The Warriors Series Boxset II

by Ty Patterson

  The pounding broke McDermott’s control. He pressed a button in his pocket, rose and yelled, ignoring the startled looks from other patrons.

  ‘I might be born here, but this isn’t my country.’ He shouted. ‘I belong with my brothers who are fighting a great war. And you know what, Carter? We’ll still get there.’

  Carter’s eyes were glacial. ‘You fell for the ISIS rhetoric blindly. All that they’re after is power. They’re no better than a bunch of dictators. Cruder, more violent, but at the end, just dictators who want to control masses of people.’

  ‘That’s what the West thinks, Carter.’ Spittle flew off McDermott’s mouth and landed on Carter. ‘The West has never understood us. Our way is the only way to live. What you call freedom is just an illusion. You chase wealth and think you are happy. Living in a caliphate – that is true freedom.’

  People were starting to look around. He ignored them. They were cattle. They would be dead soon.

  ‘We’ll bring this country down to its knees and extend our rule. The Great Satan will be wiped out when we have finished. The true believers will rule the world.’

  He knew he was frothing, he ignored it. Carter, a foot soldier, a nothing person, wouldn’t be allowed to destroy his grand plan. Shots rang outside and he laughed crazily. His men had come.

  Movement caught his eyes. His mind took a long time processing what he was seeing.

  His security detail was surrounded by guns. Guns wielded by waiters, even by the maître’d. Dully he swung his eyes back at Carter.

  ‘This restaurant is fully staffed by my men. You’re finished.’ The words came at him from a distance.

  Zeb watched him sag back, looking older, defeat etched deep on his face.

  The wall behind McDermott was polished, and in its reflection, he watched a man approaching. His face was bloody, his chest had a hole, but he staggered with a gun in one outstretched hand.

  He came behind Zeb, lifted the gun.

  Zeb pushed his chair back, sliding it smoothly on the polished wooden floor of the restaurant.

  His hand wrapped around the dining knife, whipped back snakelike and buried it deep into the approaching man’s chest. His right hand dislodged the gun from the attacker’s hand.

  Something warned him; he turned his head swiftly to see McDermott’s hand diving under his jacket.

  The attacker’s gun transferred smoothly to Zeb’s hand. Gun became hand. Trigger became finger.

  The snub nosed revolver came out of McDermott’s jacket. Its barrel turned to Zeb.

  Three shots rang out.

  One went into the ceiling.

  Two went into Shane McDermott.

  Three weeks later

  ‘Why does he want to meet us, and why there?’ Zeb frowned at Bwana who was driving a large SUV to a private airfield a couple of hours outside New York.

  Bwana shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask him. He wants to see us, that’s all he said.’

  Zeb looked suspiciously at the rest of his crew and got innocence back.

  Broker stroked the goatee he was sporting and snapped irritably. ‘Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who’s best buddies with Prince Abdul. If he hasn’t told you why, how would we know?’

  Zeb got blank looks and shrugs from the twins and the rest of them. He settled back but couldn’t shake the feeling that they knew.

  Prince Abdul had called him one night after McDermott’s killing.

  He couldn’t stop thanking Zeb during the half-hour call. By exposing the Saudi minister, Zeb had done an enormous favor for the king and the Saudi government. The relationship between the two countries might have changed, but they still were strong allies; the minister could have undermined that.

  Prince Abdul hadn’t mentioned a meeting during the call.

  McDermott’s death was made out to be a driving accident and while his funeral drew a large attendance, the president didn’t show up.

  In the media coverage surrounding McDermott’s death, no one paid much attention to the untimely demise of the very recently appointed Venezuelan oil minister.

  The Saudi oil minister lost his job in a cabinet reshuffle and was never heard of again. Zeb suspected his body was buried somewhere in the desert. The new official flew to Washington D.C. immediately where he spent considerable time meeting his counterparts and key stakeholders in the U.S. government. The Saudi government was desperate to distance itself from the previous minister and pulled out all stops.

  Connor Balthazar published Elena Petrova’s letter as a hypothetical what-if article and gave her credit. The article went viral, sparked a global debate on the ownership of and investment into energy resources; on financial terrorism and extremism. It forced Western governments to accept its plausibility.

  The president’s shock had turned to outrage when presented with the evidence on McDermott. Beneath the rage was a deep unease that ISIS had been able to reach so deeply into government. None of the intelligence agencies had spotted McDermott in Mosul; none of the regulatory agencies had noticed the acquisition of energy companies.

  ‘Things will change here. The president is going to kick ass. Hard. He wants results, not endless reports.’ General Klouse had told Zeb and Clare when they met at their usual coffee shop in D.C. ‘We were all caught napping and if it hadn’t been for Zeb, we would have woken up too late.’

  The president had replaced the directors of two intelligence agencies and one regulatory body, but they were only the start of the forthcoming overhaul.

