by Ty Patterson
The Warrior Series: Box Set II
Books 5-7
Flay
Behind You
Hunting You
by
Ty Patterson
Author page on Amazon
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Flay
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedications
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Behind You
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedications
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Hunting You
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedications
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Coming soon:
Bonus Chapter from Zero
Check out the rest of the Warriors Series
About the Author
Author’s Message
Flay
Warriors Series, Book 5
By
Ty Patterson
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Copyright © 2015 by Ty Patterson
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Acknowledgements
No book is a single person’s product. I am privileged that Flay has benefited from the inputs of several great people.
Jean Coldwell, Donald Hoffman, and Christine Terrell, who are my beta readers and who helped shape my book, my launch team for supporting me, and Donna Rich for her editing and proofreading.
Dedications
To my wife and son who made room in their lives for my dreams; all my beta readers, my launch team, and well-wishers.
To all the men and women in uniform who make it possible for us to enjoy our freedoms.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Dedications
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
‘We sleep safely at night because rough
men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.’
Chapter 1
The assassin moved only in the night when it was cool, dry, and most importantly, when roving eyes would be less watchful.
He carried fifty pounds of gear in his pack; water, rations, compass, Benchmade blade, camo tent, blood packs, an M-79 grenade launcher, a handgun, magazines. His rifle was the M82A1 Barrett.
The fifty pounds didn’t feel like much. He’d carried more for far longer.
He covered thirty miles a night, and when dawn broke, he set up his camo tent, which was less a tent and more a blanket.
It was an uncommon piece of gear few snipers had heard of. He himself hadn’t known about it till he recovered it from an American sniper. That sniper didn’t need it anymore.
The tent spread on the desert, blended with the surrounding and elevated to less than two feet from the ground. From above, it looked like undulating desert. From up close, it looked desert.
From really up close, it didn’t matter. By then either the curious or the assassin would be dead.
Each night he cleaned his weapons, made sure that sand and dust didn’t clog them and wrapped them in protective cover before staying put for the day.
The kill spot was a hundred and twenty miles away, which meant he would have to walk four nights.
Not a problem for him.
On the second day he heard vehicles in the distance, presently an image came into view over the horizon and headed straight at him. The vehicle was blurry in the heat and gradually resolved into an old army discard. But it moved and bristled with men, and that was more a cause for concern.
He cast his eyes away and looked to the left of the approaching vehicle. No point letting them feel the weight of his gaze.
The vehicle ate distance and when it was just over a mile away, he moved slowly and cast his eye against the scope.
Figures jumped in the reticule.
Bearded men, wrapped in black or white dishdashahs, AK-47s cradled in their arms, patterned kuffiyehs covering their heads and faces.
Three in the front, four in the rear.
One mile, the range finder told him.
Take the driver out, then the rest in the front. Those in the back will scramble out. Drop them one by one.
A lot would depend on their reaction time, but he had taken such shots before. But if the vehicle kept on coming then the odds shifted in the vehicle’s favor. Then, depending on when he acted, he’d probably be able to get off three or four shots before seeking fire found his position.
The vehicle veered when it was nine hundred yards away. Through his scope he could see the men arguing as they gesticulated furiously at the driver. It grew smaller and then disappeared and sand covered its tracks.
The assassin went back to his somnolent state.
Heartbeat was low and steady.
Good.
It wasn’t as if he was a stranger to such situations.
The assassin reached the kill spot early on the fourth day after making better time the previous night. He scouted for the best shooting position and when he’d found it, he set up his camo tent and hunkered down.
He wouldn’t be moving from the spot for twenty-four hours.
Dawn came, the sun rose, the desert became orange, then gold, and then a harsh burning brown. Something flashed in a distant wadi it resolved into plastic trash.
The heat made everything wavy and blurred, but the assassin was comfortable under his hide. The tent was layered to keep out the heat in the day and keep in the warmth in the night. Occasional sips of water from his canteen kept him hydrated.
A flash of light alerted him first of movement. It came from the same wadi.
The gun settled in the assassin’s hand like an old friend. He waited for the flash to resolve itself.
It turned into a Jeep moving slowly, cautiously. It had to.
It carried a high-profile person.
Two miles away and the assassin could see two men in the front and a third in the back. He waited for the scope to pick their faces and when it did, no flare of excitement passed through him, his heart beat steadily.
