The Warrior (Warriors Series Book 1)

by Ty Patterson

  The black man who was holding her stumbles to his feet and flees, and she sees that her rescuer makes no attempt to stop him. In fact, he takes a step back and lets the remaining two black men get up and stumble away too.

  He asks them, ‘I can catch them. Do you want to call the cops?’

  ‘We were just strolling; these guys were hiding in this alley and sprang on us. They took our money, our cards and were looking to take my jewelry when you came in.’ Fear and adrenaline push the words out from her.

  By now the alley has come alive; several doors have opened, the residents emerging from their cocoons. One of them has called the cops, and they can hear the sirens in the distance. The residents surround the couple, and a bubble of excited chatter envelops them. The woman looks up after a few moments to point out Zeb to the residents and thank him, but he’s gone. She goes to the mouth of the alley and looks around the street, but all she can see is shadows and deep darkness.

  The cops do a perfunctory round of questioning, but in the absence of the attackers and the rescuer, there isn’t much more they can do.

  Silence descends as the residents disappear into their homes and the cops take the couple away. Zeb emerges from a recessed doorway down East 36th and walks away into the dark. Broker calls it his Batman syndrome, with a difference: Batman hunted trouble. Trouble hunts Zeb.

  Chapter 10

  Zeb has nearly forgotten that he has agreed to join Connor’s party to attend Hardinger’s fundraiser. Rory’s excited message on his phone reminds him. He checks out of his hotel, finds another one equally anonymous in the square of blocks, checks in, and then proceeds to Cassandra’s apartment.

  Zeb has had to rent a tux for the occasion. At Connor’s place, he finds everyone gathered awaiting him, except for Cassandra. She has gone ahead with the Director. She has let Bear and Chloe go, since the Director has her own security detail around her.

  Anne lets out a whistle when she sees Zeb. ‘My, my, Major. Don’t you clean up nice!’

  Rory giggles.

  ‘Enough of that, children,’ Connor says as he pushes them toward the door.

  They take two cabs, with Zeb sharing with Anne and her boyfriend to the $1000-a-plate charity fundraiser in downtown Manhattan.

  Security is tight and professional, as it has to be with several celebrities and national politicians present. Zeb separates from his main group and hugs a wall, observing the events and the people.

  Hardinger is easy to spot since he’s hosting the event and is never far from center stage. Tall, handsome, tanned, white teeth smiling and a full head of hair: he has all the physical attributes of a successful politician. Zeb has gone through his backstory and knows that he was a marine once and has seen combat.

  Hardinger has security posted discreetly around the hall. He’s probably hired special event security for the evening. Some of the security detail carry the veteran look, but none of them are from the dossier Broker gave him.

  He scans the guests, doesn’t recognize most of them, which doesn’t surprise him. He has only a casual interest in politics and the Hollywood scene.

  He sees Cassandra and the Director seated together; she seems to feel his look, turns around, spots him, and sends a brief smile his way. She gestures that she wants to talk to him afterward. Connor, Lauren, Anne, and her boyfriend are seated together. They’ve left Rory with a babysitter.

  Hardinger is a consummate host, engaging with the audience easily, using a brand of self-deprecating humor to pepper the evening’s festivities.

  Connor signals for him to join them at the dinner table once the serious business is done. ‘How are you finding it, Major?’

  ‘It’s my first event of this kind, so I have no benchmark.’

  ‘Zeb never has any benchmark in any case. He doesn’t compare. He treats everything as a solitary incident,’ interjects a voice behind them.

  Broker.

  Zeb makes the introductions and asks him, ‘I thought Internet forums were your hangout?’

  ‘And I thought the martial arts schools were yours.’

  ‘So how do the two of you know each other?’ asks Anne.

  ‘We bumped into each other in Somalia. I was an intelligence analyst, and Zeb, well, Zeb was just drifting,’ replies Broker with a broad smile.

  ‘I have to say I find this event very polished and sophisticated. But then I would expect nothing less given Hardinger’s standing. It’s easy to see how he has become one of the foremost politicians in the country,’ Connor says, bringing the topic back to the evening.

