The Warriors Series Boxset I Page 13

  He looks up when a sedan approaches them and parks in front just a few feet away from the nose of their Jeep. Isakson gets out and strides inside without noticing them, followed by a couple of agents.

  ‘The cavalry to the rescue. Now the world will be saved,’ Broker sneers. ‘I bet he asks us to disappear.’

  ‘They’ll come to us.’ Zeb reclines in his seat and closes his eyes.

  ‘Did a little angel whisper that in your ear? You know that how?’

  ‘Figure it out for yourself.’

  An hour later they’re back in the apartment after one of Isakson’s agents summoned them.

  ‘Like we’re his flunkies,’ grumbles Broker.

  ‘How can we help you, sir?’ he asks Isakson politely.

  ‘Our profilers have been working on Holt, and they think he’ll want to talk to you or meet you.’

  ‘No shit. That must have been a very hard deduction given that Zeb has been hounding him for ages and Mr. Balthazar went ahead and mentioned Zeb to Holt.’

  Isakson’s face darkens, but he controls himself. ‘Will you take his call if he asks for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Zeb for the first time. ‘How did all this happen?’

  Isakson looks away. ‘We don’t know. He came in every day to our offices and was giving us good intel. A couple of days ago, he stopped coming. We tried calling him but got no response. We suspect he found out about Mr. Balthazar here and his story through the Senator and cut loose. The Senator has been called in for questioning.’

  ‘Your story’s got him.’ Broker nods in Connor’s direction.

  Connor laughs mirthlessly. ‘The script didn’t read like this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you surround Holt’s freaking place, tear it down, and bust his ass?’ Broker growls at Isakson.

  ‘We didn’t have his address,’ Isakson admits, clearly embarrassed, but also angry.

  He sees Broker’s disbelief and continues, ‘We tried tracking him down, but he always ended up giving us the slip. We tried slipping monitoring devices on him, but he detected those and threw them away. As you know, one of the conditions of his intel was that he’d get witness protection, but we never reached that stage. We thought he was holding back on some vital intel, and hence, we were going slowly on WITSEC.’

  A long silence fills the room.

  ‘Bastards. Surely you lowlifes were not too dumb to see that this was a car crash waiting to happen. That Holt would do anything to either get away from Zeb or go after him?’ Broker throws up his hands.

  A muscle in Isakson’s face begins to tic. ‘This is not the time for recriminations. We should focus on negotiating with Holt and securing the safe release of Lauren and Rory. I’m expecting our profiling and negotiating team shortly to help us on this. All I’m asking is for you to take the call if he asks for you. Save the superstar act for another day.’

  Zeb doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, his presence filling the room, and turns and walks out silently.

  ‘That’s his way of saying he’ll take the call.’ Broker looks at Isakson, the ‘asshole’ at the end left unsaid but understood by all.

  Zeb returns once the profilers and negotiators arrive.

  ‘How will you do this? Who will talk to him when he calls?’ Cassandra asks.

  ‘Mr. Balthazar will speak to him first. The negotiators are here to help him. If he asks for Major Carter, then he is here to take that call. There are no rules for this. Each hostage situation is driven by the circumstances, and we adapt and take control as we go along.’

  Broker has set up his hardware and is going through all his feeds. One of the agents whistles when he sees Broker’s equipment.

  ‘Private enterprise and no red tape,’ Broker says, with a wink.

  When the call comes, Zeb recognizes the emotionless voice immediately from agency tapes.

  ‘Mr. Balthazar, I have your wife and son here with me. You know what I want: all your photographs, your notes, your emails, and anything you’ve written on this subject so far. The original ones, please. In return you get your wife and son back…intact.’

  One of the negotiating team gestures to Connor, and he asks, ‘How do I know they’re even alive?’

  ‘Mr. Balthazar, what good would they be to me dead? Wouldn’t I lose my negotiating strength? I’m guessing that you’re surrounded by the FBI, who are guiding you, and you have profilers looking over your shoulder reading into every voice inflection of mine.

