The Warriors Series Boxset I Page 8

  He notices the neighbor’s curtain twitching when he has spent an hour there, but the thermal imager is quiet.

  He leaves after another hour. On returning to the city, he checks out of the hotel and finds another anonymous one a few streets south.

  He walks the streets of the city the next few days, and it is on the fourth day that violence finds him.

  * * *

  He’s walking along East 36th Street late at night, not many pedestrians around, barring the lone cab cruising the street and the occasional insomniac dog walker. He hears a scuffle ahead and slows down further, checking out the street ahead and behind him. Nothing. Empty.

  He moves cautiously to the mouth of the alley from which the sounds come.

  Sniffen Court is one of the few alleys in lower Manhattan. It was built in the mid-nineteenth century for stables, which were later converted to housing. The far end of the alley is a dead end, with a brick wall punctuating it like a period. Adorning the brick wall are plaques of Greek horsemen. The alley is lined with genteel townhouses, where time moves just a little slower than the rest of the city.

  Normally the alley is fenced off by a metal gate, but tonight the gate is wide open, and Zeb can see three black men holding a black man and white woman at gun and knife point.

  All five of them are in the shadow of a house lower down the alley, and the houses either seem to be empty, or the inhabitants are unable to hear the scuffling. Zeb is wearing dark clothes and is a shadow amongst the many shadows on East 36th. He watches the scuffling a long time and also the alley behind them for signs of a trap. He doesn’t detect any. One of the attackers is holding the black man at knife point, the knife pricking his neck; the other two are grappling with the woman, covering her face so she can’t make any sound. A mugging seems to have turned into attempted rape.

  Zeb steps inside the alley with his back to a wall and moves within visible sighting distance of the five. The woman sees him, and her eyes go wide, and her struggling draws the attention of the attackers.

  ‘Beat it, nigga,’ one of them mutters. ‘This is a private party.’

  Zeb steps forward. Three to one, not the best odds, but usually if the ringleader is taken out, the others run. Been proven since the days of kings.

  One of the black men swings away from the woman and advances towards Zeb, his gun glinting in the shadowed light. ‘Last chance, asshole, mind your own business and you get to live.’

  Not the leader, a minion; still, taking the minion out would whittle them down to two.

  He takes a step back, closer to the wall, to put distance between him and the rest, and the attacker follows, his finger on the trigger, slack. Zeb can see the black bore swing toward him and takes another step back toward the wall. If the gun fires, it will either hit him or the wall. Acceptable.

  The black man steps forward, grinning at seeing Zeb cornered against the wall.

  The hand of a good martial arts practitioner can move at about forty-six feet per second. Martial artists have to be slowed down or the movie camera speeded up to capture their action sequence for a movie and played back at twenty-four frames a second, or else all that the audience will see is a blur.

  At forty-six feet per second, the martial artist delivers nearly forty-six joules of energy in an overhand strike. The energy needed to break the ribs of an average person is thirty joules. Much less is needed to break a wrist.

  The black man doesn’t see Zeb’s left hand move. All he feels is a massive block of concrete striking his wrist, and the gun falls and skitters away. His brain takes a few seconds to process that his wrist has been broken, and then intense pain strikes him. A strike to the ribs and he collapses.

  The black man holding the woman looks at them for a moment; she sees her chance and screams loudly for help. Despite her terror, her eyes are riveted on Zeb. She thinks he’ll be shot, but the next moment the black man has fallen to the ground, Zeb standing tall over him, his eyes dark, empty, staring into hers.

  He glides to the one holding her boyfriend; a strike to the neck and a wrist lock and he is on the ground.

  The black man who was holding her stumbles to his feet and flees, and she sees that her rescuer makes no attempt to stop him. In fact, he takes a step back and lets the remaining two black men get up and stumble away too.

  He asks them, ‘I can catch them. Do you want to call the cops?’

  ‘We were just strolling; these guys were hiding in this alley and sprang on us. They took our money, our cards and were looking to take my jewelry when you came in.’ Fear and adrenaline push the words out from her.

