Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome (17 page)

On their test drive the little truck
did run well and Tony boasted that it got over twenty miles per
gallon on the freeway and didn’t burn any oil – the only thing
tougher was a Sherman tank.

Steven asked all the requisite
questions and agreed to buy it when they returned to the parking
spot. Tony methodically counted the hundred dollar bills and signed
over the pink slip. Steven noted it still had a registration
sticker good through November, so he wouldn’t be getting pulled
over for expired registration.

The entire transaction, start to
finish, had taken forty-six minutes, according to his Patek. He
pulled into a gas station, filled up his tank to the brim and drove
to a mall he knew of in Oceanside. The stores were just opening. He
went into a computer place, and walked out with a laptop ten
minutes later. Twice as fast as his old one, weighing only five
pounds, $800 – laptop bag another $49.

Steven declined the extended
warranty.

Next up, he found a modest clothing
outlet, where he picked up a couple pairs of pants, several pairs
of socks and some casual shoes and sandals.

Mission accomplished, all by 11
a.m..

A Starbucks appeared on his right as he
drove away from the mall. He pulled the Mazda into a parking space,
then took a few minutes to unpack the computer and become familiar
with it. Satisfied, he went in, got a cup of coffee, and plugged in
the laptop charger.

First, he checked his S_Jordan Hotmail
box, which was at capacity due to complaints and warnings about the
site being down. Next, he checked his personal e-mail account. He
went through the messages methodically, and came to one from Peter,
dated yesterday late afternoon, Florida time. The hair on his arms
bristled as he opened it:

[
Making some progress on a number of
fronts. A friend of mine with the Canadian SIS has been working on
a case with the Canadian stock exchange people involving a Toronto
brokerage suspected of being a conduit for terrorist money. They
have a whistle blower who’s still working there. One of the clients
is Nicholas Griffen, but only his personal account. My contact said
he could do some digging if it was important. I told him I’d
appreciate any help he could offer. His name is Cliff Tomlin,
e-mail [email protected].

I also have some disturbing info
about Griffen’s ex-partner – my source indicates he thinks his
death wasn’t an accident. He was mobbed up. This is all very
preliminary; I need to read the file in detail
–
I
got a copy today but no time yet. I’m supposed to find out more
this evening from a promising lead. Peter
]

The blood drained from his face. He
closed his eyes and spent a few minutes clearing his head,
detaching from the immediacy of the situation. Opening his eyes, he
considered the message again.

So there it was; confirmation Peter’s
death had not been an accident. That made three lives Steven’s
carelessness had claimed. Peter had been an extremely careful man,
and there was no way he’d compromised his security from his end; he
was far too savvy and professional for that. So how? How had they
known Peter was involved?

Steven’s laptop. Of course. They must
have gotten it when they were rigging the boat. A given really,
when he thought about it – but for his stupid rationalizing, he
could have warned Peter about the implications; he should have
warned him, immediately.

The e-mails he’d sent to Peter asking
him to dig into Griffen had probably been automatically archived in
his laptop’s e-mail log. He’d never thought to check, much less
delete them.

Which meant all Steven’s contacts
listed on the old laptop were blown, and in mortal peril. He did a
mental checklist of anyone else he’d contacted via e-mail about
Griffen when using the laptop; Peter had been the only one. Had he
sent anything to Stan? No, thank God. He’d only contacted Stan the
day of the bank problems, and never via e-mail. Anyone else? No.
Had he saved his passwords or any other account data on disk? No,
he’d followed good security on that, at least – even a fool knew
that laptops were frequently stolen. Nothing
prejudicial.

Just the e-mail exchange
that killed the closest person in the world to him.

One small slip and people
died.

Steven realized he had more questions
than answers. He saved Peter’s message and went numbly through the
rest. What the...there was another message from Peter. With an
attachment. From 5:30 p.m. Florida time. Had to be within an hour
of when Peter had left his house, never to return. He opened
it.

[
Steven, got a copy of the original
article from the paper in Anguilla on the partner’s death. It was
in the file I’m starting to go through. Copy attached. Also got
name of barrister in Anguilla from my contact who used to set up
international corporations. Says this guy can get any info from the
Government or banking records for the right price; no doubt
extremely expensive. Very connected. I spoke with him, seems like a
reasonable sort, told him you may be contacting him. His info is
below. I’m off to dig more dirt.

Peter

Alfred Reese, LLB, LEC. PO Box
99141,
The Valley , Anguilla, British West
Indies
.
]

There was also a phone number, which he
jotted down. Steven opened the attachment.

[
The Anguillan Times.
April
26, 2008. A visiting tourist was killed yesterday morning when the
speedboat he was piloting exploded, having struck 60 Yards Reef
outside Island Harbour Bay at about 10am. The 32-foot Scarab caught
fire, and there was a tremendous explosion shortly thereafter. Mr.
James Cavierti was in Anguilla on holiday from New York City, USA.
He was a respected financial figure and partner in a prestigious
New York venture capital firm. He is survived by his wife,
Patricia.
]

So Griffen’s partner went up in a puff
of smoke and salt water in an Anguillan boating accident. No hint
of foul play. Then again, hadn’t another boat just gone up in
flames, taking someone with it?

The article didn’t offer a lot of
additional information, but it did raise some questions. Whose boat
was it? How long had Cavierti been on the island? Who else
accompanied him? Was his wife with him on the trip? What was he
doing on Anguilla? He made mental notes. Peter had felt the
Anguillan connection was important enough to get in touch with an
attorney there and vet him. Steven had to be missing
something.