  ‘You seem to admire him, bro…better be careful. You might end up dropping your story on his company.’ Anne laughs.

  ‘No fear of that. I admire his smoothness, but the story is still alive and heating up. I have some interesting emails from him to his staff in Africa about working conditions and acquiring new mines. Nothing that implicates him directly yet, but one could read a lot between the lines if one chose to do so. The emails are now with my legal department to determine if we can go with the story. But I’m also hoping to get further info from my sources, so fingers crossed.’

  ‘Talking about me?’ a rich baritone booms behind them, and Hardinger appears, clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

  ‘How are you, Connor? Having a good time? Who are your friends?’ he asks, flashing a super-white grin at all of them.

  ‘Good show here, Senator. No wonder the party has so much faith in you when it comes to fundraising,’ replies Connor, introducing the rest of his party.

  ‘Major, huh? Landlubber! I guess someone has to do that job. I mean, carrying our bags while we did the fighting.’ The Senator smiles at Zeb to take the sting out of his words.

  Hardinger guides them, without appearing to do so, to the gallery at the far end. One end of the gallery has photographs of the Senator with the President, the Speaker of the House, various international leaders, news clippings…the tough life of a politician. At the opposite end are photographs of him during his marine days and his medals.

  Anne murmurs, ‘Nice touch. One end he’s doing good for the country; the other end he’s fighting for it.’

  Zeb has to agree. Hardinger with his sniper rifle, posing in various countries of the world, is made for marine recruitment posters.

  ‘So, Connor, how did your Africa trip go?’ asks the Senator.

  ‘It was good, got good background for the series I’m working on.’

  ‘The exposé of the mining industry there? Their working practices and their use of labor?’

  ‘You know very well what I’m working on. Doesn’t Alchemy have some mines in the Congo?’

  ‘Yes, and if you’re implying that Alchemy is perpetrating any wrongdoing, I’ll tell you now that I have no idea what their practices are. I’m no longer running it, but I ran a clean ship when I was there.’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  The Senator stands in front of his marine sniper photographs. ‘You know, Connor, one of the reasons I loved being a sniper was that collateral damage is minimal. But there is always collateral damage in any profession, and a responsible person should take steps to minimize it.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Major?’ he adds, turning to Zeb.

  ‘I was just the bag handler back in the day, Senator. What do I know of these big terms?’ Zeb replies. He’s eyeing the Purple Heart, the Silver Star, and various sniper-award citations on display.

  ‘You any good with a long gun, Major?’ asks Hardinger.

  ‘Yup, at using them as a crutch.’

  Hardinger gives a short bark of laughter. ‘I sense hidden depths in you, Major. I can easily find your service record if I want to.’

  ‘If you find anything of interest, let me know. Maybe we can swap secrets.’

  Hardinger smiles. ‘Have a good time, folks. I have to get back to urging people to open their wallets.’ He walks away.

  Connor watches him. ‘I would love to bring him down.’

  ‘What if you are
n’t able to dig up any dirt on Hardinger? Will you can the story?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Nope. The story goes ahead whatever happens. After all, it is about the mining practices of Western-owned mines.’

  ‘That’s good,’ says Lauren with relief. ‘I thought you were losing your objectivity on this story.’

  ‘Won’t happen. I’m after my Pulitzer.’ He chuckles. ‘Come on. Let’s see what’s in store for the rest of the evening.’

  He shepherds all of them back to their seats. Anne glances back and sees Broker lost in thought in front of the Senator’s medals.

  * * *

  It was hot in Mogadishu, almost ninety degrees, the dry weather sucking all moisture from the body. Broker was attached to a Rangers patrol and had been in the city for a few months. They were there to capture General Aidid, who was becoming a major nuisance to peace and the UN-recognized government of Somalia. This was a war sanctioned by the UN, but had been severely hampered by the poor quality of intelligence generated by the US forces.

  Broker had been deployed to the Rangers unit to change that. He had been there a couple of months, and they had already lost a couple of Rangers to Somalian snipers.

