fine.’
Zeb left the group of law enforcement officers before anyone could question his presence, wove behind parked vehicles and ran down the approach street, in the direction the courier truck was pointing.
The truck was empty, a few bodies still lying near it. The FBI and the cops had been taken by surprise, but superior training and numbers had won and all that was left was the cleanup.
‘Cleanup in progress,’ Meghan confirmed. ‘Sitrep?’
‘I’ll be packing up and disappearing as soon as I get the all clear,’ Bwana replied, and Roger echoed him. They would leave as quietly as they came and Zeb would plead ignorance if anyone questioned him about the mysterious shooters on rooftops.
‘Zeb?’
‘I’m going to the back.’ He turned a corner, the layout of the warehouse imprinted on his mind. One more side to go, before the rear came up.
The rear had an exit.
‘ZEB, DON’T ENGAGE. DON’T ENTER,’ Meghan shouted in his ear, making him wince.
‘Bwana, watch the rear,’ he spoke over her yell.
‘Watch for what?…Well, I’ll be. Our ghost just stepped out. He looked in my direction as if he knows I’m here. Want me to take him out? I can plink him.’
‘No. Is he alone?’
‘Yeah. Walking as if it’s a midnight stroll. Hold on. He’s…moving faster now--’ Bwana paused. ‘He’s entered another unit, fifteen doors from the warehouse. Other end of the street. Brown structure. White windows. I’ve lost him.’
Zeb turned the corner and could see the empty street and for a moment wondered why the FBI or the cops hadn’t covered it. The ambush sucked most of them away. Probably a couple of vehicles at the end of the street, but too far to take any action.
He crossed the street, and walked swiftly, ready, not wishing to draw friendly fire. He reached the rear of the warehouse and halted when an idea struck him.
The rear had giant sliding doors that were now shut. He cast his eyes around on the ground, seeking anything that could be of help.
A dark smudge on the sidewalk, caught his attention. It turned out to be a long strip of rubber, part of a tire. The remainder of the tire was propped up against a rusted hydrant.
‘What the heck are you doing?’ Bwana queried in surprise.
‘What’s he doing?’ Beth and Meghan called out angrily.
Zeb didn’t reply. He went to the sliding doors, cut the tire into smaller pieces and jammed them against the rollers. He tried the doors; they held.
‘Tell Burke rear escape is disabled. Temporarily. Ask her to send bodies to cover this street.’
‘I plinked a couple who were trying to escape,’ Bwana added helpfully. ‘They were sitting targets. I could’ve shot with my eyes shut. No one tried, after that. Except this dude, Zho.’ There was no trace of modesty in Bwana’s voice. It wasn’t his strong suit.
Zeb counted the doors and reached the one Bwana had indicated. It seemed to be another industrial unit, silent and dark in the night, unconcerned about the firefight in the warehouse, opposite.
Zeb walked the length of the street and ducked behind a vehicle when he saw movement in a cruiser.
Cops have that end covered. There could be a rear exit in that building from which Zho could escape. Only one way to find out.
He reloaded his Glock and went back to the door. A second to ready himself, another to jerk it open and dart inside and roll away.
Dark. That was his first impression. Empty, was his second. Smells of machinery and oil.
He strained his ears to hear any movement, his eyes as wide as they could go, his body as low as it could get.
Nothing registered. He’s like me. He can control his body and turn off his presence.
A faint sound came from somewhere ahead of him. It felt like the brush of fabric against something.
That has to be deliberate.
‘Gun’s aren’t necessary.’ The voice was soft, but sounded loud in the quiet night. It spoke in Mandarin.
He knows about me. Knows I speak the language. Wants me to know that he knows.
A light came on and illuminated the center of the room Zeb was in. It had several machines that he didn’t recognize, organized in neat lines, chairs behind each of them.
Beneath the light was an open space, about fifteen feet by twenty. The floor was concrete, its surface scuffed by markings, human and machine made.
Zeb looked around the cone of light and still didn’t spot Zho, till he was suddenly there, as if by magic.
He was dressed in loose grey track suit trousers and a thin white T-shirt. His hands were empty, his eyes were dark hollows.
‘No guns,’ he repeated and Zeb understood what he meant.
Only one of them would step out alive.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘I have a gun. You don’t. I take you into custody. End of matter.’
Zho’s expression didn’t change. He came closer, to the edge of the light, letting it bathe his face and body, and for the first time Zeb saw him up close. Zho’s face was scarred from hundreds of fights. His eyebrows were uneven, his forehead had a faded mark as if it had been stitched once.
Zeb lowered his eyes to the man’s hands. Zho raised his palms and displayed long, lean, fingers, callused palms and hard edges.
This is you, the beast whispered.
‘You can kill me, but you will know no honor,’ Zho replied, his eyes glittering. ‘I know you. You are like me.’
‘We’re different. Totally. You are a killer for Peng Hua
ng. You are a gangster–’
‘And you? You’re not a killer? You don’t kill for others?’
‘I kill for my country.’
‘And I kill for my gang.’
Zeb broke the stare first and raised his Glock. ‘You’ll get a fair trial. Which is much more than what you gave to those you killed.’
‘We fight,’ Zho insisted. ‘One of us lives.’
‘I have a gun. You don’t.’
‘You have a gun. But a gun is not everything.’
There was twenty feet between the two men. Zeb’s Glock was pointed at Zho’s chest. His round would exit his barrel at two thousand five hundred feet a second. Human reaction wasn’t fast enough to escape it.
However, Zho would read his eyes, the infinitesimal muscle movement that no human could control. He would act even before trigger pull.
He could escape. It could be done. Zeb had done it.
‘Once I’m gone, you’ll never find me. I’ll come out of nowhere and kill the sisters. I’ll take out your men.’
Zeb believed Zho. That day in Central Park… he allowed me to spot him.
He threw his gun away, shed his jacket and the armored vest. He reached down to his thigh and unstrapped his knife and laid it on the pile. He folded his belt and removed his shoes and stowed them away.
Can we do this? the beast asked.
We’ll see.
Zho touched his ear and jerked his head at Zeb. ‘Tell them. No interruptions.’
Zeb told Meghan and cut her off mid-protest. He added his earpiece and throat mic to the pile and came to the edge of the lighted area.
‘I knew you would come,’ Zho said softly, his face alight in anticipation. He stood motionless, with none of the circling or the feinting that Hollywood portrayed. The highest exponents of the martial arts knew about conserving energy and providing minimal openings.
