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  Tseng caved in, and his words spilled out faster when Chloe threatened him with Mossad. He told them everything that he knew. Which wasn’t much. What was relevant was that he had no hand in Shira’s death.

  * * *

  Bwana and Roger landed at Los Angeles International Airport at three p.m. and picked up the SUV that was awaiting them.

  ‘Where to?’ Roger asked as he donned a pair of shades and checked out a bunch of women as they walked past. They eyed him appreciatively and one of them smiled. Roger smiled back. The good Lord had blessed him with looks and charm. He was duty-bound to make the best use of those gifts. So what if he had a steady girlfriend back in New York, who he deeply loved? He was just looking.

  ‘You done?’ Bwana sighed.

  ‘Yeah.’ Roger climbed into the vehicle. ‘Where to?’ he asked again.

  ‘We’ll go to his motel.’

  Banh wasn’t at the motel. The manager didn’t know where he was. Did he know how to contact the gang leader? Of course he did, the manager huffed.

  Make the call, Bwana told him.

  The manager thought of protesting, but one look at the hard-faced men convinced him otherwise.

  ‘Tell him his house is on fire,’ Bwana told him.

  The manager peered out his window, at the house across the street. ‘But sir, it isn’t.’

  Bwana rolled his eyes. ‘Are they like this in LA?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just him.’ Roger pursed his lips. He withdrew his combat knife and toyed with it, his eyes steady on the manager—who got the message.

  ‘He’s coming.’ The manager licked his lips when he had hung up.

  ‘You won’t warn him, will you?’ Bwana growled. ‘That would be unhealthy. For you.’

  The manager shook his head, terrified, and closed his eyes in silent thanks when his visitors left.

  * * *

  ‘You!’ Banh gasped when he saw Bwana and Roger at his dining table.

  ‘Sit down.’ Bwana waved with his Glock. He eyed Banh’s four heavies, who were grasping at their guns at the sight of the strangers.

  ‘Ask them to stop. They might get hurt.’

  ‘Stop!’ Banh yelled and burst into a string of Vietnamese curses.

  ‘We are good friends, aren’t we, Banh?’ Roger clasped the Vietnamese by the shoulder and led him to a chair.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Banh stammered.

  ‘So why did you lie to us?’

  Banh gulped. ‘I didn’t lie. I told you everything about those brothers.’

  Roger brought his knife out and cut a nail. Bwana didn’t speak. He glowered at Banh and at the heavies, his Glock within easy reach.

  ‘You lied.’ Roger brought a photograph of the killers’ bodies, lying in Van Cortlandt Park. ‘Recognize them?’

  ‘Yes, those are the brothers. I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘You got them to kill Shira Levin. Then you got them killed. Why?’

  ‘No, no,’ Banh babbled and fell off his chair when Bwana slapped him.

  ‘Don’t.’ Bwana’s Glock rose swiftly to cover the heavies. ‘Stay out of this. You just might live.’

  They questioned him for more than an hour, during which the heavies stood watching as their leader got taken apart. One made a move for his gun; Roger shot him in the shoulder, and after that, none of them offered any trouble.

  Banh, however, offered no insights. He stuck to his original story.

  * * *

  ‘He’s not involved.’ Zeb heard Roger’s voice on the conference phone as he entered their office. Bear and Chloe had arrived before him and they gave him thumbs down. Lee Chan Tseng had no hand in the killing.

  Meghan ended the call with Roger and pushed her hair back. She was taut as a bowstring, and when he looked at Beth, she too was on edge.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Shira didn’t date much,’ Meghan answered.

  ‘Yeah. I know. So?’

  ‘A few years back, she was involved with a guy in the music business. She met him at some concert. This dude runs a chain of nightclubs in Manhattan. He was abusive.’ She swallowed. ‘Physically. Extremely. She was a wreck, and when she tried to end it, he threatened to kill her.’

  ‘He had a record. A criminal record,’ Beth interjected.

  ‘Surely the cops know of this. She must have reported him.’

  ‘No. Only Holly’—she nodded in the TKWC’s woman direction—‘and a few others know.’

  ‘Why didn’t she go to the police?’

  ‘Because of her dad. She was scared what Levin would do to this guy.’