  That day they were driving in an armored Jeep along the dusty lanes of Mogadishu. Broker had been the last to board the Jeep and was seated closest to the rear, five others in front of him. He had been ribbed a lot for that, the usual ribbing that intel guys got from field soldiers.

  They rocketed down a dusty road, buildings alongside them. Broker had noticed a green and white hotel, a two-story basic building that they were just passing. The far end of the hotel opened into a crossroad. There weren’t any pedestrians in the heat. The burnt-out shell of a car in front of the hotel was the sole occupant.

  In Mogadishu, dusty, slumbering streets were the battlefields.

  A Somali attired in plain clothes, his face covered by a red towel, stepped from behind the car wreck, holding an RPG launcher in his hand. Broker gaped in disbelief. One second the street was empty, peaceful, the next second there’s this Somali standing there with dust motes swirling around him and death in his hands.

  The Jeep braked suddenly, the Ranger Sergeant shouting, ‘Cover. Cover. Rocket.’

  Broker scrambled off the back, stumbling, recovering himself, and ran toward the wall of the hotel, a recessed doorway, whatever cover he could find, even as he heard the distinctive thump of the launcher. A moment later the Jeep lifted off and was flung against the hotel walls. A blast of heat hit him, followed by the Jeep pinning him, its sidewall and roof lying across his waist and legs.

  Broker blacked out for a minute, and when he came to, he saw that the Ranger driver of the Jeep had taken the blast full-on, his remains lying on the road. As soon as launcher guy had fired, he was joined by several Somalis who had laid down more fire on the Americans behind the burning Jeep.

  His eyesight blurred and hazy with sweat, Broker scrambled for his rifle, which was lying a few feet away, but his body wouldn’t move an inch. He didn’t know how badly he was crushed; his body was pumping adrenaline in massive doses, keeping the pain at bay.

  He turned his head slowly toward the Rangers and saw three of them still alive, the Sergeant barking furiously in his radio and the two others returning fire. All of them damaged but alive. Farther away lay the body of the fourth Ranger, who wouldn’t be returning fire, or anything else, anymore.

  Broker stretched for his rifle, his fingers scraping in the dirt, blood roaring in his ears. Dimly he heard the Sergeant screaming, ‘Cover. Cover,’ and turned to see launcher guy raising the barrel of the launcher toward them as the other Somalis raised a heavy cover fire.

  Launcher guy’s head disappeared in a pink mist. Broker thought one of the Rangers got him, and then he heard another flat crack, and another Somali head disappeared. Broker turned his head, thinking the cavalry had arrived, but couldn’t see anyone. The dusty street was empty save for heat waves.

  Evenly spaced shots, no hurry, a professional, thought Broker dimly, as the flat cracks continued and the Somalis fell. The shooting stopped as the last Somali dropped. Silence filled the street, nothing moved, and then a tall silhouette emerged through the dust waves and stood over Broker.

  Silently, he bent down and pushed at the carcass of the Jeep. The remaining Rangers rushed to help him, and they freed Broker.

  ‘Thanks, dude. We’d be at the Pearly Gates by now if you hadn’t showed up.’ The Sergeant looked at the stranger. ‘Which unit are you with?’

  The stranger kept silent and walked away, his sniper rifle an extension of him.

  Zeb.

  Broker had gone back to the site later when he had recovered – he would have the slightest limp for the rest of his life – and retraced their movements and Zeb’s. Zeb had been walking on the roof of a building when he heard the ambush. Broker could see his footsteps paced evenly on the dust film covering the roof, and then the footsteps lengthened as Zeb began to run. He saw where Zeb had kneeled on the roof and taken his first shot, the one that took out launcher guy. Broker estimated the distance to be close to 1000 yards. Under pressure, kneeling, 1000 yards and the first shot had scored. Broker knew only a handful of men in the world who could make that shot. Broker remembered that each of the subsequent shots had been unhurried, Zeb taking his time despite the obvious pressure on him.

  * * *

  A tap on his shoulder rouses Broker from his reverie.

  ‘You were far away. Joining us?’ Anne asks.

  Broker makes his way to their group, but Zeb is missing. He’s hugging the wall again and scanning the room ceaselessly. The event holds no interest for him.

