The Reluctant Warrior (Warriors Series Book 2)

by Ty Patterson

  As he walked past the hoods, one of them shouted out, ‘Yo, Bunk, who them bitches? Niggas walked like they owned this place.’

  ‘Should’ve set them right,’ spat another.

  ‘They’re all right, fellas. They’re mercs.’

  ‘Shoulda shown us some respect. Held back just because of you, Bunk, else we would’ve spanked their asses.’

  Lucky for you, you didn’t. Bunk put distance between them, turned into Liberty Street, and walked into the bar and was greeted by a nod from the bartender, who silently served him his first Grey Goose of the day. Talbot took a long pull, let its magic work, and looked around. He nodded to a few of the regulars and spotted another customer of his, a contractor who took on protection gigs in Africa.

  He took his glass and headed to his customer’s table and clinked his glass. ‘You still here, Mack? I thought you were catching a flight to Somalia.’

  Mack, a balding veteran who had served in the Rangers, took a generous sip of his beer, wiped the foam off his lips with a hand the size of a baseball mitt and hard as a shovel, and grunted in reply. ‘Enjoying some beer that tastes like it before I head over there. Had to make arrangements for the stuff I got from you.’

  They sat in companionable silence as they each demolished a fried steak. ‘Say, Bunk, my gig will be over in about a month. I’ll be needing another when I return, but this time, I would rather be stateside. Can you put the word out?’ Mack’s voice could drown a John Deere Monster Treads Tractor, but a whole steak inside his mouth acted as a muffler… for which Bunk was thankful.

  ‘Hooah.’ He nodded. ‘Any particular kind of gig and location?’

  The baseball mitt waved in the air, nearly decapitating Bunk. ‘Nah. Am too old to be particular. Am thinking of hanging up my boots next year, and want these last few gigs to be here.’

  ‘Say, you heard what happened to Kelton Pahle?’

  Bunk shook his head and wondered if he had made a mistake joining Mack. Mack was known for his gossip, and Bunk was dreading he would be stuck there for a long while.

  Thankfully it was only an hour later that he surfaced from his listening mode at Mack’s, ‘What’s happening your end? Anything new?’

  ‘There’s this bunch of Special Ops guys that I know from way back. They’re into something big, really big.’

  Mack leaned forward, and the wooden table creaked in protest. ‘Huh? What kinda big? Government stuff? Protection stuff? Celebrity protection? What?’

  ‘Bigger than that. They’re taking on a gang, the fastest-growing gang in these parts.’

  Mack sat back and worked it in his head, and then his eyebrows disappeared into the creases on his forehead. ‘You mean…’

  ‘Yup, the same hoods.’

  Mack whistled softly. ‘Why? Do I know these guys?’

  Bunk shook his head. ‘Not a fucking clue why. And you don’t. Hardly anyone knows these guys. They’re ghosts.’ He wiped his hands, left a hefty tip, and stood up.

  ‘Hey, give me a frigging clue. Who are they? Can I run with them?’

  He grinned at Mack. ‘I gave you a clue, Mack, not that it’ll help you much since only a handful of people know them. They’re a tight-knit group – don’t work with anyone. Hell, even I don’t know them. They just buy stuff from me, and this stuff is something I overheard when they thought they were alone.’

  He waved his hand at Mack as he left. ‘I’ll put your name out and send you word.’

  The Watcher was sitting nearby, wearing a New York Yankees cap and dark glasses. And a thick beard. He had looked back when the waitress had stared at him, a glasses-in-broad-daylight-and indoors-too stare, and she had hurried away. He had slipped in when Bunk had seated himself with Mack, and rested himself a couple of tables behind Bunk. From there, he could easily overhear most of their conversation. With the way Mack was going, some of it could be overheard on Mars.

  He’d ordered a blackened chicken sandwich and, placing a half-folded newspaper beside it, proceeded to demolish it. And listen.

  He leaned back from his plate when Bunk left the bar, and looked across at Mack. Mack was well on his way to getting smashed. He waved his hand in the air, caught the bartender’s eye, and indicated another beer for Mack.

