The Warriors Series Boxset II

by Ty Patterson

  He spoke Arabic with an Iraqi accent, made long speeches about the evils of the ISIS and their cowardly ways.

  This video contained more than a speech.

  It showed pictures of the dead Umkhayey and his companions.

  The Butcher gloated that he had gone into enemy territory and killed the men while ISIS conducted their killings from behind the safety of their armies.

  The Taliban disowned The Butcher and said the killer did not belong to them.

  No one believed them.

  Zeb scrubbed away the dyes on his face and hair, while he showered in the bathroom of his apartment in Jackson Heights.

  His serious face stared back at him in the mirror when he was toweling dry, a face that seldom smiled, and to which laughter rarely came.

  His friends ribbed him about his lack of humor. They said the Sphinx was more talkative.

  He finger combed his short brown hair and dressed casually in a blue T-shirt over jeans.

  He fired up his sat-phone, in order to check up on his messages.

  There weren’t many.

  His crew didn’t bother him when he was in hostile country and Clare emailed him rarely.

  He sent a message to all of them announcing his return and when the flood of messages started pouring in, the hardness fell away from his face and a grin crept across his face

  His silences gave his crew ample ammunition for their joshing and they never lost an opportunity to have a dig at him.

  He slung a jacket over his shoulders and stepped outside in the sound and traffic snarl that was New York.

  He breathed deeply the unique smell of exhaust, along with the sound of swearing, and smiled briefly.

  He was home.

  Zeb was The Butcher.

  He had created that avatar during a previous mission and it had proved very successful in creating divisions between the two terror organizations.

  Divisions that the Western world used to win back not only territory but also the minds and hearts of those susceptible to extremist propaganda.

  Two days later Zeb was in Milton Mills, New Hampshire, in a small cottage that he owned. It was set back from the street, with just one other home as his nearest neighbor.

  The small village was where he went after missions. It was where he unwound and let life wash over him.

  Milton Mills had no more than three hundred residents, was contained in the larger town of Milton, and its proximity to the Salmon Falls River was what had made him fall in love with it.

  The river once provided power to mills and factories on its bank.

  Today it was a haven for kayakers and paddlers, who could navigate the river’s lush shore and forget that there was a world beyond.

  Zeb spent many hours on the river, when he was in the village. He liked the way time slowed when he was in Milton Mills.

  Like many small neighborhoods in the country, the village was one where neighbors greeted and helped each other.

  It had a mix of older residents and young families, all of who took enormous pride in their small town.

  Zeb had been exploring the east coast, often kayaking through the several rivers and lakes, when he had come across Milton Mills.

  He had taken in the spaced out homes, many of them white or blue fronted, the simple, soaring church, and he had known immediately.

  This was where he would come to decompress.

  After researching the village, he found his small cottage; residents knew him as a businessman who escaped to their town for R&R every few months in a year.

  They respected his need for solitude.

  Pike, the balding, sixty-year-old resident who ran the local convenience store, was the one who had interacted with him the most.

  ‘Which isn’t saying much,’ Pike waved his empty mug at Chuck, the bartender in their neighborhood watering hole, and turned back to his friends.

  ‘He comes maybe once a week, when he’s in the village, greets me, stocks up, pays, and leaves.’

  ‘He minds his own business, doesn’t play loud music, doesn’t drive rashly, and is always polite. What more can one ask?’ Bundy’s cloudy eyes rested on each of them and got answering nods in return.

  Bundy had bushy eyebrows and thick, white frizzy hair.

  He was retired, a widower, and helped out in the village. He carried out repairs in the church, helped fix boilers, started recalcitrant cars, cleared snow and slush from sidewalks, and repaired broken windows.

  Bundy was your man if you had a problem with your home, your car, or anything mechanical or inanimate.

  Chuck was the silent type. Burly, round faced, he had a ready smile for patrons, but unlike other bartenders, he didn’t indulge in small talk.

  Sure, he gave directions when passing visitors asked, but he didn’t probe, didn’t push. He let his customers enjoy his hospitality without inflicting his presence on them.

  Pike, Bundy, and Chuck were close.

  Heck, they were like the founding fathers of the village and took enormous pride in the well being of their neighborhood.

  Pike and Bundy and a few others met each evening at Chuck’s, the only act in the village, and discussed worldly matters that also included events of the day.

  Chuck brought refills to their table and when the men had fueled and lubricated themselves, they moved onto discussing the ball game.

  Zeb’s arrival in the village, years back, had sparked off gossip and rumors, which died away when he became a semi-permanent fixture in the town.

  Residents saw him going for early morning runs and his neighbor, Jenny Wade, said the only time she was aware of his presence was when he undertook repairs to his home, or polished his kayak.

  Jenny herself came to the village five years back, a baby in tow, but now called it home and fit in the small community like a comfortable glove.

  Jenny’s backyard was separated from Mr. Carter’s by a thick, tall hedge. She could see over it into his yard, but she seldom saw him.

  There was that time when he had hired a digger, one of those big things that removed earth, and had dug out his backyard.