As he thought through his next move, he
felt the disequilibrium of the last hour being replaced by a cold
and calculating clarity. The senseless, vicious slaughter would not
go un-avenged. Any doubt or confusion had slowly been replaced by
an even colder fury. He’d be damned if Peter’s life would be
sacrificed without him exacting retribution, and he silently
honored his friend with the promise that whatever happened, he
would get the people responsible for his death and extract a
terrible price.

Steven had long ago rejected violence
as a way of life, and had committed to being a creator, rather than
a predator. But at the end of the day, when the barbarian hordes
showed up at your door and kicked it down, dragging your loved ones
from the safety of the shelter you’d built, and then murdered them
without hesitation, the time for philosophical niceties was over.
You were either a victim or a hunter at that point, and Steven
decided that he wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. He’d already
lost too much, and now it was up to him to take the initiative and
hunt the hunters. There were scores to settle, and in the end, he
was going to make those who had taken everything from him rue the
day they’d decided to take him on. Everything carried a price in
life, and others had given their lives because of a battle that, in
the end, was Steven’s fight. And he never backed away from a
fight.

Peter was dead, and he couldn’t bring
him back, but what he could do was go after those who imagined
themselves insulated from retribution, and make them pay – with
interest added…

* * * *

a thriller by

Russell Blake

Copyright © 2011 by Russell
Blake

All rights reserved. 
No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval
system, without the written permission of the publisher, except
where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles and reviews.  For information,
contact
[email protected].

* * * *

<1>

Bullets peppered the dirt around Al and
his partner. They instinctively returned fire, the barrels of their
automatic rifles pulsing white hot from burst after burst of armor
piercing slugs. Thick smoke belched from a crippled station wagon
lying on its side by the mouth of the rural alley where they’d
taken cover. The glow of burning fuel intermingled with the
unmistakable stench of seared flesh, creating a nauseating haze. A
slug ricocheted off the peeling wall, gouging a chunk of brick from
the dilapidated surface.

A flickering of illumination from
ancient streetlights succumbed to the gloom of late evening,
casting otherworldly shadows over the rustic thoroughfare – now
transformed to a killing zone.

White noise and static shrieked from
their radios – not that they could distinguish anything in the
cacophony of the firefight. The concussion of gunfire had
devastated their hearing, and the ringing from tinnitus obliterated
all sounds besides the percussive chatter of their guns.

Squinting down their sights at the
blurs of motion on the rooftops of the bombed-out buildings across
the street, they gave each other a knowing glance before squeezing
off the last of their rounds. They weren’t going to make
it.

This was a deathtrap; they’d been boxed
in with no hope of escape. Help was at least fifteen minutes out,
assuming their base had received the solitary frantic distress call
before the radio had been taken out. It didn’t look
good.

The incoming fire escalated to a hail
of screaming death. Rifle ammo depleted, they un-holstered their
army-issue .45 pistols and fired intermittently in the direction of
their attackers, to no obvious effect. They exchanged panicked
looks – this wasn’t supposed to happen; just a routine patrol in a
secure area with no reason to expect hostiles, much less
heavily-armed ones intent on slaughtering them. It was supposed to
be a cakewalk.

The firing pin snicked on Dave’s gun as
he reflexively squeezed the trigger, again and again, even after
his magazine was spent. Al elbowed him back into the fight. Dazed,
he stared at the weapon in his hand, before dropping the handgun
and frantically fumbling for the scarred knife handle protruding
from his belt; he almost had the serrated edge free from its sheath
when his head exploded in a blast of bloody emulsion.

Al spat out the essence of his
mutilated partner and expended his last pistol rounds in a defiant
salvo. He unsheathed his trusty blade for the final
reckoning.

Shouts in an unfamiliar tongue drifted
from beyond the dense smoke at the alley’s mouth. A bright flash
momentarily blinded him as a flare bounced down the length of the
cobblestone passage before coming to rest a few yards from his now
trembling body.

Four figures emerged from the gloom,
cautiously approaching the soldier’s hiding place through the fog
of cordite and burning oil, their rifles trained on his
blood-spattered profile. Pointing at the ludicrously inadequate
combat knife clutched in Al’s shaking hand, the tallest of the
bearded, turbaned warriors barked a guttural cackle. He handed his
firearm to the figure beside him and from beneath his filthy robe
withdrew a gleaming, viciously curved blade as long as his arm. He
sliced at the air with it, savoring Al’s horrified gaze as it
whistled its grim tune. The turbaned warrior grinned maliciously
and moved forward.

The angel of death had arrived, and it
was time for Al to die.

He shielded his head with his arms, all
thoughts of attacking with the knife now gone. The sword hacked off
his left hand. Gagging anguish flooded his senses as he watched his
arterial blood spray wildly from the stump.

The bearded executioner
smirked.

Sobbing, the last thing Al registered
as the scimitar descended to sever his head was a bloodcurdling
scream from his executioner; a victory yell as old as the
god-forsaken hills of the foul dustbowl that had claimed his
mortality.

Al bolted awake, the image of the
flashing blade still vivid, even as the specter dissolved into a
muddy, waking awareness.

What the fuck?

His chest heaved from the adrenaline
rush triggered by the brutal nightmare, his heart trip-hammering in
his chest as he shook off the bitter remnants of the dream state.
He sluggishly scanned his surroundings; dimly visible silhouettes
of furniture offered a quiet reassurance he wasn’t anywhere near a
gunfight in some non-specific shithole, or being decapitated by a
malevolent mullah straight out of central casting. Jesus, that had
been realistic. He cleared his throat, wiping the sweat from his
face with a damp hand.