by Ty Patterson
‘I followed you for a long time…you didn’t even know.’
Zeb tried to place his accent. It wasn’t a Beijing or a Hong Kong one. It was from somewhere in the interior.
‘Inner Mongolia?’ he guessed. ‘Is that where you are from?’
Zho couldn’t control the astonishment in his eyes. ‘You know China,’ he acknowledged respectfully. ‘I don’t know where I am from. My parents were drifters. They said they spent a lot of time in Inner Mongolia, but who knows.’
He attacked in a blinding move, a high kick that caught Zeb unaware and forced him to retreat hastily. The kick would have broken the neck of a standing man. It felt like a block of concrete when it landed on Zeb’s left shoulder.
His arm turned numb and then ice as he staggered back, taking deep breaths, readying for the next wave of attacks.
They didn’t come.
Zho was where he was before the kick, watching Zeb curiously. ‘There’s enough time. Breathe deeply. Let oxygen flood you. Oxygen is life. It heals. It clears the mind. Remove the cobwebs, then face me.’
Zeb did as he was told, mechanically, still in shock at the speed of the attack and the lack of warning.
Not lack of warning. My inability to read him.
He searched desperately for something to even the balance, anything to reduce Zho to his state.
‘Why work with Peng Huang? You came to his country as a boy. You could be anything. Why work in a gang?’
‘Peng Huang is family.’ Zho struck, a series of crippling blows that Zeb recognized as a mix of Sambo and Wing Chun moves. He parried them, again astonished by the sheer power behind them. He was forced to go on the defense as Zho’s hands aimed for his throat, his belly, and his groin.
‘He made me,’ Zho spoke conversationally, as if he was at a dining table. ‘I kill for him. I would die for him. You’re like that. You’re like me.’
Yes. I would die for my friends. Death has no meaning for me. That knowledge made Zeb pause and in the time it took for a swallow to beat its wings, Zho punched his throat.
A tortured groan slipped from him and he fell on his back, desperately sucking air, shaking his head to clear the blind spots in his eyes.
Zho didn’t follow up. He had returned to his position and had that same curious look in his eyes.
Where are you? Zeb called out to the beast after he had gained some semblance of strength.
The beast didn’t answer.
Zeb rose slowly and stood with his head bowed. His left arm was almost useless. Almost, but not quite. His breathing was unsteady. That icy feeling in him…it was fear. An emotion he hadn’t felt in years, in decades.
It isn’t death I fear. It is dying like this, and with that a deep rage possessed him, spurred him to attack and brought down a red mist.
Thrusts, parries, finger locks, and wrist holds. The moves came instinctively from the various disciplines he had learned. Zho broke each hold, countered each blow. Zeb landed a few, but even those felt like raining blows on concrete.
Zeb stepped back, breathing harshly through split lips, as he wiped away a trickle of blood from his face. Zho was still again, not even breathing hard, the thin film of perspiration on his body making him glow.
Get back your control, Zeb breathed deeply. ‘You’re afraid of me,’ he said, borrowing his opponent’s tactics. ‘You could have walked away, but you had to fight. You say I’m like you. You’re scared I’m so like you, that I’m better.’
Zho came low, twisting his body like an eel and mounted a ferocious attack of kicks and punches, drawing back after each thrust, not providing an opening to Zeb. Zeb caught an iron-hard arm once and attempted to lock it, but sweat made him slip.
It made him lose balance and that was all that Zho needed.
With a dizzying series of feints and eagle strikes and knuckle punches, he pushed Zeb to the edge of the cone of light till Zeb was backed up against a machine, warding off blows.
Zeb dropped to the hard concrete and felt Zho’s arms whistle past above him. He elbowed his opponent in a thigh as hard as the trunk of a tree and got a grunt in response.
He moved out, ducked an upcoming knee, and caught his arms around it. At last, a lock! He pivoted about a bent knee and heaved and flung Zho in a move taught to him by an Indonesian man who was so old, his skin was translucent.
Zho landed like a cat and came at him without any recovery. Zeb was half rising when a wicked spinning kick made him duck. He went after the swinging leg and that was his mistake.
