The Reluctant Warrior (Warriors Series Book 2)

by Ty Patterson

  Getting the Russians to play a hand turned out to be easier than they thought.

  Oborski met Broker and Bear in a car wash that wasn’t washing cars. It was thick with hard-eyed men with bulges under their shirts and jackets, who stared long at the two of them before a person called out from the office, allowing the two to progress.

  Oborski was holding court in the shabby office, the gang boss relaxing in it as if it was the Great Kremlin Palace in Moscow, the Oriental girl incongruous in the surroundings, serving them tea. If you are surrounded by ex-Spetsnaz hard men, you can treat any place as a palace, Bear thought.

  Oborski regarded them coolly over his cup, smiling sardonically. ‘You want us to do your dirty work, da?’

  ‘Just helping you get an edge, my boy,’ Broker replied in his plumiest accent. He, too, could posture.

  ‘Maybe we don’t need your help, tovarich,’ the Russian replied. They had been planning an attack on 5Clubs once Cruz had been eliminated, and Broker’s idea neatly fit in their plans, but he had to play hard to get. A gang boss wasn’t a yes-man.

  They danced around for another hour before agreeing on a plan, Oborski shrugging when Broker warned him about innocents and collateral damage.

  Oborski had wanted to mount an attack on the residence when Broker had shared the surveillance video with him, but Broker had dissuaded him from that. The girlfriend and house staff had no role to play and didn’t need to be endangered. Similarly the strip joint and the warehouse had been ruled out, at which Oborski had flung his hands up theatrically. ‘You want us to lift him in the air?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Broker nearly missed Kelleher’s departure from his residence the day of the takedown, his attention momentarily distracted by a young shapely woman – That must be New York’s Finest Bottom, he thought – walking past his window, and it was the growling of the engines on his laptop that brought his attention back.

  Kelleher boarded the first Porsche and the other two swung behind him, scattering leaves and birds as they roared down the driveway, down the street, to the warehouse.

  Behind them a tan Camry and a black Ford slipped in their wake and maintained a steady unobtrusive distance. A couple of lights later, four identical pickup trucks barreled past them, one split and cut in ahead of the lead Porsche, one slipped to their left, another to their right, in the neighboring lanes, and the last one slipped behind them.

  Two other trucks slipped behind the ones on the left and the right, completing the box.

  The trucks kept pace with the gang’s vehicles, refusing to give way despite their repeated honking, staying in their lane, making other traffic bend around the mobile trap.

  Lights came and went, and at one of them, a hood jumped out from the second Porsche, ran to the pickup nearest to him, slammed his hand against the raised window, and ran back when the lights changed. The pickup’s dark window hadn’t lowered.

  At the next signal, a couple of hoods ran out and banged on the windows of the trucks in vain. The drivers of the trucks wore shades, scarves masking their lower faces, and stared straight ahead, ignoring the rage and fear beside them.

  Two miles down, a Ford Mustang came roaring up, bristling with hoods, and fell behind the last pickup, and just as a head nosed out a window, three other trucks boxed it in from the side and behind.

  By now traffic was giving them a wide berth, the Camry and Ford the only vehicles sticking to their tail, the only direction for the box to move, straight ahead.

  Bwana smiled, a feral baring of teeth. ‘Spetsnaz, huh? No wonder. How do you think this will end?’

  Roger yawned mightily as he steadied the wheel. Action that didn’t involve them bored him. ‘Dark street or empty street, gun battle, the Porsches turned to broken glass.’

  They followed a few more miles, saw that the box held despite various attempts to break it by the hitters, and when they reached the outskirts of an industrial area, they peeled off.

  ‘Never to see them again,’ came Chloe’s voice over their satellite phones.

  ‘Gang warfare,’ screamed various headlines the next day as Broker consumed the daily papers with great relish. Bwana looked at him and the silent TV running in the background. ‘You ever thought of negotiating a deal with these vultures? We’re helping them sell. Feels like we oughta take a percentage of that.’