  ‘Bro, I couldn’t help overhearing Bunk’s comments. Did he say which gang those ghosts of his were going after?’

  Mack looked up blearily and then at the cold beer that had appeared by magic. ‘Nah. You know Bunk?’

  The Watcher nodded silently.

  ‘You know how he is. Tighter than a clam, the bastard. Never gave me any names of the ghosts. I woulda loved to join their action.’

  ‘What about the gang?’ the Watcher asked patiently. Talking to a tractor took patience.

  Mack blinked, and the Watcher could hear the brain cells moving sluggishly as they attempted a response.

  ‘Gang? Nah, man. He clammed up on that too.’

  From the depths, his brain cells dragged out a memory.

  ‘He did say it was the fastest-growing gang. 5Clubs is who I think they are. The bastards are growing faster than mushrooms on steroids. You in the game?’

  The Watcher shook his head. ‘Just a boring accountant.’

  Mack bent down and chased thick potato wedges with his fork. ‘Dunno why Bunk’s so fucking tightlipped. I’m sure I coulda been useful to those ghosts.’ When he looked up, the Watcher had gone.

  ‘Fucking ghosts everywhere,’ Mack grumbled and disposed of the wedges.

  The Watcher stood in the shadows of an alley near the bar and looked the way Talbot had gone. He walked halfway down the street Bunk had come up and turned into a narrow street that led to where his truck was parked.

  Two hoods accosted him in the street.

  One of them, black and heavily tattooed, teardrops marking half his face; the other with a shaven head and a permanent leer on his lips.

  ‘Now, who do we have here, Kano?’ Teardrop rumbled.

  ‘Looks like fresh pussy. Ya think this nigga is with them other bitches?’

  ‘Nigga, we asking you something,’ Teardrop asked impatiently when the Watcher stood silently, motionlessly.

  ‘You think he deaf?’ Teardrop queried his friend when the silent standoff continued.

  ‘Mebbe he blind too, what with them glasses,’ replied Kano.

  Teardrop chuckled and then laughed loudly, exposing stained teeth and breath that a corpse would have fled from. ‘The bitch have a bitch dog to guide him, then. Can’t see any other bitch here, though.’

  The Watcher looked at them a few more seconds and then started ahead, making his way between the two of them.

  Teardrop dropped a huge hand on the Watcher’s shoulder. ‘Hey, muthafucka, we talking to–’

  The Watcher flowed, a single move that started at his heels, moved up his body, through his shoulder and down his arm to his hand that gripped Teardrop’s hand, removed it effortlessly and clamped it tighter than a vise and twisted Teardrop’s arm, dislocating his shoulder. The Watcher kicked his feet away, and Teardrop fell heavily, his shriek echoing in the neighborhood.

  The Watcher leaned down, hooked his hand through Teardrop’s hipster, and threw him bodily into Kano’s body, whose head was still processing what his eyes had seen. Teardrop’s head smacked deeply in his midriff, and both went down untidily. The Watcher stamped Kano’s right hand, crushing his fingers for good measure.

  He stripped both of them of their weapons – a couple of Czech pistols and a wicked, serrated knife. He removed the magazines from the guns and pocketed them, and broke the knife.

  Assholes could have just walked on, and their day would’ve turned out differently. He looked down at them moaning softly, and then around. The street was quiet and undisturbed. Newburgh had seen and heard far worse than daytime shrieking to be bothered about it.

  He walked on unhurriedly to his truck.

  He had been drifting north to south along the Eastern Seaboard, down the I-95, when the clu
tch on his Dodge pickup reached its end of life. He had then drifted inwards seeking a replacement. He could have had the clutch replaced at any number of garages, but he was picky. He wanted a mechanic who didn’t want to engage him in any conversation… not about football, baseball, politics, nothing. A mechanic who grunted when he took on a job and grunted when he finished. The Watcher didn’t like conversation. He knew such a one in Newburgh and didn’t mind the detour.

  After all, there was no schedule to keep.

