Zeb Carter Read online

  Zeb Carter

  Zeb Carter Series, Book 1

  Ty Patterson

  Contents

  Get a Free Book

  Books by Ty Patterson

  Acknowledgments

  Dedications

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  More Books

  Bonus Chapter from The Peace Killers

  Author’s Message

  About the Author

  Get a Free Book

  Click on the image to subscribe and download, free, The Watcher, an exclusive novella available only to newsletter subscribers.

  Copyright © 2018 by Ty Patterson

  Zeb Carter is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  All rights reserved

  Published by Three Aces Publishing

  Visit the author site: http://www.typatterson.com

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. If the author gave you an advance reader or a beta reader copy, please do not share it with any other person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Publisher Notes

  The publisher and author do not have any control over and do not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions.

  Original Cover Design: Nathan Wampler

  Books by Ty Patterson

  Warriors Series

  The Warrior, Warriors series, Book 1

  The Reluctant Warrior, Warriors series, Book 2

  The Warrior Code, Warriors series, Book 3

  The Warrior’s Debt, Warriors series, Book 4

  Warriors series Boxset, Books 1-4

  Flay, Warriors series, Book 5

  Behind You, Warriors series, Book 6

  Hunting You, Warriors series, Book 7

  Zero, Warriors series, Book 8

  Warriors series Boxset II, Books 5-8

  Warriors series Boxset III, Books 1-8

  Death Club, Warriors series, Book 9,

  Trigger Break, Warriors series, Book 10

  Scorched Earth, Warriors series, Book 11

  RUN! Warriors series, Book 12

  Gemini Series

  Dividing Zero, Gemini Series, Book 1

  Defending Cain, Gemini Series, Book 2

  I Am Missing, Gemini Series, Book 3

  Cade Stryker Series

  The Last Gunfighter of Space , Book 1

  The Thief Who Stole A Planet, Book 2

  Zeb Carter Series

  Zeb Carter, Book 1

  The Peace Killers, Book 2

  Warriors Series Shorts

  This is a series of novellas that link to the Warriors Series thrillers

  Zulu Hour, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 1

  The Shadow, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 2

  The Man From Congo, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 3

  The Texan, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 4

  The Heavies, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 5

  The Cab Driver, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 6

  Sign up to Ty Patterson’s mailing list and get The Watcher, a Zeb Carter novella, exclusive to newsletter subscribers. Be the first to know about new releases and deals.

  Check out Ty on Nook and on his website Ty Patterson

  Acknowledgments

  No book is a single person’s product. I am privileged that Zeb Carter has benefited from the input of several great people.

  Molly Birch, David T. Blake, Tracy Boulet, Patricia Burke, Mark Campbell, Tricia Cullerton, Claire Forgacs, Dave Davis, Sylvia Foster, Cary Lory Becker, Charlie Carrick, Pat Ellis, Dori Barrett, Simon Alphonso, Dave Davis, V. Elizabeth Perry, Ann Finn, Pete Bennett, Eric Blackburn, Margaret Harvey, David Hay, Jim Lambert, Suzanne Jackson Mickelson, Tricia Terry Pellman, Jimmy Smith, Theresa and Brad Werths, who are my beta readers and who helped shape my book, my launch team for supporting me, and Doreen Martens for her editing.

  Dedications

  To Michelle Rose Dunn, Debbie Bruns Gallant, Tom Gallant and Cheri Gerhardt, for supporting me.

  Out of every one hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are just targets; nine are the real fighters, and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle. Ah, but the one, one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back.

  — Heraclitus

  Chapter One

  ‘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 ma
king 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 here.’

  ‘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.

  Outside the small room, faint voices could be heard.

  The bald man spoke finally. ‘Someone will let you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he squared his shoulders and turned to leave.

  ‘A moment?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Why did you leave Delta?’

  ‘I was getting promoted, sir. That meant a desk job.’

  ‘You don’t like management? The administration side of operations?’

  ‘I do, sir. But not if it’s what I have to do all day.’

  ‘You like the money as a private military contractor?’

  ‘I am a mercenary, sir,’ a smile ghosted over his lips and disappeared quickly. ‘There’s no need to use fancy words. To answer your question, I do, but I don’t do it just for the money.’

  ‘What’s your name? All the folders are anonymous.’

  ‘You don’t have to share it, if you don’t want to,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Zebadiah Carter, sir.’

  ‘Zebadiah. That’s quite a mouthful, son.’

  ‘Everyone calls me Zeb, sir.’

  And Zeb Carter left the room.

  Chapter Two

  Sori.

  It was a small village in the Badakshan province of Afghanistan.

  The region, nearly seventeen thousand square miles, was spread across Afghanistan and Tajikistan, with two major mountain ranges defining it.

  The Hindu Kush mountains that ran in the northeast of Afghanistan, and the Pamirs, which were more on the Tajikistan side.

  Noshaq was the highest peak in Afghanistan, rising well over seven thousand meters. Foladi, to the southwest, rose to just over five thousand meters.

  The region’s terrain soared sharply to the skies and fell away to valleys. In the winter, snow blanketed the peaks and lower lands, cutting it off from the rest of the country, from the rest of the world. Avalanches were common, sometimes destroying entire villages in one blow.

  Travel by horse or donkey was the most common mode of transport i
n the mountains. A villager owning such an animal was considered to be rich.

  Even in such an environment, with several small villages in the district, Sori stood out.

  It was not just high up on a mountain, it was perched on a cliff.

  A dirt path, two feet wide, skirted the steep descent and snaked through the village. A rugged vehicle could climb the rubble road, its wheels kissing the sides of the steep drop.

  Even then, the vehicle wouldn’t be able to go inside the village. The driver would have to park a mile away, and to return, do a heart-thumping U-turn.

  It wasn’t unheard of for grown men and women and children to fall off the cliff in the dark, never to be seen again.

  The village didn’t have more than two hundred people at any point in time, most of whom farmed the poppy fields in the valley below.

  Poppy.

  It was the main cash crop in Badakshan. It was what made Afghanistan the world’s largest opium supplier.

  Badakshan was at the heart of the narcotics trade in the north of the country.

  Its valleys and plains had the poppy fields. Its villages had factories that turned the harvest into heroin.

  Several villages across the province and in other parts of the country, acted as marketplaces, where smugglers and sellers met. The drug changed hands and, in return, American currency or weapons were accepted in payment.

  A significant amount of the heroin produced in Badakshan traveled to Europe, through Tajikistan, Uzbekistan and Central Asia.

  The immediate beneficiaries of the narcotics trade were the farmers, but they were paid a mere pittance.

  The biggest beneficiaries were the traffickers, the drug mafia.

  And the Taliban.

  The terrorists extorted tax from the farmers. They received tax from the smugglers for safe passage of the drugs.

  They extracted a price for the import of chemicals needed by the factories.

  The Taliban were everywhere, siphoning off money from Afghanistan’s narcotics manufacturing and supply chain, because they had realized that as long as there was a demand for illegal narcotics, there was money to be made. And that money could fund their terrorism.

  And so, back to Sori.

  The village was home to one of the province’s heroin-producing factories.

  Farmers, when they weren’t tending to their poppy crop, helped out in the manufacturing.

  The village had huts made of mud bricks with holes in the walls for windows. No sanitation.

  One of the largest houses was where the drug was produced. Black sheets covered the windows. The stench of chemicals filled the air and permeated the hamlet.