The Warriors Series Boxset I

by Ty Patterson

  ‘You’re sure there’s no tracking device they’ve planted on you?’

  ‘First thing I checked. Came clean. They didn’t have opportunity in any case. They still don’t know where we are.’

  ‘You need to get back to the RV and check it out.’

  ‘Was planning to.’

  ‘Boston is no longer an option for us, is it?’ Beth asked him when Broker had hung up. ‘If they cast the net wider for us, then they’ll find us no matter where we are.’

  He held their gaze, two pairs of green eyes showing fear as well as determination.

  ‘Nothing will happen to you,’ he said simply and meant it; he saw green eyes glow and the sun shine in them for the first time since he’d met them.

  ‘What do we expect to find there, Wise One?’ Beth yelled at him from the rear of the SUV, the spark back in her voice.

  He looked at them in the mirror. Beth was looking back at him while Meghan was playing with her Ray-Ban Aviators; he had handed a pair to each of them.

  They looked like just another pair of expensive shades, but Broker had worked on them and transformed them into a high-tech countersurveillance toy.

  The glasses were coated with a special paint that didn’t reflect light, however direct the glare was. The ear stems had been drilled out and fitted with nano cameras, incredibly small cameras that projected images on the inside of the shades, giving the wearer a clear view of his blind spots. The camera could be turned on or off with a small switch on the hinge.

  He ignored her question and asked one of his own.

  ‘How come neither of you has a boyfriend? I would think women your age would be dating someone, busy on the phone texting them or calling them.’

  ‘Ha! Shows how little you know us, Wise One. How come you don’t have a wife or a girlfriend? Or a guy friend?’ Beth challenged him.

  Zeb didn’t answer, and they didn’t push him when they realized they wouldn’t get a reply. The soft humming of tires filled the silence, broken just once when Meghan pushed the shades over her eyes. ‘If these are the kind of goodies you have, Zeb, I hope we take a long time in finding these guys.’

  An hour later, he turned the SUV in the spot he’d parked previously.

  In the daylight the clearing was just big enough for his SUV, the trees around it several meters high with gnarled branches seeking sky and sunlight. He killed the engine and glanced once at the twins in the mirror. They met his eyes, waiting for his cue.

  They kept quiet when it was needed, and their presence didn’t grate. He felt as comfortable around them as he felt around his team. Something churned deep inside him.

  He crushed that thought, motioned for them to stay in the vehicle, and stepped out.

  He was dressed in dark fatigues, a darker jacket around him, a combination that blended in the play of sunlight and shadows in the clearing. He donned his shades, swept the area, and motioned for the twins to step out.

  They exited the SUV separately from different doors and fell behind him, not close. Good tradecraft. Quick learners. Bud Petersen would’ve been proud.

  He circled the RV and approached it from the rear, ducked under the police tape, and scanned its top.

  He found nothing at the back, sidled to the front, hugging the side of the RV, waited for the women to appear from the opposite end, and when they did, he pointed at the entrance.

  It was tiny, gray, and, at first sight, looked just like another fitting on the RV.

  It was a wireless security camera. The cops had left it in place.

  ‘The Wise One wants to know if you can track down its receiving station,’ Meghan shouted at Broker once she’d read the camera’s details. They were back on the road, heading to Jackson.

  They had turned off the power supply in the RV, detached the camera without showing themselves, and the twins had taken it apart as they were heading back. They had worn thin gloves and had handled the equipment delicately to avoid contaminating any prints on it.

  ‘Who?’ Broker shouted back.

  Their voices were clear – they should be, those are highly classified toys, he snorted to himself – but he was more than happy to match the decibel level. It was a long time since he’d shouted. That was one drawback of being around Zeb. The guy never raised his voice, and therefore those around him followed suit. Broker shook his head mournfully.

  Meghan smirked. ‘Zeb. That’s our name for him. He has that air around him, you know, as if he has all the answers.’

  Broker chortled. ‘I’ve heard him called several things, but not that name. Can’t wait to tell the others.’