  He was off the grid. No phones, no laptops, no email… the nearest thing he had to an electronic device was his electric razor, and that was dead. Nobody could contact him, and nobody knew where he was, which was not very surprising. Only one person on the planet knew who he was, and that person was not expecting any contact from him for a while.

  An hour later he was speeding in his truck towards New York.

  Speeding was a word used loosely since he could see white-haired grannies overtaking him in their Lincolns as he chugged along in the slow lane. A few even gave him the finger and inched faster when his dark glasses swung their way.

  He coaxed as much juice as he could from the Dodge, without it falling apart, and settled back in his seat. Time hadn’t been an issue earlier; it was now.

  He knew who the ghosts were and what damage they could do.

  Chapter 20

  The Watcher hit George Washington Bridge a couple of hours later and headed south on Henry Hudson Parkway, down West Side Highway, and slowed as he reached the outer edges of the Garment District and headed east. He found a crowded parking lot and nosed his truck between an equally decrepit Toyota and a Ford Explorer. Taking his sole possession, a rucksack, he headed to a self-storage on Thirty-Sixth Street. He headed out of the storage an hour later, his rucksack weighed down by his Glock, magazines, other stuff a good ghost carried, and a hunting knife.

  He headed to the nearest pay phone and dialed a number. He knew how the other person would react. Look at the number, frown, think about ignoring it, think again, and turn on the speaker.

  He spoke one sentence, ignored the exclamation of surprise, and listened. Ten minutes later he was heading north. He knew what was happening and what he had to do.

  Broker headed into the city once they crossed George Washington Bridge and drifted into Harlem. ‘You guys wanted to check out the Manhattan Chapter?’

  He headed deeper, past Hamilton Heights, and then headed south on St. Nicholas Avenue and headed east again, the neighborhood sprouting auto repair shops, computer shops, barbers, any number of small businesses. ‘Harlem’s gotten better in the last few years… fewer gangs and safer streets… but still a long way to go.’

  He slowed a little and pointed to a large walled compound on the left, and as he neared it, they could make out the name of a garage fronting a wide entrance. Several cars stood in the forecourt, and they could see a hive of activity in the garage.

  ‘This is where they hang out. Dieter Hamm, a few shooters, the top hoods. This is where they do business.’

  Roger noted the security cameras and tapped Broker, who speeded up slightly. ‘You want one more pass?’

  Roger shook his head. ‘Let’s work out what we’re going to do, and then we can come back tomorrow. I’m sure the moment we make another pass, we’ll get flagged, if they have any decent security shit.’

  ‘They will,’ Broker said grimly. ‘They’re hoods basically, but not stupid hoods. Let’s not reveal ourselves tonight.’

  They reached Broker’s apartment in near silence, and as they were going up the elevator, Chloe broke the silence. ‘The first time we met, you said we’ll just ask them. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll go to that garage and ask this Hamm.’

  Bear bowed extravagantly. ‘Your wish is our command, milady.’

  She snorted. ‘That would be good if it wasn’t a one-off. And you better be packing heat tomorrow. We’re not going to Sunday school.’

  Bwana looked up hopefully. ‘We off-ing Hamm tomorrow?’

  She shook her head. ‘I am surrounded by idiot savages.’

  Broker used the same Rover the next day. ‘If we’re declaring our hand, they might as well know our ride.’

  The car shop was busy when they arrived. Broker parked, the Rover facing its entrance, with a clear lane for exit, and led the way inside. Bwana strayed from the group and paused to watch a couple of mechanics work on a Mustang. Seem to know what they’re doing. This is a very good front for the gang.

  He went into the reception, a large, white-tiled square that had a desk at one end and posters of cars all over the walls. Broker was talking to a short, bald mechanic with greasy fingers; the others were casually spread out.

  ‘Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’

  ‘No one here by that name, man. You got a car to be looked at?’

  ‘No, we’re here to see Hamm. Could you tell him we’re here?’ Broker, patient, coming across as the Wall Street executive.

  The first trace of impatience came into the mechanic’s voice, and his voice roughened. ‘Told ya, no one by that name. And if you don’t have a car to be looked at, you’re wasting our time.’

  ‘Who’s your manager? Let me speak to him?’