His body was exposed momentarily and his hands were too far to defend himself from the fleshy part of Zho’s palm. It slammed into his ribs and cracked one. The palm didn’t retreat; it curled with the knuckles outthrust and grabbed his throat and squeezed.
Zeb went into the move, willing his body to take the punishment and snapped quick blows to Zho’s head. Zho rocked with them, but his hold didn’t let up. His left hand kept hammering Zeb’s side, while the rest of his body absorbed Zeb’s counterattack.
Zeb felt it coming. A rising. A burst of energy that seemed to flow through Zho and gave him the ability to move against Zeb’s attacks.
Zeb felt himself gripped around the waist, the lock on his throat unchanging; he got lifted by Zho who spun around and threw him to the floor.
Zeb slammed on the ground, his breath rushing out of him in a gasp. His head bounced once. Break lock, his mind screamed. He couldn’t.
He was on his left side, his left hand crushed underneath him, his left leg feeling paralyzed. Zho had twisted around him like a snake, like a lover, and had one elbow on his neck, squeezing, while his right hand was digging into Zeb’s abdomen, as if ripping into the flesh.
Zeb knew the move. Not many exponents knew it. He also knew how to break it. The same Indonesian had taught him. He couldn’t move, however. The attacker’s weight was like bags of sand on him. Zho’s legs had twisted around him, keeping him immobile.
All he could feel was the elbow crushing his life away. All he could hear was Zho crooning, ‘you are like me, but not as good as me.’
He thought he blacked out for a moment, but he wasn’t sure. Time didn’t seem to have any meaning. His body drew tortured breaths. Diminishing breaths. His eyes swam in a grey and black fog. On his cheeks he felt his attacker’s steady breathing, and chant.
‘You are like me.’
‘Only one of us should live.’
‘You are not living. You are existing.’ Zeb he tried to grasp any semblance of reality. That wasn’t the voice of the attacker. That was a voice in his mind, a voice he knew well.
‘You have walked mountains. You have crossed deserts. You have sailed oceans. That is not living. It is escape. You are fleeing your guilt. You are torturing yourself, wanting forgiveness. You know they forgave you a long time back. You don’t want to accept it.’
Through the fog, Zeb thought he could make out a head full of white wispy hair, a face so full of wrinkles that they nearly covered the eyes. Those eyes were still full of life even at that age. Zeb had never bested that body, despite its years of living.
‘Turn back. Face yourself. Know yourself. Accept that you can’t control everything.’
‘You are like me,’ came another voice and Zeb turned confused eyes at the Indonesian master.
The master’s eyes twinkled with rare mirth. ‘Really?’ and with that Zeb’s blood yipped.
It was the beast. Zeb didn’t know what the beast was. It felt like a living creature and was with him when it mattered. He didn’t want to know anymore.
‘Only one of us can live.’
The beast roared, racing through arteries and veins, drawing on all available air, turning it into energy, directing it to limbs and particularly to the left shoulder.
Zeb twisted minutely beneath Zho and with a sudden downward thrust, dislocated his own shoulder. A cry escaped him involuntarily, but his eyes were alert through the blinding agony that sped through him.
Zho’s el
bow on his neck slipped. A deep breath to draw sweet oxygen. The beast grew powerful. It drew Zeb’s right arm from underneath Zho’s leaden weight. Just pulled it free as if the weight was nothing.
It cocked the arm and Zeb’s elbow slammed back in Zho’s face, right between his eyes.
The Chinese man fell back and Zeb swung on top of him instantly. Zeb twisted his legs, through the attacker’s, willing his left leg to obey commands. His right hand curled into a seldom used strike and dislocated Zho’s shoulder.
Zho hissed and sweat broke out on his forehead. He tried to rise. Zeb broke a rib. Zho kicked out with his legs; Zeb’s able hand balled into a fist and piled into his abdomen.
Zeb applied the same hold, the same locks, the same weight that Zho had applied on him, and held the attacker immobile. He applied his right elbow to Zho’s neck and squeezed like a vice.