  ‘Well, can you?’ she reminded him impatiently.

  ‘If I can’t, no one can,’ Broker replied grandly. ‘But it’s not that simple. It’s best done when the camera is transmitting.’ He cut himself some slack, and when he heard a rude noise from Meghan, he added, ‘I’ll see what can be done and, at the very least try to track where the camera was purchased and who bought it.’

  Kelly greeted them when they arrived at the Jackson P.D. ‘We tracked the RV's camera’s origins. It’s a high-end one bought at a store in Cheyenne, for cash. The store had security cameras, but the guy buying it was wearing a hoodie and had his head bent low.’

  Zeb acknowledged him without replying. Broker should be able to dig deeper and maybe get a handle on who was receiving those images.

  ‘We got two sets of prints on the phone. One of them was Perez’s and the other belongs to a guy from the same gang. There are smudges on the camera, no clear prints – gloves obviously.’

  He clapped a beefy hand on Zeb’s shoulder. Zeb nearly stumbled.

  ‘Go wherever you have to. Don’t worry about the girls. My kids are back; they both work in Salt Lake City and are dying to meet these two hellions.’

  Zeb had called him on the way back and had asked Kelly if the twins could stay with him for a couple of days. Kelly had been delighted.

  ‘You’re sure about this? The twins’ connection to you is so obvious that these guys could just mount an attack on your home.’

  Kelly laughed grimly. ‘I hope they do. Liz, my wife, is an ace shooter. My girls, Doreen and Emily, grew up handling guns. Bud trained all of them in self-defense, attack, defensive lines, all that shit. Peregrine and the Chief of Police will be stepping up the patrol around my home. Those guys won’t know what hit them if they try anything.’

  Zeb looked at Beth and Meghan. ‘You’ll call the rest of the team?’

  Broker’s computers were running searches on Petersen’s old cases and on recent news and incidents in the town to see if anything jumped out with a link to the attack on the women.

  The twins would focus on talking to the remaining members of Petersen’s SWAT team… in all probability that line of pursuit would yield nothing, but they had to try.

  Zeb donned his shades when the women nodded, and stepped out in the sunlight.

  Meghan and Beth watched him glide across the street to his SUV, saw the way passersby looked at him and gave way.

  Meghan shivered in the sunlight and stepped closer to Beth.

  ‘If I was Cargill, I would turn myself in.’

  Chapter 10

  Cheyenne was named after the American Indian tribe by General Grenville M. Dodge in 1867. Dodge was tasked with finding a railroad route over the Laramie Mountains and established the terminal town at Cheyenne.

  The arrival of the railroad brought real estate speculators, gamblers, and tradesmen. The railroad construction project turned into a town in 1867 when Cheyenne was incorporated. Cheyenne was like any other Wild West town then, with violence being a part of everyday life, the saloon and the graveyard were the most frequently attended places in the city.

  The town became calmer when the railroad moved on, and it became wealthy with the rise of ranching and the brief discovery of gold in the Black Hills. At the peak of the Black Hills Gold Fields rush in 1882, Cheyenne was the wealthiest city in the world per capita.

  Z
eb drove into the town, which was still sporting signs of Cheyenne Frontier Days, the largest annual outdoor rodeo and Western celebration in the country.

  It was hot and windy, and Zeb drove with his windows down, in a gray SUV with darkened windows that he’d rented in Jackson using one of his several fake identities. He’d kept his head down when hiring it, just in case the agency had security cameras.

  He detoured to look over the south side of the town, where Cargill had been previously renting. He took his time rolling through a neighborhood that had rutted gravel roads, single-family homes dotting either side. He nudged the gas as he realized an unknown car would attract attention.

  Cargill’s previous abode was unremarkable in any way – it stood apart from the surrounding homes, had a dilapidated fence running around it, and a broken-down car drooped sadly in the drive. It was a house that didn’t offer too many exits and escape routes. Not the best place for a gang boss to hole up in, but I guess this guy isn’t the brightest spark.