  Avichai would kill him, Zeb acknowledged with a got it gesture.

  ‘He’s goes on our list of suspects,’ he stated.

  ‘Yes, but there’s more.’ And this time he could almost feel her vibrate with tension.

  ‘Avichai Levin knows about him.’

  Chapter 15

  Zeb was moving even before she had finished. ‘Bear, Broker.’

  ‘Coming.’ They didn’t question why, or where. They followed him down the elevator and to their ride. Levin’s kidon will grab Murphy. Probably kill him. My people know that.

  He drove out of their parking lot, nearly swiping a cab as they emerged, and turned on his lights.

  ‘Where?’ he asked when he straightened.

  ‘Pink Rhino Nightclub, in Greenwich Village,’ Meghan’s voice came over the speakers in their SUV. ‘His name is Dale Murphy. Big, as big as Bear. Slickly dressed—’

  ‘I got his details,’ Broker said, holding up his cell in front of Zeb.

  Wide smile. Green eyes. Clean-shaven. Blond hair. Handsome. Zeb took in the picture on Broker’s cell. ‘Tried Levin?’

  ‘Yes. He isn’t answering.’

  Bear entered the coordinates to the club as Meghan recited its address on West Third Street. Half an hour to get there.

  ‘Is he at the club?’ Zeb asked.

  ‘Every evening. He’s there right now.’

  ‘What time will he leave?’

  ‘Late. Two a.m.’

  ‘Did you warn him?’

  ‘His phone is turned off. Called the club. They’re trying to page him.’

  ‘Cops?’

  ‘You tell me. I was waiting for you.’

  Cops can storm the club. Empty it and arrest the kidon. But that will put Levin in a bad spot.

  ‘No cops,’ he decided. ‘When did Levin know?’

  ‘An hour back.’

  He’ll need some time to call up his kidon. Not from his protection detail. He’ll need others. He will need an interrogation site. They won’t question Murphy at the club. Too risky. We might just make it.

  He didn’t ask how Levin had found out about Murphy. The how wasn’t relevant. Probably slipped from Holly. He knew Levin spoke to the twins every few hours, asking for updates. Holly must have joined in one of the calls.

  He focused on his driving, controlled speed in the peak traffic of the largest city in the world. He battled for room with office workers and deliverymen, large trucks and Harleys. He used his horn often and flashed his lights. His friends were used to his driving; even so, Bear closed his eyes on a few occasions when he cut and overtook, a hair’s breadth separating them from other vehicles.

  Angled into West Fourth Street, left on MacDougal Street, a hard right on West Third Street. Drawing up in front of nightclub, parking illegally behind another vehicle.

  He slid out of the vehicle and donned a miniature earpiece. ‘You know how they’ll look,’ he told his friends.

  ‘Brown- or black-haired. Middle Eastern types. Smooth movement. We should be able to recognize them,’ Bear replied.

  The kidon could go undetected in any country, in any environment, but Zeb knew what Bear meant. They would have that special liquid movement that only highly trained operatives had.

  The bouncers at the door stopped them and were shoving them back when Zeb flashed his NYPD identification. ‘Police business. With Murphy. He’s expecting us.�
�� He thrust a hard shoulder, and the large men gave way.

  A lounge where a woman was taking names, coats, and hats. Deep bass and heavy beats rumbled through the floor and seemed to make the building throb.

  ‘Where’s Murphy’s office?’ he asked, showing his credentials again.

  ‘Upstairs. There’s a staircase behind those concealed doors.’ She came out from behind her desk and pointed over the crowd of revelers.

  There were over two hundred people in the club. Dancing. Singing. Talking. Drinking. Zeb tried to edge around the crowd. There wasn’t any space. Through the crowd was the only option.

  Bear made it easier. He barreled through, using his height and weight to scatter people. Broker followed, Zeb behind him, their eyes scanning under the dimmed, strobing lights. Spotting the kidon in the crowd was an impossible task.

  In any case, they won’t be here.

  The crowd thinned when they reached the concealed door at which another bouncer stood. Bear shouldered him away, like brushing off a fly, and the sound abruptly lessened when the doors closed behind them.

