by Ty Patterson
Zeb thought he heard choppers in the distance.
His head was ringing, however. He was breathing loudly, harshly. Sucking as much oxygen as he could.
His animal brain readying his body for one last fight.
They will be near the far wall. Spread out. Namir with the girl, since she is the more valuable hostage. The other killer with Ashland.
He got closer.
Controlled his breathing.
Got his hands as low on the body as possible.
He knew they could hear him approaching.
It couldn’t be helped.
He checked the floor.
No shadows to give away what he was attempting.
Took a quick mental check.
Good to go.
Well, not good, but there was no choice.
He flung the body inside the living area.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Zeb threw himself to the floor and crawled forward swiftly.
A barrage of shots peppering the body.
A snapped look.
Namir in the left corner. Cowering behind Sara.
The other shooter in the right. Half-hiding behind Ashland.
All of them standing.
The terrorists realized their mistake—that they were firing at a dead man.
Whose body was falling.
Too late.
Zeb’s HK was ripping.
Tearing into the wall behind the second terrorist. One slug catching him in the shoulder.
Ashland diving away, sensing that the killer was distracted.
Giving Zeb all the angle he needed.
He emptied the mag into the terrorist.
Who fell.
The firing stopped.
But Namir kept yelling.
Hiding behind the girl.
His eyes flicking between Ashland and Zeb.
‘Don’t move. I will kill her.’
Zeb tossed his HK away.
‘Don’t shoot,’ he told the man in Arabic. ‘I am getting up.’
He put his hands to the floor and heaved himself up.
Groaned loudly.
‘You are the man in the forest,’ Namir snarled.
‘Yes.’ Zeb studied him as he swayed on his feet.
The terrorist was unrecognizable from his pictures.
‘Switzerland?’
‘What? How do you know my language?’
‘You got your face altered. Maybe in Switzerland. Or Brazil.’
‘I got the girl. I will kill her,’ Namir screamed, jamming the barrel of his HK against Sara’s temple.
‘You won’t. Hear that sound? That’s the FBI. You need a hostage. Her. You won’t kill her.’
‘I will kill her. And then kill you.’
‘How will you escape, then?’
‘You Americans,’ Namir jabbed the girl, making her whimper. ‘DON’T MOVE,’ he yelled at Ashland, who was rising.
The grandfather got back to the floor, his face scrunched in fear.
‘Don’t kill her. Please. You can have me,’ he whispered.
‘I will kill you also,’ Namir spat. ‘Did I tell you how I killed your son? In front of his daughter?’ He gouged the barrel in Sara’s side.
‘I was waiting a long time for that. FIVE YEARS.’ He tried to kick Ashland, but couldn’t reach him. ‘I was in prison for that long. Because of your son. It all ends today.
‘It ends now.’
His fingers tightened.
‘I am sorry, ma’am.’ Zeb looked directly into Sara’s eyes.
‘Huh?’ Namir blinked. ‘What are you—’
Thought to action took a fraction of a second.
Zeb’s right hand flashed to his back.
Grabbed the Sig tucked behind.
Brought it around and to the front.
Another fraction of a second.
While Namir was still trying to comprehend.
Zeb shot Sara in the shoulder.
She shrieked. Ashland shouted.
Sara sagged.
Her full body weight catching the terrorist by surprise.
Namir’s upper body was exposed.
He let the girl fall. Turned his weapon around desperately.
Zeb’s first shot punched through his forehead.
His second blew a hole through Namir’s chest.
He felt himself hit somewhere in the chest.
But he kept on triggering. Two more rounds that threw the terrorist back.
And then Zeb was falling.
His Sig dropping to the floor.
He thought he heard something crash.
It didn’t matter anymore.
He slipped into darkness.
Epilogue
Zeb was still in Erilyn a week later.
In Pete Ashland’s house.
The two rounds in his chest had come close to killing him.
One had missed his lung by a hair’s breadth.
The other bullet was lodged deep.
He required eight hours of surgery, performed by a team of doctors Clare had arranged.
Sara’s shoulder healed faster. Zeb’s shot had been a clean one. It had not damaged bone, and the round hadn’t pierced any vital organs.
Her operation had taken a couple of hours and, by the next day, she was up.
Ashland’s living room had been turned into an operating theater for the injured.
The entire ground floor was like a hospital.
Clare had hard-looking men and women protecting the house.
She hadn’t called back The Agency’s operatives. Zeb’s friends still thought he was hiking in the wilderness.
It hadn’t been difficult for Clare to hide Zeb’s involvement.
She had juice.
She had a brief call with the FBI director. Spoke to Idaho’s governor and to the director of the state police. All parties agreed that SWAT and the cops would take credit for preventing a terrorist attack.
Schwartz praised all the law enforcement officers involved.