  By now the alley has come alive; several doors have opened, the residents emerging from their cocoons. One of them has called the cops, and they can hear the sirens in the distance. The residents surround the couple, and a bubble of excited chatter envelops them. The woman looks up after a few moments to point out Zeb to the residents and thank him, but he’s gone. She goes to the mouth of the alley and looks around the street, but all she can see is shadows and deep darkness.

  The cops do a perfunctory round of questioning, but in the absence of the attackers and the rescuer, there isn’t much more they can do.

  Silence descends as the residents disappear into their homes and the cops take the couple away. Zeb emerges from a recessed doorway down East 36th and walks away into the dark. Broker calls it his Batman syndrome, with a difference: Batman hunted trouble. Trouble hunts Zeb.

  Chapter 10

  Zeb has nearly forgotten that he has agreed to join Connor’s party to attend Hardinger’s fundraiser. Rory’s excited message on his phone reminds him. He checks out of his hotel, finds another one equally anonymous in the square of blocks, checks in, and then proceeds to Cassandra’s apartment.

  Zeb has had to rent a tux for the occasion. At Connor’s place, he finds everyone gathered awaiting him, except for Cassandra. She has gone ahead with the Director. She has let Bear and Chloe go, since the Director has her own security detail around her.

  Anne lets out a whistle when she sees Zeb. ‘My, my, Major. Don’t you clean up nice!’

  Rory giggles.

  ‘Enough of that, children,’ Connor says as he pushes them toward the door.

  They take two cabs, with Zeb sharing with Anne and her boyfriend to the $1000-a-plate charity fundraiser in downtown Manhattan.

  Security is tight and professional, as it has to be with several celebrities and national politicians present. Zeb separates from his main group and hugs a wall, observing the events and the people.

  Hardinger is easy to spot since he’s hosting the event and is never far from center stage. Tall, handsome, tanned, white teeth smiling and a full head of hair: he has all the physical attributes of a successful politician. Zeb has gone through his backstory and knows that he was a marine once and has seen combat.

  Hardinger has security posted discreetly around the hall. He’s probably hired special event security for the evening. Some of the security detail carry the veteran look, but none of them are from the dossier Broker gave him.

  He scans the guests, doesn’t recognize most of them, which doesn’t surprise him. He has only a casual interest in politics and the Hollywood scene.

  He sees Cassandra and the Director seated together; she seems to feel his look, turns around, spots him, and sends a brief smile his way. She gestures that she wants to talk to him afterward. Connor, Lauren, Anne, and her boyfriend are seated together. They’ve left Rory with a babysitter.

  Hardinger is a consummate host, engaging with the audience easily, using a brand of self-deprecating humor to pepper the evening’s festivities.

  Connor signals for him to join them at the dinner table once the serious business is done. ‘How are you finding it, Major?’

  ‘It’s my first event of this kind, so I have no benchmark.’

  ‘Zeb never has any benchmark in any case. He doesn’t compare. He treats everything as a solitary incident,’ interjects a voice behind them.


  Broker.

  Zeb makes the introductions and asks him, ‘I thought Internet forums were your hangout?’

  ‘And I thought the martial arts schools were yours.’

  ‘So how do the two of you know each other?’ asks Anne.

  ‘We bumped into each other in Somalia. I was an intelligence analyst, and Zeb, well, Zeb was just drifting,’ replies Broker with a broad smile.

  ‘I have to say I find this event very polished and sophisticated. But then I would expect nothing less given Hardinger’s standing. It’s easy to see how he has become one of the foremost politicians in the country,’ Connor says, bringing the topic back to the evening.

  ‘You seem to admire him, bro…better be careful. You might end up dropping your story on his company.’ Anne laughs.

  ‘No fear of that. I admire his smoothness, but the story is still alive and heating up. I have some interesting emails from him to his staff in Africa about working conditions and acquiring new mines. Nothing that implicates him directly yet, but one could read a lot between the lines if one chose to do so. The emails are now with my legal department to determine if we can go with the story. But I’m also hoping to get further info from my sources, so fingers crossed.’