  Zeb took the lead, climbing swiftly, silently, and entered a balcony on which a few clubbers lounged. Must be some kinda exclusive section. There were couches. There was a bar. Partitioned spaces for parties.

  No one stopped them, though a few bartenders looked their way.

  ‘Murphy’s office?’ Zeb raised an eyebrow at one server.

  She pointed at the far end of the hallway.

  He strode quickly, reached the opaque glass doors and entered the business part of the club. Cubicles. Computers. Offices. All empty.

  Except one. In front of which stood a lean man. Dark eyes. Alert. His eyes swiveling to take in the visitors. Turning to face them.

  Zeb went quickly to him. ‘Murphy?’

  ‘He’s busy,’ the man replied, accentless, his gaze flicking to Bear and Broker.

  Zeb sensed the tension flooding through him, one operative recognizing others, and didn’t wait for polite talk. The kidon was acting; one hand was darting behind his back, another rising to tap on the office door. To warn his fellow men.

  Zeb grabbed him by his shirt, dragged him forward and handed him over to Broker. An unexpected move that caught the kidon by surprise. Zeb didn’t wait to see what happened. He flung the door open and entered the office.

  Murphy, facedown on his desk. A kidon pointing a gun to his temple. Speaking softly. Two kidon on either side of the door, instantly turning to face the visitors.

  One to Zeb’s right, his hand blurring up to reveal a gun. So fast that Zeb was surprised for a fraction of a second. The kidon’s eyes were black. Dark. Expressionless. Face grim.

  Zeb fell to his knees and sank a fist into the kidon’s groin. The round from the silenced gun grazed his hair, and then the kidon was counterattacking swiftly. Sharp, short strikes that struck Zeb on the face and shoulders.

  One stunned him so hard that he lost his grip on the man’s groin. The kidon raised his gun to bring it down on Zeb. Zeb flung him against the wall, smothering him with his body. Grappled for possession of the kidon’s gun. A hard smack against the wall, and the gun fell.

  They are Levin’s men. I can’t draw against them.

  The kidon’s mistake was that he had no room. He had been standing too close to the door and the wall. Zeb used that to his advantage, crushing the man against the office. An arm around the kidon’s neck. Squeezing the breath out of him.

  The kidon didn’t give up. He tried to knee Zeb. He tried head-butting. One such strike caught Zeb above his left eye. Zeb had had enough.

  He rolled back suddenly and used the momentum to execute a complex judo move. He threw the man over his shoulder.

  The kidon landed on Murphy’s desk, momentarily winded. The room seemed to freeze and Zeb took that opportunity.

  ‘We are on the same side,’ he said in Hebrew. He raised his hands. Glanced swiftly back and saw Bear had subdued his opponent. Bear raised his hands too.

  ‘Release Murphy. We’ll question him. I am Zeb Carter. A friend of Avichai Levin.’

  Murphy’s kidon didn’t let up. He had been watching the action unfold in front of him, knowing he had the upper hand as long as he had Murphy.

  He ground his barrel into Murphy’s temple. ‘I don’t care,’ he replied in English. Accentless again.

  No sneering. No smirking. No anger. These were operatives of the highest caliber.

  ‘Levin is on the line with you, isn’t he?’ Zeb pointed to the kidon’s earpiece. ‘Tell him I’m here.’

  The kidon didn’t reply.

  ‘Avichai. I’m here, in Murphy’s office! Ask them to stand down!’

  The kidon didn’t reply.

  ‘We’ll question him, Avichai! Don’t do this your way.’

  The kidon didn’t move.

  ‘Avichai! Are you going to ask them to shoot me?’

  The kidon stood down. He sheathed his gun, grabbed Murphy and lifted him upright. He punched Murphy in the gut and left without a word, his fellow kidon following him.

  Murphy wheezed and spat blood. ‘Thanks, guys,’ he gasped. ‘I thought I was a goner. Who were they? What language was that?’

  He lumbered to a bathroom and washed his face. His face had regained some of its color when he returned, his breathing close to normal, though there was matted blood on his temple. He adjusted his clothes and tucked in his shirt, trying to regain his composure.

  ‘Who were those dudes? They just barged in, and that guy was asking me about Shira. She was in my past, man.’ He toweled his face and sank into his chair with a sigh.