  Broker hushed him up and read aloud, ‘Anonymous sources say 5Clubs are holding something of value, which has caused the recent attacks on them.’

  ‘Job done.’ He smiled.

  Exactly a week later, the message was acknowledged.

  The next day, they were in Southport, Chloe guiding them to the site of her rescue past the abandoned buildings that even time had neglected. She pointed out where they’d been held captive, the locations of the hoods, and described the shoot-out and rescue.

  They walked to the side of the building. Bwana ran his eyes down its length and up its height, saw the barrel still on its side, lifted it easily and set it upright, away from the force of the wind. Roger and he walked to the back of the building and surveyed it.

  ‘Time me,’ Bwana said and ran down the back of the site, around its far end, and then down the front to the main entrance, joining them from the other side.

  They looked at the stopwatch in Roger’s hand, and Chloe nodded. ‘Feels right, but he didn’t come round this end. He fired from the rear, then from the entrance, and then just vanished.’

  She led them to brown stains inside the building. ‘I noticed these when they brought us in, didn’t pay much attention to it. Other matters were uppermost in my mind,’ she said drily.

  ‘Could be Shattner’s,’ Roger said. ‘No way to tell, not without a forensic test. Diego told us this was their trading hub and also killing ground, so wouldn’t be surprised if there were many such stains on the site.’

  They walked to the waterfront and looked over the vast expanse of the Delaware River, hues of blue and green in the water, the entire area deserted but for them.

  ‘Ideal spot for crime. Nothing happens here, no one comes here, except for joggers and the odd dog walker,’ Broker commented as they looked around. He sighed. ‘The bastards said they had weighed down his body and dumped it in the middle of the river, by boat. The river is about thirty feet deep, and nothing much would be left by now.’

  Broker had asked the Commissioner to recover the body so that Shattner could be buried properly and more importantly with honor. Forzini had said he would burn the lines to his counterparts in New Jersey and get it done, but burning wires still took time, and bureaucratic red tape burnt slower.

  It was dark when Bwana slipped out of their house, walked a couple of blocks, and as he was flagging a cab, he felt another presence by his shoulder. Roger.

  ‘You didn’t think I would let you have all the fun alone, did you?’ The Texan’s smile lit the night as he caught Bwana’s answering grin.

  Snarky had passed one last message to Broker before he had left the city to inflict his singing on another unaware town. Brownsville Autos was back in gang business, on a smaller scale, and the hood that had taken Cruz’s place was a dirty piece of shit – Snarky’s words – called Rajek.

  Bwana and Roger had no specific plan in mind other than checking out the garage, but if they met any gangbangers, they would be welcomed with relish. A cab and a subway ride brought them three blocks away from the garage, and by the time they reached it, it was past bedtime for most residents of the city.

  Gangbangers weren’t like most ordinary residents, and the garage had lights burning, and they could see shadows crossing the lighted windows.

  Bwana positioned himself beneath a streetlight outside the exit of the garage, leaned against an abandoned car, and waited. The wait went to midnight – for some reason gangbangers preferred the dark hours – when the garage turned dark, engines fired, and the first of three vehicles nosed out of the exit.

  The first vehicle’s beams illuminated
Bwana for a few seconds as it roared away; then the second one bathed him in its lights and drew away. The third one slowed and stopped, leaving its lights on Bwana. A head cranked out of the passenger window, beetled brows furrowed in disbelief as the man took in the sight of Bwana standing nonchalantly in the light. The head disappeared. Bwana couldn’t see against the light but could imagine excited chatter, heated swearing, and heads popped out again, doors opened, and four men spilled out wielding M4s.

  Bwana raised his arms, prompting yells, the barrels turning toward him, and then the first crack sounded, and the gangbanger with the leveled rifle fell. The second crack took out the one on the passenger side, the cracks rolling and blending into one another, and from behind the vehicle, a louder report sounded, the rear window disappearing in spidery pieces, another roar put down the driver, and silence fell. Bwana looked at the fallen coldly, knowing the damage armor-piercing bullets did. Ten seconds too quick, should’ve burned you bastards with a flame thrower first, he thought.