  ‘Talking about me?’ a rich baritone booms behind them, and Hardinger appears, clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

  ‘How are you, Connor? Having a good time? Who are your friends?’ he asks, flashing a super-white grin at all of them.

  ‘Good show here, Senator. No wonder the party has so much faith in you when it comes to fundraising,’ replies Connor, introducing the rest of his party.

  ‘Major, huh? Landlubber! I guess someone has to do that job. I mean, carrying our bags while we did the fighting.’ The Senator smiles at Zeb to take the sting out of his words.

  Hardinger guides them, without appearing to do so, to the gallery at the far end. One end of the gallery has photographs of the Senator with the President, the Speaker of the House, various international leaders, news clippings…the tough life of a politician. At the opposite end are photographs of him during his marine days and his medals.

  Anne murmurs, ‘Nice touch. One end he’s doing good for the country; the other end he’s fighting for it.’

  Zeb has to agree. Hardinger with his sniper rifle, posing in various countries of the world, is made for marine recruitment posters.

  ‘So, Connor, how did your Africa trip go?’ asks the Senator.

  ‘It was good, got good background for the series I’m working on.’

  ‘The exposé of the mining industry there? Their working practices and their use of labor?’

  ‘You know very well what I’m working on. Doesn’t Alchemy have some mines in the Congo?’

  ‘Yes, and if you’re implying that Alchemy is perpetrating any wrongdoing, I’ll tell you now that I have no idea what their practices are. I’m no longer running it, but I ran a clean ship when I was there.’

  ‘Time will tell.’

  The Senator stands in front of his marine sniper photographs. ‘You know, Connor, one of the reasons I loved being a sniper was that collateral damage is minimal. But there is always collateral damage in any profession, and a responsible person should take steps to minimize it.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Major?’ he adds, turning to Zeb.

  ‘I was just the bag handler back in the day, Senator. What do I know of these big terms?’ Zeb replies. He’s eyeing the Purple Heart, the Silver Star, and various sniper-award citations on display.

  ‘You any good with a long gun, Major?’ asks Hardinger.

  ‘Yup, at using them as a crutch.’

  Hardinger gives a short bark of laughter. ‘I sense hidden depths in you, Major. I can easily find your service record if I want to.’

  ‘If you find anything of interest, let me know. Maybe we can swap secrets.’

  Hardinger smiles. ‘Have a good time, folks. I have to get back to urging people to open their wallets.’ He walks away.

  Connor watches him. ‘I would love to bring him down.’

  ‘What if you aren’t able to dig up any dirt on Hardinger? Will you can the story?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Nope. The story goes ahead whatever happens. After all, it is about the mining practices of Western-owned mines.’

  ‘That’s good,’ says Lauren with relief. ‘I thought you were losing your objectivity on this story.’

  ‘Won’t happen. I’m after my Pulitzer.’ He chuckles. ‘Come on. Let’s see what’s in store for the rest of the evening.’

  He shepherds all of them back to their seats. Anne glances back and sees Broker lost in thought in front of the Senator’s medals.

  * * *

  It was hot in Mogadishu, almost ninety degrees, the dry weather sucking all moisture from the body. Broker was attached to a Rangers patrol and had been in the city for a few months. They were there to capture General Aidid, who was becoming a major nuisance to peace and the UN-recognized government of Somalia. This was a war sanctioned by the UN, but had been severely hampered by the poor quality of intelligence generated by the US forces.

  Broker had been deployed to the Rangers unit to change that. He had been there a couple of months, and they had already lost a couple of Rangers to Somalian snipers.

  That day they were driving in an armored Jeep along the dusty lanes of Mogadishu. Broker had been the last to board the Jeep and was seated closest to the rear, five others in front of him. He had been ribbed a lot for that, the usual ribbing that intel guys got from field soldiers.

  They rocketed down a dusty road, buildings alongside them. Broker had noticed a green and white hotel, a two-story basic building that they were just passing. The far end of the hotel opened into a crossroad. There weren’t any pedestrians in the heat. The burnt-out shell of a car in front of the hotel was the sole occupant.