  The mechanic opened his mouth and then shut it and looked over Broker’s shoulder. Broker turned to see a tall man in a well-tailored suit glide forward, his tanned skin stretched across his face, his head bristling with a steel gray buzz cut.

  He stopped a few feet in front of Broker and made an eye signal to the mechanic to leave.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Not if you aren’t Dieter Hamm. We’re here to see him.’

  ‘I think Enrique’s told you already that we don’t have anyone by that name here. Now if you don’t have any vehicle to be repaired, I suggest you leave. As you can see, we’re busy, and you’re eating up billable hours.’

  Roger shouldered forward. ‘Let’s drop the shit, shall we? We know this is a front for 5Clubs, and we know Dieter Hamm runs this chapter. We want to see him. Tell him we’re here.’

  Suit looked Roger up and down and then at the others. ‘Gang? 5Clubs? You’ve got your facts wrong. I own this business, and I’ve nothing to do with gangs. Now I suggest you leave, or I’ll call the cops for harassing us.’

  Broker pulled out a business card and handed it to Suit. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow and will expect to see Hamm.’

  Suit took the card carelessly and placed it on the desk without looking at it. ‘You’ll be wasting your time.’

  He stood in the center of the floor watching them leave. Bear lingered and looked him over. ‘You were a Joe?’

  Suit shook his head, his lips moved in a sneer. ‘Marine.’

  Bear nodded and left silently, Suit watching him.

  Suit made his way to an inner office that overlooked the forecourt and parted the window blinds to watch their Rover leave the garage.

  He picked up his phone after activating a scrambler. ‘Some guys came asking for you. Four guys and a woman. They didn’t give a reason and didn’t believe that you weren’t here.’

  He listened in silence and then described them.

  ‘Hold on.’ He put the phone down to fetch Broker’s card.

  ‘Business card says Broker and has a number. Nothing else on it.’

  He spelt out the name and a New York number. ‘He said they’d be back tomorrow.’

  He listened some more and grunted and put the phone down.

  Hamm tossed the phone, leaned back in a plush chair covered with lizard skin, and stretched. His body rippled and flowed in the chair, the long snake tattoo on his forearm curling and flexing. 5Clubs had a flat hierarchy with no layers separating the bosses from the hoods. Quinn and a few other managers, in effect the enforcers and shooters, had easy access to him. The gang also had an impressive early warning system. Anything out of the ordinary got reported upwards immediately, however small.

  That the garage was a front for the gang was kno
wn to very few in the business – even the NYPD had no knowledge of this – it troubled him that the façade had been uncovered so quickly by these strangers.

  He picked up another phone, a burner phone that would be crushed at the end of the day, and called a number that was burnt in his memory. That number would change the next day, and he would have to memorize the new one. He was allowed to make only one call a day to the number.

  The phone at the other end got picked up after precisely five rings. Always five rings, no more, no less, at any time.

  The person at the other end didn’t say anything, just filled the line with silence.

  Hamm recited what had occurred in short precise sentences, unemotionally. The listener didn’t say anything for a long minute after he had finished. ‘You trust Quinn?’

  ‘Yes. Served with me. Good guy, not imaginative, but will die for the gang.’

  ‘Call me in two hours.’

  Hamm nodded. ‘Okay.’

  After two hours he got his orders. Meet the strangers and find out what they want. Have them followed. Bugged if possible.

  The next day, the garage was the same scene, except for the presence of several hoods loitering around, alert, trying to fit in and failing.

  Suit approached them as Broker led them inside the office. Suit was in decent shape for his age, but the well-cut jacket couldn’t hide the thickening of the waist.

  Broker greeted Suit before he could open his mouth. ‘Hamm going to see us?’

  Suit gestured to a few chairs and disappeared wordlessly into the snugly fit door he had come from.

  ‘Power games,’ mumbled Broker to Roger, who was closest to him.

  ‘Who’s the fucker? Bear said he was a Marine?’

  Broker nodded. ‘Name’s Quinn. Nothing special in his record. Except for a dishonorable discharge. A temper that gets worse when drunk, and he gets drunk often.’