  Broker joins him after a while. ‘Recognize any of them?’

  Zeb shakes his head.

  ‘Me neither,’ replies Broker, ‘but then I wasn’t really expecting any of them to be here. Holt might be a twisted son of a bitch, but he’s not a stupid twisted son of a bitch, and that’s assuming there is a link between Holt and Hardinger.’

  ‘He sent a message for you.’ Broker grins when he feels Zeb still like a cat. ‘Remember that washed-up veteran you spoke to?’

  ‘Kelly.’

  ‘Yup, Kelly. I think you asked him to spread the word that you’re hunting Holt?’

  Zeb nods.

  ‘Well, he got passed a message from his network.’ Broker pauses for effect and then gives up, seeing that Zeb can outwait the Sphinx.

  ‘He told Kelly that you can forget about hunting him. He’s coming after you.’

  He waits for a reaction. Gets none.

  ‘Well, isn’t that what you wanted? Exactly that reaction?’

  ‘Yes, but until he shows up, this is meaningless. In fact, I’m surprised he even bothered to send this message. How do you know it’s from him?’

  Broker turns serious. ‘Kelly was told to pass on that the girl with the burning hair who you found alive? He left her dead.’

  Zeb says nothing, shows nothing. Not even Andrews knew about the girl with the burned hair, only someone on the scene would, and also know that Zeb moved her away from the fire. Someone. Holt or his remaining colleagues.

  Broker sees no reaction from Zeb, but from his very stillness he knows there is a blast furnace raging inside him.

  ‘That helps,’ says Zeb finally, ‘but it doesn’t change anything. The plan is still to draw him out to me.’

  ‘I would say you’re niggling away at him seems to be working if he’s resorting to messages like that,’ agrees Broker. ‘Do you want to pass any message back to Holt?’

  ‘Nope.’

  They watch the party in silence, and then Broker nudges Zeb. ‘The Director.’

  Zeb looks across and sees her raising an eyebrow at him. He makes his way across.

  ‘You don’t take orders, do you?’

  ‘Ma’am, I am shocked. I have never disobeyed an order in my life,’ he replies, straight-faced.

  ‘Be careful. You’re alone in this. You’re going up agains
t an establishment that I can’t save you from.’

  ‘Not a new situation to me,’ Zeb replies and makes his way back.

  Broker snorts in derision when Zeb updates him. ‘Funny how in the grand scheme of things, what happened in the Congo gets forgotten, or gets buried. Bureaucrats. Used toilet paper rolls have more value.’

  Broker turns serious. ‘You might find it’s not just Holt gunning for you. The establishment’ – he waves a hand around him – ‘might want to bury all loose ends along with the story.’

  Zeb nods once; he’s aware of that. They join Connor once the events have finished and make their way out.

  ‘Major, you’re coming to the Catskills with us next week, aren’t you?’ Anne asks.

  ‘I have a lot on my plate,’ replies Zeb.

  ‘Rory will be so disappointed. He was looking forward to having you there. Can’t you try, Zeb?’ Lauren asks him.

  ‘I’ll give it some thought and let you know in a couple of days.’

  He goes back with Broker, who turns to him while driving, ‘You worried that Holt might attack when you guys are in the mountains?’

  ‘Yes. And also I don’t want Rory to get too close to me. You know very well I’m not cut out for these things. The closer I am to people, the greater the risk I put them in.’

  Silence fills the car.

  ‘A long time ago, I knew someone who used to never turn his back on relationships, whatever the circumstances.’

  More silence.

  As they’re nearing Jackson Heights, Broker asks him, ‘What will you be doing now? Provoking Holt some more?’

  ‘I’m meeting the FBI.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘What? Why?’ Broker exclaims.

  ‘The Director and I spoke at length tonight.’

  ‘I’m confused, man. You were at her table not more than five minutes. I was watching.’

  ‘We spoke outside the hall, when she was coming out of the restroom. But the how and where is irrelevant.’

  ‘Right, so what was she saying about them? And why couldn’t they contact you directly?’

  ‘Mendes wants to talk to the FBI. That’s thrown them in a loop, since they’re already talking to Holt.’