  That was strange, she said. He worked a lot at night and she never got to see what he was building. The backyard looked the same as before, when the digger had done its job.

  In general the consensus was that while Mr. Carter cut a distinctly aloof figure, he was a part of their town and as such, deserved the same hospitality and warmth that the other residents got.

  Zeb’s cottage was small. Two stories. A ground floor with a few rooms, an upper floor with a few more.

  The ground floor had a living room, kitchen, dining room, a bedroom – which he had turned into a study – and a bathroom.

  He had turned the dining room into an exercise room. It didn’t have any equipment other than a skipping rope, a yoga mat, a punching bag, and a few weights.

  The upper floor had three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a large landing space.

  Two of the upper bedrooms looked down to his backyard and the hedge separating Jenny Wade’s yard from his.

  He could see the corner of the Wade house and a few of its windows, if he moved closer to his window.

  His house was spartan in its decoration and other than a TV and a router, it had no other electronic equipment of its own.

  The equipment that he required for his job was stored in a basement, some of it was kept in his SUV.

  He had caches across the house, the yard, and the roof.

  Zeb spent the first week of his arrival tidying up the front and the backyard and repairing some broken shingles on the roof.

  He was aware of his neighbor’s daughter peering at him from her upper story window and when he went to his front yard, she came out and watched him silently.

  He mowed the lawn, picked litter, and stray leaves.

  She joined him. She rubbed her tiny hand against her dress when they had finished and thrust it out at him.

  ‘Olivia Wade,’ she introduced herself, her blue
eyes peering up at him through locks of golden hair.

  ‘Zeb Carter.’ He bent down and shook her hand. She must be five or six years old.

  ‘Your mom knows you’re here?’

  Her hair bounced on her shoulders as she shook her head vigorously and darted away when a voice called out from her house.

  He looked at his hand. There had been a time when small hands such as Olivia Wade’s, had curled trustingly around his.

  He broke the thought.

  A few days later, Zeb was in Chuck’s bar, sampling the day’s special, idly riffling through the pages of a week old newspaper.

  He read the sports news, moved to the political section and caught up on which leader said what about whom, spent time on a couple of articles on Iraq and Syria and when he was pushing the paper away, he spotted the photograph.

  It featured a smiling man surrounded by his family. A man whose face hadn’t changed much in more than a decade except for the thinning hair and the fine layer of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth

  Zeb was very familiar with that man; he had been Zeb’s commander and mentor in a distant land, in which both men had lost many friends and had formed new bonds.

  Zeb had shared stories with him over a campfire, had felt the man’s hand on his shoulder when Zeb lost it, on seeing the body of a friend.

  ‘Make sure you’ve folks in your life, boy. Life isn’t meant for living alone.’ The man used to say.

  ‘You okay, Mr. Carter?’ The voice came from far away and when it grew insistent, the mists of time dissipated and Zeb looked up in Chuck’s face.

  He realized he had been staring at the bar, seeing nothing, hearing a seldom visited past.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He rose, dropped a few bills on the table and brushed past the bartender without a further word.

  He turned back abruptly, picked up the paper and walked out, feeling Chuck’s eyes boring into his back.

  He hurried to his cottage and in its privacy, read the article again and then fired up his laptop and pored through all the available coverage.

  FBI Director Pat Murphy took the call two hours later and leaned back in his chair when he heard the voice on the other end of the line.

  He listened silently for a moment, grunted, ‘Hold,’ and jabbed a button on his phone.

  ‘Who’s handling the Parker murders?’ He asked his assistant when a grey-haired woman entered his office.

  ‘Sarah Burke, she heads Bob Pierce’s new task force.’

  He waved in thanks and returned to the call and mentioned the names. He wasn’t surprised when the voice asked where Sarah Burke could be found.

  ‘Can I ask your interest in this case?’

  The voice spoke briefly and Murphy nodded unconsciously. He understood now.

  ‘Let me make some calls. I’ll get back to you.’

  Pat Murphy headed the premier investigative agency in the country.

  He had thousands of agents at his beck and call. Senators and Congressmen vied to meet him. The President listened attentively when he spoke.

  He would drop whatever was on his plate for Zeb Carter. They had history.

  He rang Pierce’s number and looked blindly at the rain blurring his office windows as the soft burrs went over the phone lines.

  His Deputy Director picked up on the fifth ring.

  ‘Pat, yeah, how can I help?’

  His voice was breathless as if he was running. Murphy glanced at the clock. Six p.m. It was when Pierce hit the treadmill in his office.

  The Director was succinct and waited for the response he knew would come. It didn’t take long.

  ‘She’s a good investigator, Pat. If there’s anyone who can crack this case, it’s her. We shouldn’t allow any interference.’

  ‘He just wants to meet. He wants to see her in person and get a feel for her. I know him well. It’s the way he works.’

  ‘He’ll want updates on her progress?’ The question was sharp.

  ‘Nope. Like I said, he wants to meet and assure himself that it’s in good hands.’

  ‘It is. She’s the best. You know that.’

  Murphy didn’t reply and let the silence drag on and smiled briefly when Pierce capitulated and told him where Burke could be found.