  ‘Is my friend Isakson there? Hello, Isak? I know you’re there, and I know you were stringing me along. But guess what, asshole? I was stringing you along, too. Most of the shit I gave you was so old and useless that it had even stopped stinking. But I guess you guys are so desperate to find the Ts under any and every rock that you’ll bend over and spread ’em for anyone who sings about them.’

  Isakson’s face becomes thunderous, and his agents shift uneasily, but he keeps quiet.

  Broker is studying his laptop, trying to locate where the signal is coming from.

  Holt’s voice hardens. ‘Oh, and, Mr. Balthazar, who does the exchange is important. If you want to see your wife and son again, then Carter is the one I want to bring all your shit to me. I’m betting he’s there right now. Why don’t you put him on?’

  Connor looks up helplessly at Zeb, who steps forward and takes the phone.

  ‘Holt?’

  ‘Ah, Major. We meet again, if this can be called a meeting.’

  ‘The first time was also not a meeting. You turned tail while I was dispatching your friends.’

  Holt pauses. ‘The past. Let’s plan the exchange. Tomorrow afternoon at Grand Central. You alone, with my criminal record in a manila envelope.’ He chuckles. ‘And you can take the lovely Mrs. Balthazar and the brat back.’

  ‘Penn Station. The exchange will be at Penn,’ Zeb counters.

  Holt laughs incredulously. ‘Back up, Major. Read the script. I’m the one with the hostages. You do as I say.’

  Zeb hangs up. He looks at Broker, who mouths silently, ‘Some more time.’

  Isakson strides to Zeb and shoves him away from the phone.

  A blur of motion too fast for Connor to register and Isakson is lying on his back with Zeb’s foot on his throat.

  Bear and Broker have cornered Isakson’s agents.

  After a tense second, Zeb takes his foot off Isakson and pulls him up. He turns his back on the FBI agent, allowing him to gather himself, his dignity, and lower the tension in the room.

  When Zeb turns back to them, he behaves as if he hadn’t dumped Isakson on his ass, and they all take that cue.

  Broker goes back to his laptop, and Bear leaves the room.

  Connor swallows his shock and asks Zeb, ‘Why did you hang up? Aren’t you risking my family by this? Wouldn’t it have been better to continue talking so that the FBI could trace his call?’

  ‘He’ll call back.’

  ‘Like fuck he will,’ replies Isakson angrily.

  ‘Boss, he did the right thing, not giving Holt control,’ pipes up a diffident voice, one of the profilers.

  Isakson whirls on him just as Broker murmurs, ‘And these guys are supposed to protect us?’

  ‘I heard that,’ Isakson shouts, ‘and anyway, what are you doing in that corner?’

  The phone rings. ‘Don’t fucking hang up on me, you bastard! Who the fuck do you think you are?’ Holt shouts.

  Zeb hangs up again.

  The third call comes less than a minute later.

  ‘You want to see these two dead? You know what I’m capable of!’

  ‘I am least interested in the two of them. I’m here just because you asked for me and I know Mr. Balthazar. As far as I’m concerned, you’re a dead man walking. You have run out of fuel and are running on fumes.’

  He hangs up again, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Broker nodding.

  Isakson is peering over the shoulders of his tech guys to see if they’ve triangulated the call. From his exp
ression he can see that the agents aren’t having much luck. Broker, on the other hand, uses tech that’s a few years ahead of the FBI or the NSA or any other agency. Broker buys start-ups that specialize in security and surveillance, takes them off the market and then uses them in his business.

  The phone rings again.

  ‘You had better not ring again if you have any stupid demands to make,’ Zeb tells him and looks across at Connor, who is drawing in a shocked breath.

  There is silence from Holt then. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The exchange will be tomorrow evening at Penn Station.’ Zeb names the exact location and hangs up.

  Isakson replies to Connor’s unasked question of what now? ‘The Major here will go make the exchange alone, but not really. We’ll surround the place with undercover agents and rescue your wife and son. I’m surprised that Holt agreed to this so readily, though.’

  Broker snorts. ‘He won’t be there. If I were him, once I calmed down, I’d realize that I still hold all the cards. I’d go to the exchange, hide, and observe Zeb and whoever else comes with him. I’d then call him and arrange an exchange at another place. Zeb would have no choice but to comply.’

