Terror: Zeb Carter Series, Book 4 Read online

  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

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  More Books

  Bonus Chapter from Traitor

  Author’s Message

  Books by Ty Patterson:

  About the Author

  Get a Free Book

  Click on the cover to download The Watcher, a novella exclusive to Ty Patterson’s newsletter subscribers

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  Check out Zeb Carter, the first in the Zeb Carter series, here

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  Join Ty Patterson’s Facebook group of readers, here

  Terror 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

  Books by Ty Patterson

  Zeb Carter Series

  Zeb Carter, Book 1

  The Peace Killers, Book 2

  Burn Rate, Book 3

  Terror, Book 4

  Traitor, Book 5

  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

  Wrecking Team, Gemini Series, Book 4

  Cade Stryker Series

  The Last Gunfighter of Space, Book 1

  The Thief Who Stole A Planet, Book 2

  Warriors Series Shorts

  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. Join Ty Patterson’s Facebook Readers Group, here.

  Check out Ty on Nook and on his website Ty Patterson

  Acknowledgments

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

  Simon Alphonso, Paula Artlip, Matthew Bell, Gary Bristol, Sheldon Levy, Molly Birch, David T. Blake, Tracy Boulet, Patricia Burke, Mark Campbell, Allan Coulton, Tricia Cullerton, Linda Collins, Claire Forgacs, Dave Davis, Sylvia Foster, Cathie Jones, Cary Lory Becker, Charlie Carrick, Pat Ellis, Dori Barrett, Dave Davis, V. Elizabeth Perry, Ann Finn, Pete Bennett, Eric Blackburn, Margaret Harvey, David Hay, Jeane Jackson, Mary n Bob Kauffman, Jim Lambert, Shadine Mccallen, Suzanne Jackson Mickelson, Blanca Blake Nichols, Tricia Terry Pellman, Tania Reed, Wa Reedy, Colin Rochford, Jimmy Smith, Nancy Schmit, Robin Eide Steffensen, Maria Stine, Don Waterman, Theresa and Brad Werths, Chuck Yarling, who are my beta readers and who helped shape my book, my launch team for supporting me, Donna Rich for her proofreading and Doreen Martens for her editing.

  Dedications

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

  And when the impossible has been accomplished the only reward is another mission that no one else will try— Night Stalker Creed

  Chapter One

  That summer was unusually hot in Berlin. The mercury, normally in the sixties or low seventies, was hovering above seventy-five degrees.

  Sunlight reflected off glassed buildings, its glare increasing the sense of heat. Tall structures in the city reduced airflow making the weather oppressive.

  The inside of the U-Bahn train, Berlin’s metro system, was
cool, however. It was morning. Office time. Men and women in suits clutched briefcases and shouldered their way into the yellow carriages on the U1 line.

  It was one of the oldest lines in the city but history wasn’t uppermost on anyone’s minds. College going students, hipsters and the elderly shared space with office-goers in the small carriages. Empty seats were quickly occupied. Many heads bobbed to beats, tunes streaming into their ears through headphones. A few unfolded newspapers and skimmed through the headlines or worked their way through the crossword. Many others stared blankly into space, avoiding eyes the way Europeans did.

  The man clutching the guitar case was one such traveler. He was lean, pale-skinned, wore a dark pullover over a clean pair of jeans. Scruffy sneakers, a beanie over his head, completed his look.

  He sat in the corner of a carriage, his eyes closed, his fingers stroking the hard case. No one paid him any attention. Why should they? There was nothing extraordinary about him. He was one of the million passengers the transit system ferried that day.

  The train left Schlesisches Tor with a jerk. It rolled over the Oberbaumebrucke Bridge, heading to Warschauer Strasse. A few heads turned to look out of the large windows at the trendy neighborhood of Kreuzberg as it swept past.

  The man felt a presence. He opened his eyes. An elderly woman was standing next to him. He stood up, tapped her on her shoulder and nodded at his seat.

  She slid past him and settled gratefully, a danke leaving her lips. He smiled politely. He looked out of the window. The train was still on the bridge. Vehicles on the street below. A couple of school-going children on the sidewalk waved. He waggled his fingers in return even though the kids wouldn’t spot him.

  He looked around in the carriage. No one had batted an eyelid at him. There was nothing unusual about what he had done. As his carriage passed over the bridge, he bent and unlocked the guitar case. He withdrew an AR15 and caressed its stock. Someone drew a breath sharply. Another traveler cried out in shock. The man looked at the woman who had occupied his seat. He smiled politely and shot her.

  Chapter Two

  Zeb Carter looked up from the Frankfurter Rundschau, the newspaper he was reading.

  What was that?

  He heard it again. A rapid burst, loud and clear above the sounds of the train. A sound he was very familiar with, the firing of an assault weapon.

  What the heck?

  He got to his feet without conscious thought and then the screaming and shouting began.

  ‘Mein Gott!’ someone cried.

  ‘Gun!’

  ‘He’s killing everyone.’

  ‘Stop the train!’

