by Ty Patterson
She knew for certain her neighbor had something to do with Big G’s death. She didn’t require proof.
She knew a little of Mr. Carter by now.
Nothing had changed at Chuck’s bar.
Zeb ordered his usual, exchanged nods with the silent bartender and went to his corner table.
He ate slowly, enjoying the rays of sunshine that came through a window and lit his table.
His friends were back in New York. All loose ends had been tied up.
The twins had wondered at his lack of surprise at their presence in the village.
‘At the least, you could’ve pretended to be glad to see us, Zeb,’ Beth had cried. Her warm hug belied the tone in her voice.
‘Broker’s not the only one who can keep tabs via the satellites,’ he had countered.
The mystery behind Hank being mistaken for Cezar had been cleared up.
‘It was some kind of virus,’ Broker’s baritone had been soft when he conveyed the news to Zeb. ‘The Marshals aren’t admitting it, but it swapped addresses from several Federal databases. Hank’s details came from one of those. By a freakish coincidence, he and his wife, looked similar to Cezar and Jenny.’
Zeb didn’t say anything. Nothing was there to be said. Luck played a role sometimes.
Luck had brought Hank into his life. He looked up, at the blue sky. Its hue reminded him of a pair of eyes.
Say hi to my wife and son, Hank.
The shout on TV brought him back. A ball game. No one was watching it.
The bar wasn’t busy. A couple of families. A man in a suit tapping away on a laptop. At one of the tables, two men he recognized. Pike and Bundy.
Chuck went over to them, whispered something and they glanced in his direction.
Pike raised a glass in a silent toast. Zeb nodded in acknowledgement.
None of them came over and shook his hand or slapped his back or shared his space.
They weren’t like that.
He rose when he had finished, dropped a few bills and left.
Chuck stopped him before he reached the door.
‘That isn’t required.’ He thrust the bills back at Zeb.
Zeb made to protest, but a shout from across the room cut him off.
‘Danged right. And if you stop coming here, he’ll deliver food to your house and he’ll keep doing it till it stacks up, blocks your door, and it floods into the street.’
Pike. Red-faced, but smiling broadly.
Zeb took back the bills, pocketed them and did something Milton Mills had never seen before.
He smiled.
Coming soon:
Zero
Warriors Series, Book 8
BY
Ty Patterson
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Bonus Chapter from Zero
Washington D.C. is the center of the political universe.
There are other cities that suck in more traffic and business; New York or London for example. There are other countries that wield as much economic clout as the United States. If China sneezes, the world’s stock markets catch a cold.
However, when it comes to global political influence, the United States is still the foremost world power and its capital is at the heart of that.
Due to that white residence which is recognized the world over; it is also one of the most secure cities on the planet.
It is not just that residence that calls the city, home. There are various defense, intelligence, and investigative agencies that are headquartered in the city. Many of those agencies carry three-letter acronyms. Some of those agencies are unknown to the taxpayer and are hidden under layers of deception.
Not far from the city is that five-sided building; the largest office block in the world. It’s an office of course, but it’s also much more than that.
Washington D.C. is small compared to other world cities. It is less than sixty-four square miles and has a population of less than seven hundred thousand.
In comparison, New York is just under three hundred and five square miles, with over eight million people. London is well over six hundred and seven square miles and has a similar population to New York.
Despite such a concentration of agencies and political power, security in the Washington D.C. isn’t obvious.
Gun toting police officers don’t hang about on street corners. Cruisers patrol the streets of course, but if they are bristling with men and guns, it isn’t apparent.
But the security apparatus is there, hidden, tucked away and part of it springs to life when that motorcade emerges.
Then choppers and numerous patrol cars and motorcycle outriders appear and shut down streets and suddenly you can see uniforms and weapons and hard stares and dark shades all over.
The city resumes its somnolent state when the cavalcade disappears.
The Presidential View Hotel caters to tourists and businessmen and that animal species that’s all too common in the city – lobbyists.
It’s a small, intimate hotel, just over hundred rooms, a Michelin-starred restaurant adjacent to the lobby. The restaurant is well known in the city and always needs reservations.
The reason for the hotel’s name is apparent if you step outside and face it and turn right. You’ll see that white residence, the American flag flying proudly on top.
The more famous Jefferson Hotel is just a stone’s throw away, diagonally opposite, on Sixteenth Street.
The president frequents the Jefferson occasionally. It is said there are tunnels that connect the Jefferson with that famous residence. Obviously, no one is going to confirm their existence.
Washington D.C. hasn’t been attacked by terrorists in a while.
A while is a long time back though.
They came to the Presidential View in twos and threes. Most of them were clean shaven, the few who had facial hair, were neatly trimmed. One of the facial hair wearers, sported a moustache. A brown one. Another had a French beard and glasses.
They wore jeans or tracksuits and dark windbreakers. Some wore ball caps.
They all carried gym bags. They were heavy, but all fifteen of them carried the bags with ease.