  He drifted back in the shadow, joined Roger on the other side of the street, and they walked away without a second glance. They heard the approaching sound of rapid footsteps behind them, and they still didn’t turn. From the tread and timing, they knew who it was.

  Bear came abreast of them. ‘You bastards. You could’ve told me what you’d planned before slipping away.’ He grinned and took out his gun. ‘First time I’ve fired this, though I had heard about it. Nice weapon.’ He handed the Grach back to Bwana and noticed the one in Roger’s hand. ‘You no longer a Kimber man now?’

  Roger snorted. ‘These pieces of shit are good for about a hundred rounds or so before they become useless pieces of steel. Russian-made stuff, what can you expect?’

  A week after the Russians’ box, they saw Broker approaching them as they were cleaning their weapons. Broker was wearing a beatific expression, almost floating in the air.

  ‘St. Peters called you and confirmed a seat in heaven for you?’ Bwana asked him sarcastically.

  ‘Better,’ Broker replied, the barb not even registering.

  ‘They got Floyd Wheat.

  ‘Dead,’ he added.

  Chapter 43

  ‘Dead?’ Bear asked stupidly.

  ‘Yeah, you heard me right the first time. Cops found his body floating in the river, a hole in his head and a large part of his face missing, but enough to make him by his dentures and prints. Forzini told me they’d been keeping an eye on him, but he gave them the slip a couple of days back. Looks like he was summoned?’

  ‘You think…?’

  ‘Damn right I do, and thank God for that. One of us should, don’t ya think?’

  Chloe rolled her eyes and took up the cudgel. ‘The gang did it? That would be confirming that he was their mole, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That was sorta the point.’ Broker leant back expansively, crossed his hands over his middle, and closed his eyes, a contented man.

  Bwana and Roger looked at each other, thinking of their next camping trip. Bear caught their glance and laughed. ‘Not so fast, guys. We still have unfinished business here. The family needs to be resettled, and then you guys can head for the hills. Broker, how’re Rolando and Isakson doing? Plumb forgot about them.’

  ‘Isakson’s discharged and is up and about. I need to see him and wrap this up. Rolando is making a good recovery, still in the hospital, though. He’ll be disappointed that this was over before he got back to the job.’

  ‘We never figured out why Wheat turned traitor, did we?’ Chloe mused.

  Bear patted her arm. ‘Let Isakson do some of the heavy lifting. They asked us to find their mole; we did that–’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that for some time,’ Broker cut in. ‘Traitors do their dirty work because of ideology, money, or because of coercion. I think we can rule out ideology in Wheat’s case. Going by all the records Isakson has, the psych evaluations, he was a believer in law, hated gangs. Coercion – he didn’t have anyone close to him to be coerced. Divorced, no kids, a mother, but he wasn’t close to her, no other siblings. I guess money was involved, but we haven’t been able to find any traces of money in his account. Of course, he could’ve been stacking wads of it in some hidey hole, in which case we’ll never know. Cash is a bitch to track.’

  ‘Or maybe he did it because he could. Got a kick out of it,’ Bwana said.

  Broker shrugged. ‘That’s the most difficult spy to unearth. The one who spies just because it gives him a trip. In any case, this is Isakson’s shit to clean now.’

  He rose and grumped at them, ‘While you all enjoy the sun, I’ve got to bed things down with Pieter and Derek. We’ll take over the family now and move back to my apartment.’

  ‘What if Wheat wasn’t acting alone?’ Chloe called out.

  ‘Isakson’s problem. We were tasked with finding one mole; we gave them the bastard. If the whole danged FBI is infested, we can’t do much,’ Broker said over his shoulder.

  Dupont Circle was throbbing with traffic and tourists, bright sun bathing the wide, clean streets. Broker grimaced. They must have cleaned up just because I was coming. It was hard, very hard to accept, but grudgingly he had to admit the city was cleaner than NYC. ‘Of course, it’s the capital; it would have to be clean,’ he muttered to himself, drawing a curious look from a passerby. In New York, he would’ve shown the finger; over here, he smiled forcedly.