  ‘Call the police.’

  Passengers slammed the door trying to force it open. Hands reached for the emergency stop and yanked it.

  Zeb got to his feet. Active shooter! In the carriage next to mine.

  Short, controlled bursts. A gunman who knows what he’s doing.

  Fear surrounded him. Bodies surged away from the deadly sounds. Pale, pinched faces, mouths open in terror, eyes wide in panic.

  ‘To the floor!’ he shouted but his voice was drowned in the voices of fear.

  He shoved his way through the crush of bodies as the train screeched and started slowing. He reached the end of the carriage, a door in front of him, as the rifle opened up again.

  The next carriage was ahead of him. Another door, separated by a couple of feet of open space. Through the glass windows he could see the scenes of carnage.

  Bodies on the floor. Blood on the walls. Limbs twitching. A woman propping up on her hands, only to go down as rounds slammed into her.

  The shooter, calm-faced, his back resting against the far end of the carriage. The man replaced magazines without any change in expression and mowed down another passenger.

  Zeb opened his carriage door. Cool air greeted his face. Sunlight and the smell of summer and traffic greeted him. The train rocked and shuddered to a halt. They were still on the bridge, sounds of traffic coming up their way. Sirens in the distance, wailing, growing louder. A window smashed somewhere. Voices screamed through it, lost in the summer.

  ‘Don’t go there!’ a hand grabbed his shoulder.

  He shrugged it away.

  ‘Stay down,’ he ordered without looking back. He reached forward and tried the door to the next carriage. The handle gave. He pushed it open, crossed the separation in one long stride just as the familiar grey fog flooded him.

  It blanked out all unneeded noise. It dissolved the surroundings, sharpened his focus and heightened his concentration. It was something triggered by adrenaline, training and experience.

  ‘Stop shooting,’ he said in German.

  The shooter looked at him in surprise. His rifle was in his right hand, easily balanced, pointing at a passenger on the floor.

  ‘Put down the weapon,’ Zeb told him and took two steps inside.

  ‘Who are you?’ the shooter’s voice was calm. No nervousness. No panic. No fear. His eyes, dark and fathomless sized the speaker up curiously.

  ‘Put your gun down. Raise your hands,’ Zeb repeated and went closer. Less than ten feet between the two men.

  The floor sticky with blood. Someone moaned. A child hiccupped in fear. The shooter’s eyes shifted and focused on a passenger who was cowering under the seats.

  His rifle started moving.

  ‘DON’T!’ Zeb yelled. His hand darted towards his jacket.

  A body at the shooter’s feet jerked. An old man. He grabbed the killer’s leg.

  The gunman stumbled.

  He cursed. He pulled the trigger and rounds peppered the carriage walls in a wavy line. The passenger screamed and ducked. The old man reared up and clawed at the weapon. The shooter slapped him away with his free hand and trained the weapon on him.

  ‘NO!’ Zeb’s palm curled around his Glock in his shoulder holster. He started drawing.

  The old man reared up, his teeth bared, groaning and trembling with the effort, his hands clawing at the shooter’s face.

  The gunman punched him in the shoulder.

  The elderly person fell.

  Zeb’s gun straightened. Body square to the killer, sight trained on him, whose eyes were switching from his attacker to the newcomer in the carriage.

  ‘DON’T MOVE,’ Zeb roared. It was aimed at the old man who was rising again.

  The gunman snarled. He triggered, the short burst filling the carriage with thunder, his bullets crashing into the attacker, sending him to the floor.

  Zeb fired. His first round caught the shooter high in the shoulder, sending him staggering back. His second round was an inch apart.

  The German’s vest darkened. His eyes spewed hate as he straightened, raised the AR15 and brought it on Zeb who fired once more, into the chest and the shooter fell.

  Zeb approached him cautiously and kicked the assault rifle away. He turned the man over with a toe and for one moment stared into the shooter’s dying eyes and then turned his attention to the elderly man.

  He knelt beside him and saw he too was on his last breaths. He held the man’s trembling hands and then he saw it.

  Faded numerals on his left forearm.

  The man’s blue eyes seemed to spark with fire when Zeb looked at him. He struggled to speak. He looked at the killer and drew a shuddering breath.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Zeb whispered. He felt hollow, empty.

  What did one say to a man who seemed to be in his eighties and was the only one to fight back at the shooter?

  What did one say to someone who had survived Auschwitz only to die in a train, shot by a crazed killer?

  Zeb held him close as sound and awareness returned as shouts filled the train and police officers and medics rushed at him. He hugged the concentration camp survivor and felt him die in his arms.

  Chapter Three

  Zeb answered questions as police surrounded him. He surrendered his Glock, knowing he was in for a lengthy interrogation. The country has one of the strictest gun law
s in Europe.

  He had a special permit for his weapon, one issued by the BND, the German Foreign Intelligence Service, responsible for foreign and military intelligence. Authorized by Eric Schmidt, the agency’s head, who I met yesterday. But if I mention his name, there will be more questions. They will wonder who I am.