Two of them came into the restaurant, lugging their bags, hung around as if waiting to be seated.
They drifted away when it looked like it would be a long wait. Both of them casually eyed the seated patrons, about thirty of them.
Neither of them saw the group of nine in the far corner.
Zeb saw them. He saw their bags. He saw their eyes run past his group. He read their body language. They hadn’t come to be seated. They had come to see how the restaurant looked or felt.
Tourists. He half expected them to click pictures, but they didn’t.
He turned his attention to his eight companions, who, along with the ninth, formed the Agency.
The Agency didn’t have a three-letter acronym. Few people knew that it existed. Of those, only a handful knew of its true purpose. Those who knew, had security clearances that were off the scale.
The Agency took direct and proactive action against threats to the country. It went in where other deep black agencies hesitated.
Terrorists, organized crime, drug traffickers, armaments dealer, missing nuclear and chemical warheads – those and many others were the Agency’s targets.
It had taken out bad guys in Syria, Iraq, Iran, Somalia, Indonesia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, France, Britain, Nigeria, and many more countries. It went where the threats were, regardless of national boundaries.
It had its own intel network that rivaled the best in the country; a network that Zeb and Broker had built.
Zebadiah Carter, Zeb, was its lead agent.
A seat away from him was Broker, the handsome, elderly one. An intelligence analyst who ran the logistics, the planning, and the intel for the Agency.
Broker was flanked by Bwana and Roger. Bwana was as tall as he was dark. He looked frightening. He was frightening when he was in combat mode. He was as gentle as kitten when he played civilian.
Roger could have modeled for the luxury couture brands. Instead he chose to be a Special Forces operative and that resulted in his joining Zeb.
Bear, as tall as Bwana, but with a thick beard, sat with Chloe, a petite brunette. They were a couple, in work and in life. They were the best close protection people Zeb had come across.
Meghan and Beth Peterson, twins, sat next to Chloe. Blonde, attractive, vivacious, and extremely intelligent. They supported Broker. They virtually ran the Agency and reduced Broker to lounging around on a couch.
Most of them were ex Special Forces operatives, except Broker who had come from the Rangers, Chloe, who was from the 82nd Airborne, and the twins.
The twins were daughters of a celebrated cop in Jackson Hole. They had bumped into Zeb a while back and worn him down till he made them part of the crew.
At the head of the table sat Zeb’s boss. Clare. She reported only to the president. She had never let the Commander-in-Chief down.
Zeb’s crew was in town to celebrate Clare’s birthday. She was in her late forties, the same age as Broker, but didn’t look it. Her grey eyes were usually cool.
They were mirthful that day. All of them were. It was one of those rare periods of downtime for them.
Zeb turned to the entrance, smiling in response to a joke from Broker, and saw the two men departing.
He noticed their tracksuits first.
They didn’t belong in the restaurant.
Tourists aren’t known for their dress sense.
He then saw the gym bags. One of the men adjusted the bag on his shoulder; it tightened and for a moment straight lines and angles stood out in relief.
Must be some sporting team.
He laughed absentmindedly at something Meghan said.
Sports teams don’t stay in this hotel. Which kind of game requires something straight or angled?
Ice hockey? Nothing going on now. Not in this part of the country. Field hockey? Not played here.
He ran the various sports in his mind, looking down at the table.
No game came to his mind.
When he raised his head, all of them had gone silent, were staring at him.
‘What?’ Meghan asked him.
He shook his head. He was overreacting.
‘What?’ She persisted.
He told them.
Broker rose. ‘I’ll have a look outside.’
He returned a few minutes later, looking relaxed from the outside, except for the pinched look in his eyes that only they recognized.
‘Three men outside, all dressed similarly. Three gym bags. I collared a bellhop and asked him about the men. They aren’t staying in the hotel.’
Mumbai.
The thought flashed in Zeb’s mind.
In 2008 a bunch of terrorists had breezed through the city, shooting at will in a busy railway terminus and other public places.
In addition, they had shot through two high profile hotels. They had killed a hundred and sixty-four people before they themselves had been brought down.
Every security agency in the world had planned and prepared for Mumbai style attacks, since then.
It’s Clare’s birthday. Don’t go looking for threats when none exist.
He forced himself to relax, reached out for his glass when the look on Broker’s face stopped him.
‘I accidentally brushed against one of the bags. It sounded metallic.’
‘Where’s he?’ Zeb asked Clare urgently.
She knew what he was asking, pulled her phone out and made a brief call. Her shoulders relaxed. ‘He isn’t in town. No one is staying or visiting this hotel today.’
The warmth in her eyes disappeared. ‘Let’s deal with this. It could be nothing, but let’s be sure.’
‘If we approach them, they might just cut loose. The hotel’s busy. Even the presence of cruisers might set them off.’ Chloe, pragmatic, calm, collected.