  ‘You folks saved my bacon. Who are you anyway?’ His brow creased.

  Bear stepped forward and broke his nose.

  ‘We are more trouble,’ he said above Murphy’s howl.

  Chapter 16

  Murphy confessed to beating up Shira Levin. Several times. He was a control freak. A man insecure about himself. Shira wasn’t the first woman he had abused. His past relationships were all damaged, and broken. Two women had filed charges against him but had withdrawn their statements when he had paid them off.

  He was a broken man by the time he finished talking. Bear didn’t have to savage him any more after that first blow. The kidons’ assault and Bear’s looming presence had been enough to crumble his defenses.

  ‘Shall we hand him to the cops?’ Broker looked at the sobbing man distastefully. ‘He needs to be behind bars.’

  ‘No.’ Zeb rose to exit. ‘His confession is worthless. It was extracted by us.’

  ‘We just leave him here?’ Bear battled with anger and incredulity.

  ‘Yeah. But he won’t have an easy life. Did you figure out who those men were, Murphy?’

  A dawning light came in Murphy’s eyes and his face turned grey.

  ‘You guessed right. They were Mossad killers. Avichai Levin, the Director of Mossad, knows how you treated his daughter. You’re on his radar now. You will forever be looking over your shoulder.’

  ‘I still think we should have hurt him. More,’ Bear argued as he settled in their vehicle. ‘That insect walks free while Shira is dead.’

  ‘You really think Levin has given up?’ Zeb laughed humorlessly. ‘He’s backed off, for now. Murphy’s days are numbered. One day he’ll disappear.’

  * * *

  Zeb stopped momentarily when he saw Avichai Levin in their office. The Mossad director was in a dark suit and blue shirt. No tie. His shoes shone and reflected the ceiling lights. It was his face that was the giveaway.

  It was mottled with rage, and his eyes flashed when Zeb entered. He pointed a finger warningly, too angry to speak. ‘You…you—’

  ‘We stopped your men from carrying out a crime.’ Zeb didn’t allow him to finish. His team was hanging around, loose, ready for anything, but Zeb knew there would be no violence. Levin was alone, no kidon with him. There hadn’t been any of his men in the lobby or outside the building. He’s here to vent.

  Le
vin vented. ‘He harmed my daughter. Beat her. You want me to sit back and do nothing?’ he roared.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you sit back when they murdered your wife and child? In front of you?’

  Someone gasped. Zeb didn’t turn around to see who. His face felt stiff. His body had gone rigid. The roaring started in his ears and drowned out all noise. Blackness surged upon him and stomped out light. He saw nothing but what was immediately in front of him. A pale circle in which people were shapeless, faceless blobs.

  He wasn’t conscious of moving or changing. But he must have, because he was running in Central Park, the beast snarling inside him. The beast powered him, feeding from the blackness roiling inside him. That darkness that he had kept carefully locked away in tight white boxes in his mind. The beast thrived on such bleakness. It loved rage and anger and danger. It made him go faster, push himself harder, his legs pumping, his arms pistoning, his eyes dead and flat, seeing nothing.

  Till the darkness started fading and the beast started going quieter. The city returned. First the green space of the park. Runners and cyclists appeared. It was night but not late and there were several park users. They grew sharper and became people. Then the street returned with its noise and constant motion.

  Zeb found himself executing moves. Muay Thai, Wing Chun, jiujitsu, Krav Maga, Eskrima, Line—certain exotic arts that were taught and practiced by ancient men in the remote, forgotten parts of the world. He had taken moves from all those and had fashioned a style for himself.

  He didn’t know when he had stopped running and when he’d started the moves. All he knew was his heavy sweatshirt was soaked. Perspiration fell off his chin in a steady stream. With the return of consciousness came a babble of voices. He slowed, stopped, panting, breathing through his mouth and nose, and looked behind.

  A bunch of people watching him. One man taking photographs, his flash winking. He flicked sweat of his face and walked towards them. ‘Don’t,’ he said, his voice sounding strange to him.

  He reached his hand out to the cameraman, who understood and reluctantly handed over his equipment. ‘It’s expensive, man. Don’t go do something stupid. Like smashing it.’