  General Klouse was waiting for him, lounging outside the café, his security detail hanging around nervously, not comfortable with the National Security Advisor’s presence in an open location. Broker grinned at their discomfort, recognizing a fellow maverick in the General.

  He’d been to meet Director Murphy, who’d been relieved that their problem had been resolved, but also grimly determined to ensure his agency remained clean. He’d offered Broker a very senior position in the agency, to work with his intelligence people, an offer Broker had politely declined. He’d said he was too much of a nonconformist to fit into a rigid structure, smiling to take the sting out of his words. The Director had nodded in acceptance, expecting just such a response.

  ‘No luck with the drones, sir,’ Broker told him once he’d updated the General. The General would’ve been briefed by Director Murphy, but Broker felt obligated to bring him up to speed, since it was the National Security Advisor that had started the ball rolling.

  ‘Chatter has gone silent for some time, in any case.’ The NSA gave him his thousand-yard stare and smiled grimly at his companion. ‘This isn’t a business where we can relax, is it?’

  Broker kept quiet, knowing no answer was required.

  ‘I have told Clare we might need your help from time to time. Will that be a problem?’

  ‘No, sir. If Clare is good, we’re good too.’ He paused. ‘I don’t work alone. I’ve a team.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard about them. They the ones who tore up New York, right?’ The General laughed for the first time. ‘Commissioner Murphy was impressed… other than a few damaged vehicles and some angry media, you guys succeeded in cutting a gang in half.’

  ‘Our advantage is we work in the shadows; we have fewer constraints,’ Broker said modestly.

  ‘You’ve made up with Isakson? He’s an upcoming star, and a lot of eyes are on him.’

  Broker didn’t hide his distaste. ‘I’m seeing him later today; he’s in town. I’m sure he’s a good agent, sir, but it’s unlikely we’ll be on each other’s Christmas card lists. We’re too different. Director Murphy now… he’s as good as family.’

  Broker made his way back to the J. Edgar Hoover Building and held himself back from jaywalking, reminding himself that this was a different town. They did things differently here. The ugly structure gladdened him; they didn’t have such monstrosities in his city.

  Isakson’s warm smile belied his hollow and gaunt appearance, the shape of the dressings beneath his crisp white shirt visible.

  ‘How does it feel coming back from the dead, Deputy Director?’ Broker
greeted him.

  Isakson smiled wryly. ‘I was in no danger of dying… Deputy Commissioner Rolando – now he’s a fighter. I hear he’s doing well. Been to see him?’

  Rolando had been Broker’s first stop once Wheat’s body had been found. The cop had gripped his hand firmly and whispered, ‘Looks like it was all worth it, Joe. The Commissioner was telling me all I had to do was lie here longer and you guys would clean up the city.’

  Broker squeezed his hand, remembering a time in Mogadishu when Rolando and he, both attached to the Rangers, were jammed behind an abandoned car, exchanging fire with insurgents. It was during that tour that Zeb had saved his life. Rolando and Zeb were the only two who knew his real name.

  Broker looked around Isakson’s bare office, similar to the one in New York except for another print of the conquest of Mount Everest, this time Edmund Hillary atop it. ‘You’ve got this at home too? You into climbing?’

  ‘It’s the conquest that interests me. Besides, that date and year have a significance for me.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘Wheat – the Director and Commissioner briefed me about your findings; we’ll now rip his life apart and see what drove him to this. We owe you.’ He gripped Broker’s hand again.

  ‘Mrs. Rocka and the kids?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re back at my apartment. My guys are with them. How’re things progressing with rebuilding their new lives?’

  ‘I’ll meet them and brief them in person on how this works, and then the Marshals will step in and take over,’ he replied. Witness Protection was run by the US Marshals Service, and the FBI had no role to play in building new lives. ‘You’ll let them know I’ll be coming?’