The hawk-like eyes in the rear matched those he was seeking. The neatly trimmed beard covered a strong chin. Everything about the man radiated authority. Even the two in the front leant backward as if drawn by the magnetic pull of the person behind them.
Inhale. Exhale. Wait for the Jeep to approach the spot he’d marked in his mind.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Bottom of the respiratory cycle where time and life paused.
His finger curled over the trigger.
The Jeep started a slight turn away from him to navigate over a rocky outcrop.
The rear door framed the hawk face.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Pause.
Pull.
The bullet flew at eight hundred and fifty meters a second and, just as the Jeep completed its turn, the target’s head disintegrated.
The assassin fired again.
Driver dead.
Another pull.
Passenger dead.
All three were clean kills, with no chance of survival.
The assassin put down his Barrett and drew out the M-79 grenade launcher.
In less than a minute, the Jeep was burning metal and fifteen minutes later, the assassin was moving fast, away from the kill zone.
With four trigger pulls in less than ten seconds, the assassin known as the Butcher of the Middle East had sent shock waves through the Middle Eastern terrorist network.
October 1st-7th
Two months later, autumn in New York.
Twelve-year-old Liz McCallum clutched her sister Zoe’s hand tightly and scanned the addresses on Columbus Avenue as she hurried them along.
She had to get back to Gramma in exactly ninety minutes and, if her eight-year-old sister didn’t keep stopping to stare at the enormous mirrored glass building, she wouldn’t be able to get back in time.
Stealing time had been an easily solved problem.
Once her classes were finished, Liz walked a few blocks from her middle school in upper Manhattan, to Zoe’s elementary school, picked up her sister and the two walked back home to Gramma, on East 112th Street. She did this every school day.
For today, she’d fabricated a field hockey match after school and had told Gramma that she arranged for Zoe to stay back in the after school recreation program, thus creating the window of opportunity.
She had hit upon the idea when she’d watched TV one night and had seen the name of the person she wanted to meet.
Gramma allowed just one hour on the computer every day and Liz used that to research the man. She’d asked Ally, her BFF, to ask her dad if he knew the man. Ally’s dad was a cop in the NYPD and the way Ally went on, he knew absolutely everyone in the world.
Ally reported solemnly the next day that her dad was very close to the man.
As if, Liz snorted inwardly but she didn’t say anything. Ally, her bestie, was prone to exaggeration. That was a new word Liz had learned in school, exaggeration.
She tugged on Zoe’s hand impatiently. ‘Come on, Peaches. If we’re late, Gramma will be furious.’ Peaches was her name for Zoe. It was just hers; no one else was allowed to call her sister that. Peaches, because Zoe looked like one, with her rosy dimpled cheeks, smiling eyes, and blonde hair that always fell over her face.
She marched inside the building and approached the security desk. She stated who she wanted to meet. The two men behind the desk looked at her, and then at Peaches.
‘Are you sure you have the right address, ma’am?’
‘Yeah.’ She corrected herself. ‘Yes.’ She had read somewhere that using formal words made people take the speaker seriously.
One of the men picked up the phone and had a brief conversation. He looked at them and Liz thought he was describing them to the voice on the other end.
‘Sure, ma’am.’ He hung up the phone and gestured at Liz to follow him.
He led them to a bank of elevators, punched a button and smiled broadly when Peaches dimpled at him. Liz was proud of her idea of bringing Peaches along. Her little sister could melt the most hardened hearts.
The elevator whooshed open and she gripped Zoe’s hand tightly and ushered her inside. The man punched the floor, winked at them and left.
Liz stepped out on their floor, walked inside the glass doors opposite and stopped and stared.
She’d been to a few offices, to her dad’s office, and had seen offices on TV, but this one was unlike any other she had seen.
It was light, airy and cheerful.
Multi-colored couches were strewn randomly, baseball bats and gloves lined the walls, a basketball hoop was at one end. In one corner she could see a small green strip, a miniature putting strip. The office felt happy.
She walked in deeper and her heart leapt when she spotted the man she wanted to see.
He was lying down on a couch, his eyes closed.
Sleeping? In the middle of the day?
She went closer and cleared her throat.
Brown eyes opened and stared at her in astonishment.
The man swung his legs and sat up so smoothly that Liz was reminded of the cheetah she’d seen hunting on TV. One moment the animal was crouching, the next it was in motion, a streak of gold and black spots.