  The pile of junk, local newspapers, flyers, and realtors’ brochures piled up at the door told him its story. He drove out of the neighborhood to the central part of the town and passed the apartment block, Cargill’s current lodgings, a couple of times before turning into a drive-in café. He helped himself to his caffeine fix, nosed into a vacant parking slot he found facing the apartment block, moved to the rear, and settled himself for a long vigil.

  The town had a population of about sixty thousand, which meant traffic at that time of the day, the end of the work day, was what those in larger cities like New York would scoff at. He wasn’t worried about Cargill spotting his vehicle.

  It was an apartment block rented by transients, unfamiliar vehicles were the norm. The block didn’t have basement parking; residents had to park in nearby parking lots and approach the entrance on foot. The choice of apartment was the second mistake Cargill made.

  The first one was picking on the women.

  It was late night when he spotted Cargill walking toward the apartment block, a cap pulled low over his head. Cargill walked swiftly, looking neither to the left or the right, pushed into the entrance, and through the glass door. Zeb saw him thumb an elevator and disappear.

  Zeb maintained a vigil throughout the night, but the man didn’t make any other appearance, and it was midday, the following day, when he left the block. Walking.

  Zeb waited for the right opportunity.

  Right opportunity came a couple of hours later.

  A middle-aged woman approached the apartment block, juggling several shopping bags in one hand, holding on to a young girl with her other. She struggled to get the door open and gave a thankful smile to Zeb when he pushed the door open for her.

  He followed her to the elevator, helped her inside, and thumbed four, Cargill’s floor.

  The floor was laid out like a hotel corridor, but with fewer rooms on either side of the corridor than in a hotel. One set of rooms looked over the rear of the block; the other set overlooked the street.

  Cargill’s apartment had a street view.

  Broker had sent the layout of the apartment to Zeb. He had also described the lock on the apartment. Cheyenne was a low-crime city, the purpose of the lock on the apartment was to give assurance to owners and tenants and to provide a minimal level of safety. The apartment’s developer hadn’t splurged on the lock.

  It took Zeb less than a minute to pick the deadbolt.

  He slipped inside the apartment noiselessly.

  And stopped in amazement.

  The apartment was neatly laid out, a penthouse that had good views over the city, but that’s not what had Zeb staring.

  It was immaculate, gleaming, as if it was a show home.

  Not the kind of residence one associated with a gangbanger.

  The entrance led into the living room, but was shielded from direct view by a simple partition.

  The living room was dominated by the glass ceiling-to-floor windows and had a large-screen TV at one end and a comfortable couch that ran the width of the room at the other. There were a couple of chairs placed on either side of the couch.

  In front of the couch was a table that had a couple of books, the kind that owners left around for visitors to browse through. One book was an enormous collection of landscape photography; another was a book of recipes.

  Zeb checked out the rest of the apartment. It was similarly kept. All gleaming wood and light, a faint floral scent hanging in the air.

  He went to the books, leafed through them idly, and beneath the last one he saw a leaflet and then understood.

  It was a serviced apartment, meant for transients, especially transient professionals, like software salesmen, surgeons, company board directors.

  Cargill’s not stupid. He’s deliberately picked an apartment that would not be associated with gangs.

  Cargill came in at ten at night. He fumbled with his key, cursed a couple of times, pushed the door open, and snapped an interior light on with an elbow. He came past the partition, struggling with his jacket, when he sensed the presence and spun around.

  He squinted as he saw the masked shadow on the chair.

  ‘Who the fuck…?’ he shouted as he reached under his jacket.

  Zeb threw the photography book at him.

  The heavy book crashed into his mouth and split his lips, and he staggered back as a stream of blood ran swiftly down his chin.

  He looked uncomprehendingly at the book on the floor.

  Book against gun.

  His face darkened at the incongruity of it. He snarled and bent to retrieve his gun when the recipe book came flying, hitting him heavily on the forehead.

  He lost his footing and fell, swearing unintelligibly as he scrambled for his gun.