  Turning to Connor, he adds, ‘With respect, sir, I don’t want you to have false hopes. This man is dangerous, and unfortunately for us, he’s smart, too. The fact that he’s walking around free after mass murder proves how smart he is. He has the FBI by the balls because they were harboring and sheltering him, and that’s something they will desperately not want to go public. Your family will be back, but it may not be tomorrow.’

  That muscle in Isakson’s cheek twitches again, but he refrains from striking back. He nods reluctantly in Connor’s direction. ‘He may be right. All I can say is we will do everything possible to get your family back.’

  Broker pushes his chair back and puts his equipment away as Zeb gets up and tells Connor, ‘Your family will be back – safe.’ Then he nods at Isakson. ‘See you tomorrow to work out the logistics.’

  Bear and Chloe slip out as they leave. ‘What was that with the hang-ups? Weren’t you taking a risk?’

  ‘Yup,’ Broker replies, ‘but we wanted to able to pinpoint where the phone signal was coming from and needed a few cut-outs to be sure.’

  He goes on to explain how they knew what to look for. ‘A couple of years back, I came across a couple of Chinese students at Stanford who had developed a triangulating software program. A mobile phone’s location can be detected within a tower’s grid by the signal it gives out. The FBI, NSA, CIA…all those guys use this to locate a phone – but it gives you a very rough location. These Chinese guys went one step ahead. They mapped this triangulation against two other signals, one – the radiation signal of the phone, the other – something called location leaks. A mobile phone service provider keeps a database of where phones are likely to be and keeps polling the phones so that it’s quicker to connect when a call happens. These polling messages were used by these two guys as the third triangulator. I bought their software before they went to market. But it does require a few cut-outs to home in on the phone.’

  Bear nods. ‘So what’s the plan now?’

  ‘We come back tomorrow, take orders from the big cheese.’

  Bear smiles at Zeb and Broker and then gets serious. ‘You’re going in tonight?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ll tag along.’

  ‘Nope. I need you here.’

  Bear nods, grips Zeb’s shoulder hard, fist-bumps Broker, and goes back inside the apartment.

  Broker looks at Zeb. ‘How about a fancy, motivating speech?’

  Zeb grunts and moves past him.

  ‘That’ll do,’ says Broker. ‘For a moment I thought you would bring me to tears. Where to now?’

  ‘Weapons, wheels, Williamstown. That’s where he is, isn’t he? His mother’s house?’

  ‘Right. Anyone ever tell you, you talk a lot? And what’s wrong with these wheels?’ He indicates the shiny red Jeep they have driven in.

  Zeb says nothing, just taps the red paint.

  ‘Okay.’ He buckles up and turns to Zeb. ‘What do you think Isakson will say when he hears about this?’

  Zeb stares straight ahead. ‘What do you think we’ll say to ourselves if that kid doesn’t return tomorrow?’

  He revs the engine in the ensuing silence.

  The first few stops are at the various caches he has in the city, and they load up with night vision, Mossberg shotguns, the AWM rifle, an Armalite, Sig Sauers, and Glocks.

  ‘You know that’s a residential neighborhood?’ Broker reminds him.

  He answers himself when Zeb doesn’t respond. ‘The residents should have known better, obviously.’

  They pack the equipment, then switch their vehicle to a Hummer Broker has customized. Zeb scans the interior, noticing the mobile and wireless communication system, radar and various switches and gadgets that would make James Bond envious.

  He casually flicks one, and out pops a screen that shows a rocket launcher easing out of its recess beneath the chassis. He flicks an eyebrow at Broker, who waves his arms in the direction of downtown Manhattan.

  ‘The neighborhood. It’s not what it used to be.’

  Broker turns serious, pulls out a map of Williamstown, and lays it out on the hood. He traces a finger around Mama Holt’s property. ‘Close to the street, six bedrooms, three stories, large windows both at the front and back, tall hedge surrounding the gardens, neighboring houses not too far off, neighbors might remember you from earlier visits…not easy, but would we enjoy it if it was easy?’ He looks sideways at Zeb, who listens calmly.