  The Agency was the only benefactor in the shake-up. Clare’s stock was sky high with the president and the few who knew of its existence. The funds from McDermott’s Bahamas account were re-routed and the Agency’s slush fund increased dramatically.

  The president was calling for closer cooperation with its allies to deal with ISIS. There was a sense of urgency and purpose in the corridors of power; something that hadn’t been seen before. Zeb stopped paying attention once the initial headlines and the political commentary went into an endless loop.

  ‘You did well, son.’ The general’s hard face creased into a smile. ‘You never gave up.’

  ‘He never does,’ Clare commented drolly and the smile became a grin.

  He saw something in Zeb’s face and his smile faded. ‘You’ve something on your mind, son?’

  ‘The Butcher should go back. This hasn’t ended.’

  The screaming engines of a Gulfstream drowned out his reverie. He donned his shades and watched a pristine white jet taxi to the end of the runway, turn around and make its way in their direction.

  ‘That’s not his usual transport,’ Zeb yelled over the roar of the aircraft. Broker frowned in reply. ‘How would I know? Maybe the previous one was too small for him. You know how these Saudi royals are.’

  Something’s up.

  Before he could probe further, the aircraft opened and a retinue of uniformed staff emerged.

  One of them unfurled a carpet on the stairs; yet another scampered down and showered flowers on the runway. Prince Abdul exited the aircraft regally, an umbrella held over his head, and made his way to them. His assistant and bodyguards followed a couple of steps behind.

  The prince left the shade of the umbrella when he neared them, extended his arms and hugged Zeb tight and kissed him on his cheeks. He bent over and kissed Chloe and the twins’ hands and then stood back and silently inspected them.

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’ He wagged an admonishing finger at Zeb. ‘I had to hear from other people that you found the assassin who killed my brother.’

  Zeb mumbled an apology and glared at his team who were enjoying his discomfort. He hadn’t mentioned the killer during the long call he had with the prince.

  The royal removed his shades and beamed at them. ‘We are indebted to you, Zeb. You saved our honor yet again. Imagine the pressure on his Royal Highness if we hadn’t found the killer. Now we can declare that justice has been done.’

  He clapped his ha
nds and one of his staff stepped forward with a tray.

  Zeb fidgeted uneasily, not liking where this was going. ‘Sir, no thanks are necessary. I am not sure how you found out.’ He stopped when the prince held up his hand and stepped forward with an envelope.

  He held the envelope with both hands and handed it to Zeb with a flourish. ‘My country cannot thank you enough. Please accept this as a sign of our gratitude.’

  ‘Sir, you’ve already honored us,’ Zeb protested. He looked at his friends for support, but all of them were looking away.

  The prince drew his eyebrows together. ‘I noticed your aircraft the last time you visited. It’s old. It’s not worthy of transporting a close friend of the Royal Family.’

  ‘Aircraft?’

  The prince nodded at the envelope and then turned to the Gulfstream. ‘This will be your jet from now on.’ He announced grandly.

  ‘Mouth. Shut.’ Meghan hissed at Zeb.

  He clicked his jaws together, looked at the Gulfstream, his friends and the prince. ‘Sir, this is too-–’

  ‘Too small?’ The prince whirled at his assistant. ‘When do we get that Boeing we ordered? Get it outfitted for Zeb as soon as it arrives.’ The assistant nodded obsequiously, took notes, made calls.

  Prince Abdul turned back at Zeb and beamed. ‘All taken care of, my friend. You’ll have a bigger aircraft. I should have realized. My apologies.’

  I would rather deal with ten assassins than a grateful Saudi Prince.

  ‘Sir, you don’t understand. We don’t need the Boeing. We don’t even need this one. It’s too flashy.’

  The prince’s whirling act came on again and this time there was a note of accusation. ‘I told you he needed a stealth fighter. When can you get one?’

  ‘Looks like we got a new plane, bro.’ Bwana chuckled softly over the prince’s torrent of words.

  It took an hour to convince Prince Abdul that the Gulfstream would do, and that they didn’t need medals or cash rewards. The first stretch limo arrived, the length of half a city block, and after another round of hugs and kisses the prince departed.

  ‘You knew this all along?’ Zeb accused his team.

  Chloe couldn’t contain her laugh. ‘Word got to us. The prince was adamant that you didn’t know beforehand.’

  Zeb sighed ruefully. ‘I give up. How do we get this thing off the ground now?’

  ‘You’ll find that it came with two pilots. Ours.’ Roger replied laconically and headed to the aircraft. Zeb knew when he was beaten and followed his team silently.

  ‘Where to, boss?’ his pilot asked him when they had boarded.

  ‘New York.’