‘I’m not like you,’ he whispered and watched a drop of sweat fall off his face and mingle with Zho’s perspiration.
Zeb dragged himself off Zho’s body and crawled the length of the room and leaned against a wall in the darkness. His throat was raw, his shoulder burned, his left leg twitched uncontrollably, and his ribs felt like there was a spear inside him.
He breathed loudly with his mouth open and shifted to get more comfortable. The fight had felt like it had gone on for hours, but the rational part of him that had come back to life, said it was no more than half an hour. His crushing Zho had felt like several minutes. Two minutes at the most, rational Zeb countered.
The beast had disappeared and his blood flowed swiftly and strongly, his heart pumped and his lungs cleansed. Zeb sat for a few more minutes waiting for the outside world to intrude. When it did, he heard nothing.
There was a deep silence outside, as if the night had been watching the combat.
He lowered a hand to the floor and rose unsteadily. He leaned against the wall for support and waited for the dizziness to subside. He staggered to his belongings and donned them slowly.
The earpiece went in last and it came to life when he whispered, ‘Anyone there?’
‘We’re all here,’ Meghan responded swiftly, concern in her voice. ‘Bwana and Roger are here.’
He knew what she wasn’t saying. His friends were waiting…they would tear down the concrete structure, raze it to rubble and dust, if anything had happened to Zeb.
‘I’m okay.’ He moved slowly in the dark, past the cone of light, and approached the door.
Just before he reached it, blue eyes came to his mind. Golden hair and a glorious smile.
‘You almost believed him, didn’t you? That you were like him.’ The smile turned into a warm, rich laugh, that felt like sunflowers and light. ‘You have friends ready to tear down walls. Who does he have with him? Doesn’t that say something?’
His friends were waiting when he opened the door. Strong hands, Bwana and Roger’s, grabbed him when he swayed. Two pairs of green eyes went wide when they took him in. No one spoke as they hurried him to a waiting vehicle.
Meghan flicked a glance at the unit through which the cone of light and the body could be seen. She cleared her throat and found her voice. It had the faintest tremor in it.
‘What about Zho?’
‘He’s in there,’ Zeb replied. ‘Alive.’
Alive, but Zho’s killing days were over.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The night sky was streaked with flecks of gold, announcing the fast approaching day by the time the gang had been subdued and the warehouse was in the control of law enforcement.
The FBI had one critically injured agent and the NYPD had four casualties. There was grimness on every person’s face as the cleanup reached its final stages. The 41S bodies had been carried away, and those alive, had been arrested.
Media vans and choppers had arrived at the scene and had commenced live relays. Reporters crowded at the barrier erected by the police and shouted questions. Burke was a visible presence as she went about directing the operations. Pizaka and Chang worked with their team, swiftly and efficiently.
Each container in the warehouse was opened and its contents recorded. One container had counterfeit bills. Thousands of them. The vicinity of the warehouse was searched and a box truck was found, filled with shoeboxes with more bills.
‘Millions,’ a reporter’s mic caught a police officer murmuring under his breath.
‘MILLIONS OF COUNTERFEIT BILLS FOUND IN QUEENS WAREHOUSE,’ banners screamed on thousands of TVs around the country.
The social media accounts burst into action and whipped up frenzy. Billions of fake bills in circulation. Government lying. #yourmoneyisworthless.
Burke gave a bland statement, confirming the haul, and said she had nothing more to add. The investigation was ongoing. She praised the injured officers and agents and called them heroes.
Her statement was picked up and ran worldwide. The Department of Treasury spokesman called a press conference and condemned the social media storm. There was no proof that there were billions of counterfeit bills out there, he said.
No one believed him. No one believed the Federal government. Online retailers reported a surge in the sales of counterfeit detection kits. Bank officials in several small towns were surrounded by angry townspeople who felt they had been cheated by the system.
The business newspapers reported loss in confidence in the currency system and predicted that the stock markets would open several points down. The U.S. dollar took more beating and was at one of its historic lows.