‘That man in the church? Swinging on a cable?’ he laughed at reporters. ‘That was a SWAT officer. No, sir. He can’t be named.’
The world’s media flooded the small town and interviewed its residents. Not one person could identify the cable man. They went by Schwartz’s statement.
Schwartz, the FBI director, and the director of the state police arranged several press conferences.
They announced that Namir, the world’s most wanted terrorist, had been killed.
They acknowledged that no one knew how he and his men had entered the country.
They paid their respects to Kenton Ashland, whose body had been recovered. The dead campers’ bodies had been brought back as well.
The president called Pete Ashland and expressed his condolences. He spoke briefly to Sara, who stuttered and stammered and ended the call teary-eyed.
A massive investigation was underway to backtrack the terrorists’ movements.
Camera footage from airports was being studied. Namir’s laptop and cellphone were being recovered, as were the weapons and the vehicles.
‘You are lucky,’ Clare told Zeb on the seventh day, when she had finished briefing him from a chair in the living room, next to his bed.
He was mobile, his upper body covered in dressings, as was his thigh.
From outside he could hear the bustle of Sara and her grandfather in the kitchen.
The house had been cleaned up. No trace of blood or any marks on walls remained.
The night of the shooting, a cleaning crew had arrived. They had answered no questions. They had gone about their business and, by the next day, the house smelled of disinfectant and fresh paint.
The bodies, the bullet holes, and the blood on the floor had vanished.
The Agency at work. Protecting not just its own, but also those who had helped.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Zeb rose and flexed his arms.
He wasn’t as good as new, but he would get there.
‘Why don’t you want the twins, the others, to know?’
‘They haven’t taken a vacation in a long while, ma’am. They would cut it short if they knew. Even though I am alive.’
Cool grey eyes studied him.
Her lips twitched in a small smile.
‘They won’t be happy if they find out.’
‘I’m sure they won’t,’ he replied drily, imagining the outrage on Beth and Meghan’s faces.
She laughed, then quickly became sober.
‘The memorial service is tomorrow. Sara wanted to hold it when you were awake. And mobile.’
Erilyn had arranged a small ceremony in honor of Kenton Ashland, the dead couple, and the hikers Namir had killed.
Sara had been adamant that Zeb stay back for it. She had brushed away his apology for shooting her, insisting he stay on for the event.
He had reluctantly agreed, after getting a promise from her that he wouldn’t be mentioned or introduced to anyone.
‘She needs—’
‘She’ll get all the help she needs. Counseling. Help with college. Anything. You saved her. And Pete Ashland. But she saved you, too.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
* * *
The grandfather had come to his bedside one night when the girl was asleep.
He had sat next to Zeb, a comfortable silence. Which he had finally broken.
‘That day. When you came in firing. That terrorist—he could have shot me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ashland regarded Zeb’s expression keenly, his face showing no emotion.
‘It was Sara that you wanted to save. Even if I died.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Even if you died.’
Zeb kept quiet.
Ashland’s face crinkled and broke into a warm smile. Like the sun dispersing clouds.
‘I knew it. I don’t mind. Not one bit. Son, I have lived a long life. I would have died for her.’
He reached out and gripped Zeb’s hand.
* * *
The event the next day was somber. The mayor made a short speech. Pete Ashland followed and spoke a few words. The crowd cheered and clapped when Sara came up to speak.
The choir came after, and filled the town and skies and the wilderness with singing.
Zeb left for New York that night.
He arrived at The Agency’s Columbus Avenue office the next day and stopped in his tracks.
Beth and Meghan were at their desks.
Roger and Bwana were lounging on couches. Bear was inspecting a gun, along with Chloe.
Broker was practicing his golf shots on a small putting strip.
His crew were there.
Joy filled him, but he showed nothing of it on his face.
They greeted him. He concealed a wince when Bwana punched him on the shoulder.
He listened patiently when the sisters launched into their vacation stories.
‘How was yours?’ Meghan asked him curiously, when they had finished.
‘The usual,’ he replied.
‘Hiking. Fishing.
‘Some hunting.
‘Some running.’
More Books
Check out Zeb Carter, the start of a new series featuring Zeb Carter
Nook
* * *
Bonus Chapter from Zeb CARTER
‘I have a particular talent.’ The speaker was young, in his mid-twenties. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed and stood ramrod straight.
He was casually dressed—shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, belt around his waist—as he stood in the room in front of five seated men in suits. All of them had a presence.
The speaker guessed they were men who decided on war; how it was fought and where. He knew he was looking at military men. That had been made clear before the interview. Now, on observing them, he guessed they were three- or four-star generals, or their equivalents from the Navy or Air Force.
No names had been exchanged when he entered the room, in an anonymous-looking building in DC.