  ‘How many men would you have about you, in his situation?’ he asks Zeb.

  ‘Six or seven in the house including myself.’

  Broker nods. ‘Was thinking the same. How do you want to do it?’ He rolls out the house plan and lays it next to the street plan.

  Zeb examines the house plan for a long time. ‘Flat or sloping roof?’ he asks, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Sloping.’

  ‘I need some special equipment.’

  ‘I can get you anything, even a frigging aircraft carrier, in one hour within ten clicks.’

  He folds the maps and puts them away when Zeb nods, and throws the keys to him. ‘Drive.’ And Zeb does, leaving New York behind.

  They reach Williamstown at dusk, with Zeb making one pass of the street and parking in a faraway parking lot. Hoofing it back, they flit from shadow to shadow, observing the entire street, the foliage, its dark spots, the streetlights and proximity of the houses.

  They hide in thick foliage by the side of the street a house away. They have a good view of Holt’s house, which has a well-lit front, darkened windows and just a smidgen of light in the window of the second floor.

  ‘Watch out for dogs,’ mutters Broker.

  Broker takes out a pair of night-vision goggles, parabolic mics and a thermal-imaging monitor, setting the screen with a filter that protects it from detection even from six inches away.

  Both of them don the mics and watch the house and imager alternatively.

  ‘Two bodies downstairs, four in the middle, and two more upstairs; lot of light in the front. They can be in the dark of the house, spot us, and pick us off without a problem,’ murmurs Broker as the blobs appear on the monitor. The blobs at the top and bottom of the house are moving back and forth at regular intervals.

  ‘Sentries covering the front and back of the house. No windows to the side of the house,’ whispers Broker.

  They settle down and try to pick up any noise, but either the mics are not powerful enough or the house is well insulated, and they hear nothing. In the middle floor only one blob is pacing; the others are stationary, with two blobs next to one another. Broker taps the two blobs, pulls up his watch, and starts to time the sentries.

  ‘They alternate from back to front every ten minutes. Pause in front of each window, look around, and then walk back. No head poppi
ng out of a window, which is good for us, bad for them. As usual, good help is always hard to come by. One sentry either at the top or bottom is always covering the two sides. We need final confirmation, and I don’t see how we’re going to get that unless we can hear or see them.’

  Broker looks at him sideways. ‘Uh-oh, don’t even think of going in the garden on a recon round. Suicide missions are so last week. They could be looking out the windows, and pop goes the weasel!’

  Zeb opens Broker’s backpack, removes an earbud and collar mic, and puts them on. He hands another pair to Broker, who gives a long-suffering sigh and does the same.

  ‘Where?’ he asks Broker.

  Broker shakes his head. ‘Cross Keys, not far from here. Driving directions are keyed in.’ He waves in the direction of the Hummer.

  Zeb takes the keys and sets off, pointing in the direction of his earbud and collar mic in response to Broker’s urgent, ‘How will I know when you’re back?’

  Broker settles into the darkness, takes out a range finder from his kit, and checks out the range to Holt’s house even though he has gauged the distance down to the last inch. He assembles the AWM, sights, zeros it, and lays it down again.

  He then calls Bear and briefs him on the situation and in return hears an earful of curses. ‘Hold your horses. I did tell him, but you know him. Once he has a plan in mind, only changed circumstances deter him. No, you stay there.’

  * * *

  Zeb reaches Cross Keys airport and finds a Super Otter waiting for him, with its pilot leaning against the fuselage.

  ‘You Zeb Carter?’

  Zeb nods.

  ‘Broker told me about what you want done. Have you done this before? It’s foolhardy to–’

  Zeb waves him off, signs the disclaimer papers, and checks out the kit that the pilot has brought for him.

  ‘Dude, you do know what you’re doing, don’t you?’ the pilot asks, conscious of lawsuits.

  Zeb ignores him and unfolds the kit and lays it on the tarmac. He inspects it fully and then folds it carefully and takes it inside the plane. The pilot has unfolded an aerial map of Williamstown and is tracing their route when Zeb rejoins him.