  Zeb’s eyes were unseeing when the Gulfstream roared down the stretch of concrete and parted ways with earth. He looked out of the window as it circled once, but the greens and the browns of his country below didn’t register. The sunset painted hues of orange on the wings, but he didn’t notice.

  A pair of blue eyes watched him steadily, the faintest trace of humor in them.

  Watching the sunset?

  He shook his head imperceptibly. No need. My sun still rises and sets with you.

  The eyes smiled and became a fire that warmed him and carried him home.

  Hunting You

  Warriors Series, Book 7

  By

  Ty Patterson

  Sign up to Ty Patterson’s mailing list, and get the first book in the series, The Warrior, FREE! Be the first to know about new releases and deals.

  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 Hunting You has benefited from the inputs of several great people.

  Jean Coldwell, Claire Forgacs, Hank Halstead, Donald Hoffman, Richard Lane, Jim Lambert, Christine Terrell, Jack Willis, 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 parents, who taught me the value of a good education. My wife for her patience, and my son for listening to my jokes. To 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 1

  Herb ‘Hank’ Parker was having dinner with his family in Damascus, Virginia, when the masked men burst inside.

  Hank had a small construction business that wasn’t ever going to make him extraordinarily rich, but it fed his children and kept his family happy, which was all that really mattered.

  Damascus had a population of less than a thousand people and crime was almost unheard of. There was that time when a few kids had set fire inside a trash can, but Hank couldn’t remember the last time a home had been burgled or a murder had been committed.

  There were three intruders, all of medium build, all brown or black-eyed; it was hard to see in the dining room’s light.

  The three flanked the dining room, one at its head, two at each side. Each one of them carried a handgun that was casually, but effectively held. Hank recognized that stance; these men were used to carrying and using handguns.

  Petals, his six-year-old daughter, and Emily, his wife, started screaming on seeing the intruders. Nine-year-old Cody started hyperventilating.

  Hank had been to Iraq in a special unit that did nasty stuff to the enemy. He had lived through a war that he never spoke of. Hank kept calm.

  ‘There’s some money in the safe in the bedroom,’ he said evenly. ‘My wallet’s in the living room. There’s some cash in it. We don’t have any jewelry. Please take the cash and anything else you want. We won’t offer any trouble.’

  The hooded man at the head of the table looked at him in silence for a moment, then lifted his gun and shot Cody.

  A full minute of silence fell in the room and then Emily started screaming; Petals heaved drily, her eyes wide and unseeing.

  ‘No!’ Hank left his seat like a rocket, his compact frame heaving the table to one side, his hands outstretched, reaching out for the nearest gunman, to rip his heart out.

  A gun came crashing down on him and when he came to, he was tied to a chair, his wife and daughter similarly restrained, seated opposite him.

  Petals seemed to have gone into a fugue; Emily’s eyes were glazed and she was moaning softly.

  ‘Where’s the money you stole from Big G?’ The masked man asked in a tone that was almost bored. Hank shook his head woozily and when he looked at his son’s body, it all came back to him. He turned to the masked man and tried to focus his eyes.

  The man’s accent was American, but beyond that Hank couldn’t make out regional influences.

  ‘Big G? I don’t know him, man. I never stole any money from anyone.’

  He straine
d against his bonds, but they were tight and there was no wriggle room. His wife’s eyes flickered at the sound of his voice, but she didn’t look his way. Petals was still out of it.

  Thank the Lord for that.

  He forced his body to wake up, stay alert and remain calm. My family needs me. He didn’t look in Cody’s direction.

  ‘You got the wrong family, friend. Please take whatever money we have and leave.’

  The masked hood crouched before him and Hank now saw his eyes were brown.

  ‘Everyone starts off with a lie.’

  The masked man nodded to one of his gunmen.

  The screaming began.

  Ninety minutes later, Hank lay on his side, his insides spilling out. Death was hovering close by, waiting, hiding in the dark mist that was closing in on him.

  His eyes stared dully on the floor; raising them was too much of an effort. If he lifted them he would’ve seen the bodies of his wife and daughter slumped on the floor.

  A shadow moved, the hood knelt beside him and grabbed his hair and lifted his head. The man’s face swam in Hank’s vision but never focused.

  ‘Now do you remember?’

  The elevated angle brought his family into view and something primeval stirred within Hank. In its dying moments, his memory unfolded a face and a name.

  A person that even death tiptoed around.

  ‘Zebadiah Carter. He has the money.’ Hank gasped out with his last breath and died with the hint of a smile on his face.

  Zeb Carter would avenge his family’s death.

  Big G paced the small cell of his high security prison in Guadalajara, Mexico when word got to him that Hank Parker had named some other man just before he died.

  Big G was built like a tank, every inch of his body covered in tats. Muscles rippled when he walked and his black eyes bored holes into anyone he came across.

  Nobody bothered him in the prison; heck, he ran it like his private office, any number of prisoners ready to do his bidding.