He had looked it up. It was occupied by various private companies and also rented out rooms by the hour.
‘What talent is that?’ said a balding man, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
It had been a long day and they seemed to be nowhere near making a decision. That’s what it felt like to the speaker.
‘Finding people, sir.’
Several suits snorted.
‘The military has enough of such soldiers, son,’ a silver-haired man spoke. ‘We don’t need another one.’
‘And killing them, sir. Killing those who are threats to us.’
That stopped them.
Those who were good in the killing arts weren’t uncommon in the military, either. Or on the outside, in the private-sector world.
But the way the young man had spoken struck them.
He was utterly confident, without being arrogant. He was calm, his voice so soft they almost had to strain to hear him.
It was rare for men of their seniority to come together and interview candidates. Most men or women would have felt intimidated by them, even without knowing who they were, what rank they held.
Yet, the man facing them seemed unaffected.
He stood, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread apart slightly and looked them in the eye.
No hesitation. No fidgeting.
Many of the previous candidates had been arrogant. One had boasted about the kills he had made. The panel had shown him out quickly.
A squat, suited man picked up the speaker’s folder and rifled through it. Somalia. Iraq. Lebanon. Israel. Greece. London. Belfast. Several redacted portions, to which they had access.
The current candidate had been to several of the hot spots of the world.
He had led units. He had worked independently. He had been in hostile country, undercover for months.
He spoke several languages fluently.
A superior had jotted a comment. Has an ear for languages. In just a few weeks, in a new country, can speak well enough to get by.
He was a master sniper. He had won several unarmed-combat trophies. Those who knew him, respected him.
The man lingered on the last country the candidate had been to while in the military.
Afghanistan.
He whispered to his peers. The file was passed around.
‘We didn’t know we had Superman in our ranks,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.
The candidate’s reaction astounded them.
He unbuttoned his shirt, all the while looking at them.
‘What? What are you doing?’ the suit roared.
The candidate didn’t stop.
He removed his shirt. Removed his vest.
And then pointed to a badly healed wound just below his heart.
‘I don’t think Superman has such a scar.’
‘You think this is a joke?’ Silver Hair rose. ‘Do you know who we are? Just because you aren’t in the military, you think you can get away with such behavior? You are walking that close to the edge, young man.’
The speaker finished dressing and stood smartly, waiting for the outburst to finish.
‘Yes, sir. And I apologize for offending you. I meant no disrespect. Way I figure, you have been sitting there all day, listening to other candidates like me. You are trying to decide who’s the best person for the job. You made a comment. I do not know if you were serious. I could have said something. Lots of words, but I thought you probably have had enough of words, and hence my action.’
He paused a beat. ‘I will understand if I am not selected. For whatever you have in mind.’
The suits did the bent-heads-whispering-furiously thing again.
‘You are not afraid?’ the balding man asked him.
‘Yes, sir. I am.’
‘I don’t mean that stunt you pulled off,’ the man waved. ‘I mean in the field.’
‘I am often afraid, sir.’
‘And yet you came her
e.’
‘I was told it would be a good idea to offer my services to my country,’ the candidate said, smiling sardonically.
‘You know you won’t get paid?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Driven by noble intentions, no doubt,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.
The candidate didn’t rise to the bait.
‘You know what this is about?’ The balding general threw an irritated glance at the interruption.
‘I can make a guess. You are looking for an outside contractor. That means whatever you are planning is high-risk and has to be deniable. I was told your candidate should speak Pashtun. Right now, Afghanistan is our hottest spot. Maybe you’re thinking of rescuing those three Delta operators. Using someone like me?’
Silence in the room.
‘You are still bound by the declarations and non-disclosures you signed,’ Silver Hair barked.
‘Sir,’ the speaker said, smiling fully, ‘I am sure you vetted all the candidates before interviewing them. None of us would have been in this room if we were in the habit of running to the nearest newspaper, TV channel, or website.’
More silence.
‘That’s the most hostile terrain in the world,’ squat suit said, shifting in his metal chair. ‘The most dangerous fighters out there.’
‘Yes, sir. I have been there. I have fought them.’
‘Indeed, you have. And you still want to go back? Assuming that’s the operation. You could die.’
‘I don’t mind dying, sir.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Silver Hair said brusquely. ‘You are willing to go on something that’s pretty much a suicide mission. Involves no payment, no fame, no movie or book deal out of it. Why? Love of country?’
‘I was Delta. Those men are Delta, sir,’ the speaker said, as if that explained it all.
‘You could be tortured.’
‘I have been tortured, sir. Quite a few times.’
Silence.
The men stared at him.
He held their eyes.
‘You like killing?’ Silver Hair said, no inflection in his voice.
‘No, sir.’
‘What do you like?’
‘Saving people, sir.’
A clock ticked somewhere. A chair scraped.