  ‘He won’t interfere?’ Pierce tried one last time.

  ‘Nope.’

  Pat Murphy could have gotten hold of Sarah Burke’s number and given it to Zeb, but he liked to go through the chain of command.

  It existed for a reason. It sent the wrong message if he, the director, went around it.

  Burke and Kowalski were still in D.C. later that day, after being chewed out by Pierce.

  They were on their phones in their hotel rooms, urging, cajoling, pleading, requesting, doing everything they could to get their team to find that elusive thread that would break the case open.

  Burke hung her phone up an hour later, showered quickly, knocked on Kowalski’s room, and went down to the lobby.

  They had early morning flights the next day and the plan was to have an early dinner and a good sleep.

  Kowalski joined her fifteen minutes later and they silently caught a cab to Georgetown, to a restaurant Burke frequented.

  A wine glass later, the weight of the investigation had fallen away.

  They made small talk, talked about Kowalski’s fiancée, about New York, but the investigation wasn’t far away.

  Kowalski, cutting through his steak, brought it up. ‘What if we don’t find a lead?’ He knew of Burke’s record.

  Burke shrugged. ‘We’ll move onto other cases.’

  ‘Why won’t you find a lead?’

  Burke froze, her mouth half open, her fork poised in midair and stared at the lean man who had appeared at their table.

  ‘This is a private dinner, pal. Can you leave us alone?’ Kowalski’s smile was pleasant but through it, steel showed.

  The man didn’t reply. He reached back, dragged a chair from another table and seated himself at their table.

  Burke tamped down a sudden surge of anger and her voice was controlled when she spoke. ‘You heard what he said. Leave us. Forget what you heard.’

  Her phone buzzed, she ignored it. She locked eyes with the man for the first time; his brown eyes reminded her of a roiling ocean.

  The phone buzzed again.

  ‘Take it,’ he said and the fury sparked in her.

  ‘Like hell –’

  He picked her phone, thumbed the call accept and handed it to her.

  His gall incensed her. She grabbed it from his hand, ready to do damage, when she heard the voice on the line and settled back in her seat.

  ‘Yes, sir, he’s with me.’

  Pat Murphy spoke for a few minutes and when he had finished she dropped the phone on her table and got her composure back.

  ‘The Director,’ she answered the questioning look in Kowalski’s eyes.

  She turned back to the man at their table. ‘The director says you have an interest in this case. Lots of people have an interest in several cases. What makes you special?’

  Zeb Carter didn’t reply. He glanced once at her phone and then at her and a wave of red spread across her face.

  Pat Murphy called me. That’s what makes him special.

  She briefed him rapidly on where they were with the case, his eyes never leaving hers, and when she had finished, waited for a response.

  None came. He sat still and when the silence became unbearable, Kowalski told Carter of the other murder.

  The one in New Jersey.

  Burke could read people. She was trained to detect tics on the face, involuntary gestures, narrowing of eyes, whitening of fingers, all kinds of giveaways.

  She spotted nothing in Carter. She thought he seemed to still, a slowing of his metabolism, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The brown eyes moved to Kowalski and he elaborated on the details.

  The waiter came to take Carter’s order, he waved him away. The silence became thick and
then he rose.

  Like a panther rising, she thought.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and walked away without another word.

  Her mouth gaped open again and when she’d recovered, she called out. ‘That’s it? No, keep me in the loop? No, call me when you find something?’

  He turned around once and smiled but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Just who are you, Mr. Carter?’ Kowalski called out.

  In the polished glass of the door, they saw his smile grow wider and then he was outside and away.

  Zeb stood in a doorway and watched offices spill people out, clutching briefcases and bags as they rushed to the nearest Metro station and head home.

  He stood immobile for an hour, ignoring the indifferent looks of passersby. A security guard came and made to move him along, saw something in him and backed down.

  The restaurant’s doors swished open and Burke and Kowalski exited, glanced up and down briefly and flagged a cab. He saw Burke’s head turn around and scan the street, and then her face grew small as the cab sped away.

  She’s good. Murphy was right.

  But it won’t hurt for me to make a few calls.

  Big G’s eyes were narrow and angry as he stared at his underling.

  ‘What do you mean, Parker wasn’t Cezar?’

  The underling shrank under his gaze and his words tumbled out.

  Big G raised a hand. ‘Stop.’ The man stopped.

  ‘Breathe.’

  The man took a deep breath and spoke slower.

  Big G’s men had put the word out on Zebadiah Carter but got no bites. The first name was uncommon and the gang had hoped someone would come forward, but no one did. They tried searching for Zeb Carter on the internet but hundreds of hits were returned. There was no way they could narrow down all of them.

  A couple of men went back to their contact in the U.S. Marshal’s office. The snitch swore he had given them the right details. Parker was Cezar. His computer said so.

  The men believed him. The snitch had been held upside down from the top of a high rise. There was no reason for him to lie.

  Big G’s crew met in their favorite bar to see if collective wisdom could shed light on the subject. They passed pictures of Cezar and his woman around.

  They shared Parker’s photographs. Alcohol was consumed and jokes were cracked.