The Warriors Series Boxset I

by Ty Patterson

  Bear looked up from the second-generation 45 Colt single-action revolver in the cabinet in front of him. ‘Broker, surely we aren’t taking on 5Clubs with these?’

  ‘Those aren’t for sale,’ came a voice from a door at the far end of the room. Bunk Talbot – as tall as Broker, slim, wiry, with close-cropped brown hair, dressed in a brown T-shirt tucked into a pair of faded jeans – strode into the room and bumped fists with all of them and then hugged Broker.

  He grinned at Broker. ‘Been a long time, bro. Good to see you’re still kicking.’ He cast an appraising eye on the rest of them and turned back to Broker.

  ‘These them? The black ops legends?’ The black ops world was a rarefied world, and there were rumors about ghosts – Clare’s team – who trod where other special ops agencies feared to go.

  Bwana lifted his hands heavenward. ‘Hallelujah. Fame! Can the riches be far behind?’ He turned to Roger. ‘We need a money manager. And an agent.’

  Roger studiously turned his back on him as Broker chuckled. ‘Dunno about famous, Bunk, but crazy as loons for sure.’ He introduced all of them to Bunk and then handed over the shopping list Roger had written.

  Bunk studied the list and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Starting a war, Broker? Aren’t there enough already?’

  ‘Insurance, my friend, just insurance.’ Broker’s baritone rumbled through the glass.

  ‘What’s the story with these?’ Chloe asked Talbot, indicating the vintage and antique weapons.

  ‘I’ve always been interested in old weapons and had started collecting stuff from when I was in the Seals, from all over the world. The collection just built up, and then when I got into selling arms, it became a very neat cover for my business. I sell vintage weapons also – though these are my private collection – and that’s a perfect reason for all kinds of folks to meet me.’

  He laughed sardonically. ‘Hell, even the Latin Kings buy vintage weapons from me. They see those as instruments for investment. Of course that’s not the only arms they buy from me.’

  He waved the list and disappeared back into the depths he had come from. He returned an hour later wheeling two large duffel bags, placed them in the center of the room, went to the entrance and shut it, and then opened the bags.

  Roger and Bwana crouched over the bags and pulled the weapons out and started ticking them off the list. They had ordered several M41As carbines, MP5A3 submachine guns, Glock 19s, Beretta M9s and the ammunition to go along with them… these now lay silently gleaming, filling the room with the smell of new weapons and gun oil.

  Bwana dived into one of the bags and whistled softly as he lifted his favorite weapon, the Barrett M107A1 .50 caliber sniper rifle. ‘Saved my ass many a time,’ he murmured and sighted the Leupold Mark 4 scopes. Roger laid out stun grenades, body armor, combat knives, medical kits, and encrypted wireless comms equipment along with the base receivers.

  ‘Used by the Secret Service,’ commented Talbot as he watched the two work swiftly and surely. Bear and Chloe joined the two crouching and began putting the equipment back into the bags.

  Talbot looked at them for a few more moments and then nodded at Broker. ‘Privileged.’

  Broker nodded back. He knew what Talbot meant. His guys were not just another elite force. They commanded the respect of even battle-hardened Special Forces operatives.

  ‘What do you know of 5Clubs?’ he asked Talbot as the others zipped the bags up and stood up.

  ‘Nasty, ruthless, professional, and my biggest customers,’ came the prompt reply.

  ‘Are they active here? In Newburgh?’

  ‘Nah. This town is for lesser gangs. 5Clubs runs New York City, large parts of New Jersey, and I heard they were looking to control the Mexican border.’

  Something in Broker’s posture made him narrow his eyes. He remembered fragments of conversation between some of the 5Clubs gangbangers, and the tumblers in his mind clicked. He looked at Broker with a question in his eyes and got a smile in return.

  ‘You aim to wipe them out?’

  ‘Nope. We want a piece of information from them. A name.’ Broker grinned. ‘All this is in case they refuse to play ball.’

  ‘Do they know you guys yet? Have you commenced the game?’

  Broker grinned wider. ‘They don’t know of us as this black ops team or such shit, but these guys have upset them a bit.’ He nodded in Roger and Bwana’s direction. ‘You caught the news about girls, women, rescued in Arizona?’

  Talbot looked in their direction in silence and then snapped his fingers. ‘Fucking hell. You wiped out how many? Six? Seven?’

  ‘Eight,’ Chloe replied when Roger and Bwana remained silent.

  Talbot shook his head in reluctant admiration and then sobered swiftly. ‘This name you want – it’s that important?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Then get some more guys. I know enough operatives, good guys, who’d love to join you. The five of you ain’t nowhere near enough for a gang of that size and that kind.’

  ‘Nah, we’ll manage.’

  Talbot fell silent, opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again. Then he blurted, ‘Broker, I hope that’s not ego speaking. This is not a run-of-the-mill gang of nasties. These guys are as professional as they come, with combat experience. Five of you against three hundred? Not enough.’

  Chloe wiped her hands on a piece of linen she had in her rear pocket. ‘We’ve enough ego to know our strength, but you’re looking at this problem the same way everyone else will, and hopefully even the gang.’

  She leaned against the long running counter. ‘We’re going to engage in guerrilla warfare, and our size is our strength. Secondly, just because they’ve seen action doesn’t mean jack. They have been out of combat for a long while, and you should know what the lack of training does to an elite soldier’s skills. Why, Bunk, you’ve seen combat. Do you think your skills today are still as good as they were back then? We train with the Seals, Delta, the Marines, Rangers, the Special Ops guys, all manners of black ops folks, and the Mossad’s baddest guys when we’re in between assignments. We know exactly how good we are and how bad they are.’

  She didn’t wait for him to reply. ‘You said they’re professionals. If they’re as professional as everyone makes them out to be, they’ll come to the table. And talk. Once they’ve worked out their cost-benefit-risk-loss analysis.’

  Talbot looked at her in the growing silence, and a small smile tugged his lips. ‘Why aren’t you running a fancy corporation instead of whiling away with these bums?’

  She chuckled. ‘I run these bums – more interesting.’

  Broker protested. ‘Hey, I thought I was boss-man!’

  She winked at Talbot. ‘See what I mean? Such delusional people need someone like me.’

  ‘Damned right,’ Bear muttered and lifted his hands in apology when Broker mock-glared at him. Broker turned back to Talbot.

  ‘You could do us a favor. Spread the word that we’re after their hides.’

  ‘Hooah. I know how you guys play that game now,’ replied Talbot.

  Roger and Bwana shouldered the large gun bags with effortless ease and headed to the door. Bwana looked at Chloe as he was passing her. ‘I get to do the heavy lifting like always?’

  ‘You’re the only one we can rely on, Bwana,’ Chloe replied sweetly.

  Bwana straightened, squared his shoulders, puffed his chest out, and marched out, their laughter following him.

  They walked back to Broker’s Range Rover, the hoods in the street bunched together loosely, following them with their hard stares and contemptuous looks. Bwana looked back at the hoods through the window. ‘Their mammas taught them one thing at least.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Bear asked, puzzled.

  ‘Discretion is the better part of valor.’

  Chapter 19

  Bunk stood in the door, watching them drive away, and then looked at the hoods watching the disappearing Rover. I think I’ll lose some of my clientele. H
e grinned and, remembering Broker’s request, went back inside the store, turned off the lights, turned on the alarm, and made his way to his favorite watering hole.

  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 clutch 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.