Meghan and Beth walked slowly, matching their pace to Zeb’s, as they accompanied him to their favorite watering hole, next to their office, several hours later.
Zeb had been attended to by a doctor the Agency employed, in the very early hours of the morning. The doctor had taken one look at her patient and had sighed through pursued lips. The patient was a frequent visitor and left each time after making empty promises of looking after himself.
‘A broken rib that didn’t pierce your lung. Thank the Lord for that. A shoulder that was dislocated but is now back in position.’ She jabbed it with a forefinger and her lips curled at Zeb’s wince. ‘You should’ve thought of that before doing whatever you did.’
She recited the litany of injuries, most of which were superficial. The muscle and ligament tears would take more time to heal. She strapped his chest so tight that it hurt and jabbed a needle in him. ‘Have you heard of taking it easy? R&R? Beaches and a drink?’
‘It isn’t what you think, ma’am,’ Zeb said solemnly, his wits back. ‘The twins…they took turns kicking me.’
A snort of disbelief escaped her as she wrote out a list of prescriptions. ‘There’s nothing that needs surgery. You need sleep, rest, and all those medications,’ she thrust the slip at him, knowing it would find its way in a trashcan the moment he hit the street.
‘This’s the sixth time you’ve visited me this year,’ she said as he was leaving. ‘If you want a date, why don’t you ask outright?’
Zeb had slept like a log when the twins drove him to their office and had awakened only when Beth had accidentally dropped her mug of coffee. He raised himself from the couch and limped to the shower where alternating bursts of hot and cold brought back a semblance of life.
Coffee, strong and hot, sparked his vitals and he started feeling better. The limp would remain for days, the rib would take as much as that to heal. Ligaments would heal since he had the constitution of an ox, the doctor had commented sardonically.
Beth brought him up to speed when he’d finished his brew, her eyes bright, her face triumphant. ‘The 41S is finished. All but Peng Huang are in custody. Some of them have unloaded everything that they know. The fake bills were to pay for buying drugs. The whole plan was drugs related. They had come across a forger in China who was a master in producing fake Yuan. Peng Huang saw the potential… buy drugs with fake bills.’
‘They got him to make plates for their bills, acquired the plants in three states, took th
em over, and here we are.’
‘That required a lot of planning. A lot of time.’
‘Years of it,’ Beth nodded. ‘The initial batch of plates were bad, they had to restart. Your guy Zho killed a few employees to get others to cooperate. It took time, but Peng Huang wasn’t in any hurry.’
Zeb turned it over his mind, looking for holes. It sounded plausible. ‘The spying?’
‘That has the smell of their government. An outsourced job to them. Only Peng Huang knows the details and he isn’t around. The State Department has gotten involved and they have raised the matter with China. They’re strongly denying involvement in any spying. They would, wouldn’t they?’
‘Zho?’
‘Isn’t talking.’
‘Sarah wanted to know what you’d done to him. I told her you and he had a discussion, a mature one,’ Meghan interjected, her voice drier than a desert.
‘All that stuff?’ he pointed to the TV which had the screaming, rolling banners.
‘Nothing to do with the gang, apparently. Stock markets and the dollar have taken a beating, but Sarah says they’ll recover. There’s a separate investigation going on into those social media accounts, but she’ll handle that on her own. Doesn’t need us.’
The TV screen cut to a video of Burke talking to reporters. It changed to show Pizaka, all dressed up, at four am in the morning, speaking seriously to the press.
‘He’ll get another book deal out of this,’ Beth laughed cynically.
‘Bwana and Roger?’
‘They’re in their apartments. Bwana said looking after your ass wasn’t any fun. Boring. Bear and Chloe…Sarah asked them to stand down. She’s got her agents in place.’
‘Broker’s with her?’
‘Yeah, where else.’ Beth approached him and gave him her arm as she led him to the elevator. ‘Let’s get some food in you, and then back to bed.’
Zeb seated himself at a corner table, his back to the wall, while the sisters went to the counter to place their orders. He stretched out his legs gingerly, feeling like he’d been run over by a truck.