‘I don’t think they’re on a killing mission, or a suicidal mission. They would have opened up by now.’ Bear added. ‘This looks like a hostage deal.’
Zeb agreed and came to a decision. ‘Broker, can Yuri hack into the hotel?’
Yuri was their friendly East European hacker, one of the best in that business. On another mission they had come across him and had offered him a deal.
Work for them, or take a bullet. Yuri took the former. He was loyal, never seemed to sleep and had jelled in very well with them.
Broker sniffed. ‘I could, if I wasn’t here. I’m sure he can too.’ He made a discreet call, laughed once and ended it.
‘He’ll get onto it.’
‘Ask him to penetrate the camera system. He should take it over only when I say so.’
Broker nodded, fired off a text.
Clare opened the menu which ran to several pages and flipped to the end. The hotel’s layout and fire escape plans were marked in red on the last page. She studied it for a moment and turned it around to Zeb.
‘How would you do it?’
Zeb had thought about it; the moment he had spotted the two men. ‘I think they’ll have around ten men. You don’t need a lot to shut down a hotel. Once you control the entrance, the parking lot, the service entrances, you’ve taken it over.’
‘This hotel has seven floors, fifteen rooms on each.’ He had looked its details up before booking the table.
‘This restaurant is the only dining room they have. There’s a gym and swimming pool next to the basement parking lot.’
He paused, laid it out in his mind, continued. ‘One man on the roof. Nothing there, one man will do. Two men on the uppermost floor – one in the corridor, one in the stairwell. Such pairing every few floors, right down to the ground floor.’
‘Control the cameras, take over the phones, computers and security, shut down the entrances, and the hotel is captured.’
They sat in silence mulling it over. None of them objected. They had experienced hostage situations before, knew capturing such a hotel wasn’t difficult.
‘We should’ve brought in India style hotel checks,’ Bwana commented darkly.
After the Mumbai attacks, every major hotel in that country had installed bag scanners. Every visitor to the hotel was frisked.
Zeb waved the comment away. No point in dwelling over should haves. ‘How many of you are carrying?’
All of them were except Broker. ‘I don’t need guns. My brains are scary enough,’ he said loftily.
Bwana and Roger collected the women’s’ handguns and their magazines under the cover of the table and distributed them.
‘You got your earpieces?’
All of them had them. Gone were the days of speaking into a collar mic or a wrist mic.
These earpieces doubled as mic as well as speaker and were near invisible. They weren’t available commercially.
‘Bear, Rog, Bwana, the four of us will conceal ourselves till these guys show our hand. We’ll then play it by ear. Broker and the twins will be our eyes, at least in the restaurant.’
‘Those two might have noticed the nine of us,’ Beth objected.
‘Which is where Yuri comes in. The moment we disappear, Yuri should show our SUV exiting the parking lot. That’s their proof that we have left.’
‘Broker, Yuri should loop the camera feed the moment these guys reveal themselves. That will lull them, will give us cover to move.’
‘Where will you hide?’ Meghan’s voice was even, but the concern in her eyes was apparent.
Roger grinned, a smile that had captured many hearts from coast to coast and in many countries. ‘It’ll be hard for me since I stand out, naturally. These guys, they look like furniture. They’ll be okay.’
‘Ignore him,’ Bear rumbled. ‘We’ll be fine. Chances are these guys will leave and we’ll return, feeling foolish.’
There was an immediate threat nearby.
Zeb went to the men’s restroom.
Six stalls. Sink counter. No place to hide.
He turned to leave when his eyes drifted to the roof.
Suspended ceiling tiles.
He checked the stalls. They were empty. He locked the restroom from the inside, climbed on top of stall, drew out a dining knife and poked at one of the boards. It resisted, but gave way when he applied pressure.
He moved it cautiously and peered in the dark space.
It had pipes and tubing and AC ducts.
There was ample space for a body to lie.
He dropped down, unlocked the restroom, and took a swift look outside. No one was approaching it.
He climbed up the stall and squeezed through the small opening, drew in his legs and placed the tile back in place.
He inserted his knife in a crack between two tiles and widened it. Now he had eyes to the restroom.
Hopefully small enough to escape detection.
He waited. That was the easy part. He could wait for hours, days, weeks. Lie motionless for hours at end, just his eyes moving.
Waiting came naturally to him, to his men.
‘I’m in,’ he spoke softly. ‘In the men’s restroom.’
‘So am I, in the laundry room.’ Bear.
Bwana checked in. He was in a janitor’s cupboard.
They waited a while for Roger to come in and when he did, they heard female voices in the background. ‘Don’t ask where, but my handsome self is hidden to the world.’
They waited. Zeb hoped the wait would be in vain and they could resume their celebrations.
Clare didn’t do birthdays. The Agency was her life. It was precisely for that reason that the twins had planned the surprise get together.
Minutes merged. Men entered and exited the restroom. Toilets flushed.
Ninety minutes later, just when Zeb was thinking of overreaction, an assault rifle went off.