  Zeb reached him silently, kicked the gun away, and Cargill attacked him.

  Cargill sprang at his legs. Zeb sidestepped and kneed him in the nose, which burst. The stream of blood became a river.

  Cargill howled and launched his torso at Zeb, followed it with a head butt, which Zeb took on his chest, then wrapped his arms around Zeb tightly, sending both of them crashing backward.

  Zeb twisted around and landed on his left shoulder, hitting Cargill between his shoulders with an elbow. He followed it with hammer fists to the temples and, as Cargill’s grip loosened, grabbed his hair and lifted his head. Zeb slapped him with the full weight of his shoulder behind the blow.

  Zeb rolled to his feet swiftly and watched Cargill groan and struggle to get to his feet.

  He hauled the gangster up by the collar and hurled him across the room at the couch, using the man’s dead weight to build momentum.

  The couch rocked back once before settling heavily. Cargill pushed himself to a sitting position and wiped the blood off his face with the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘I lost my front teeth, you dumb fuck. Who the hell are you?’ he shouted at Zeb.

  Zeb slapped him twice, and the gangster fell back heavily on the couch.

  ‘I’ll ask the questions,’ Zeb told him mildly. ‘You know who I am?’

  ‘Who else could you be? You haven’t killed me yet, so you aren’t from the guys who are killing my gang. They sure as hell don’t want to spend time talking shit. You’re the bodyguard,’ Cargill replied sullenly after a while.

  ‘So you know why I’m here, don’t you?’

  Cargill didn’t answer and glowered at Zeb. Zeb slapped him lightly, a blow that was more humiliating than hurtful. Cargill snarled, started to rise off the couch, and settled back heavily, all his breath whooshing out of him, as Zeb’s fist sank in his midriff.

  ‘We can sit here all night and end up disfiguring you. I might even kill you. I haven’t decided yet. Or you can give me what I want. Like telling me who put you up to grabbing those women? I know it wasn’t your idea. You guys are strictly small time.’ Zeb used the same mild tone he had used earlier.

  Cargill thought about not replying but reconsidered when he felt Zeb’s dark eyes he
avy on him.

  ‘I don’t know who the fuck they were, man. They contacted us through a cutout we have in Chicago. That cutout put good business our way when we had to move some product we had to other states. This guy told us that there was this heavy gang who wanted some girls grabbed quickly.’

  ‘So who are they?’

  ‘How the fuck would I know, man?’ Cargill whined. His bleeding had stopped, leaving the lower half of his face caked in red. ‘I never met them. I just spoke a few times to one of them. The cutout said a guy named John would contact me and give me further instructions. All this happened about five days or a week back. John, you can bet that’s not his real name, contacted me a day later and said he was arranging for a ten-percent payment and photographs of the women and where they were staying in Jackson.’

  Cargill touched his lips and nose gingerly, felt his teeth with his tongue. ‘Prick, you’ve ruined my face.’ He jerked back when Zeb lifted a hand, relaxed when Zeb didn’t follow through.

  ‘I got a package with the cash, with the photographs of those cunts–’ He broke off and shrieked when Zeb applied force on a nerve point on his neck.

  He sobbed in pain and rage when Zeb removed his hand.

  ‘Women,’ Zeb said mildly. ‘Don’t use any other word.’

  He waited for a response and, when none came, stretched his hand.

  ‘Yes. Fucking hell yes, you freak,’ Cargill cried.

  ‘So you got the cash and the photographs,’ Zeb prompted him.

  ‘I got my team together in Jackson – I have a few people there always. They spotted the women, overheard them saying they would be heading to the park, and we decided to lift them there. It would be easier.’ Cargill sobbed through his pain. His breathing was loud and harsh in the silence of the room.

  ‘But that bi–’ He stopped himself in time when he saw Zeb’s eyes. ‘That Petersen girl gave us the slip, killed Bryce, and since then my life has turned to shit.’ Realization dawned in his eyes. ‘It was you who shot Bryce, wasn’t it? You’ve been with the women all along.’