  In Mogadishu, dusty, slumbering streets were the battlefields.

  A Somali attired in plain clothes, his face covered by a red towel, stepped from behind the car wreck, holding an RPG launcher in his hand. Broker gaped in disbelief. One second the street was empty, peaceful, the next second there’s this Somali standing there with dust motes swirling around him and death in his hands.

  The Jeep braked suddenly, the Ranger Sergeant shouting, ‘Cover. Cover. Rocket.’

  Broker scrambled off the back, stumbling, recovering himself, and ran toward the wall of the hotel, a recessed doorway, whatever cover he could find, even as he heard the distinctive thump of the launcher. A moment later the Jeep lifted off and was flung against the hotel walls. A blast of heat hit him, followed by the Jeep pinning him, its sidewall and roof lying across his waist and legs.

  Broker blacked out for a minute, and when he came to, he saw that the Ranger driver of the Jeep had taken the blast full-on, his remains lying on the road. As soon as launcher guy had fired, he was joined by several Somalis who had laid down more fire on the Americans behind the burning Jeep.

  His eyesight blurred and hazy with sweat, Broker scrambled for his rifle, which was lying a few feet away, but his body wouldn’t move an inch. He didn’t know how badly he was crushed; his body was pumping adrenaline in massive doses, keeping the pain at bay.

  He turned his head slowly toward the Rangers and saw three of them still alive, the Sergeant barking furiously in his radio and the two others returning fire. All of them damaged but alive. Farther away lay the body of the fourth Ranger, who wouldn’t be returning fire, or anything else, anymore.

  Broker stretched for his rifle, his fingers scraping in the dirt, blood roaring in his ears. Dimly he heard the Sergeant screaming, ‘Cover. Cover,’ and turned to see launcher guy raising the barrel of the launcher toward them as the other Somalis raised a heavy cover fire.

  Launcher guy’s head disappeared in a pink mist. Broker thought one of the Rangers got him, and then he heard another flat crack, and another Somali head disappeared. Broker turned his head, thinking the cavalry had arrived, but could
n’t see anyone. The dusty street was empty save for heat waves.

  Evenly spaced shots, no hurry, a professional, thought Broker dimly, as the flat cracks continued and the Somalis fell. The shooting stopped as the last Somali dropped. Silence filled the street, nothing moved, and then a tall silhouette emerged through the dust waves and stood over Broker.

  Silently, he bent down and pushed at the carcass of the Jeep. The remaining Rangers rushed to help him, and they freed Broker.

  ‘Thanks, dude. We’d be at the Pearly Gates by now if you hadn’t showed up.’ The Sergeant looked at the stranger. ‘Which unit are you with?’

  The stranger kept silent and walked away, his sniper rifle an extension of him.

  Zeb.

  Broker had gone back to the site later when he had recovered – he would have the slightest limp for the rest of his life – and retraced their movements and Zeb’s. Zeb had been walking on the roof of a building when he heard the ambush. Broker could see his footsteps paced evenly on the dust film covering the roof, and then the footsteps lengthened as Zeb began to run. He saw where Zeb had kneeled on the roof and taken his first shot, the one that took out launcher guy. Broker estimated the distance to be close to 1000 yards. Under pressure, kneeling, 1000 yards and the first shot had scored. Broker knew only a handful of men in the world who could make that shot. Broker remembered that each of the subsequent shots had been unhurried, Zeb taking his time despite the obvious pressure on him.

  * * *

  A tap on his shoulder rouses Broker from his reverie.

  ‘You were far away. Joining us?’ Anne asks.

  Broker makes his way to their group, but Zeb is missing. He’s hugging the wall again and scanning the room ceaselessly. The event holds no interest for him.

  Broker joins him after a while. ‘Recognize any of them?’

  Zeb shakes his head.

  ‘Me neither,’ replies Broker, ‘but then I wasn’t really expecting any of them to be here. Holt might be a twisted son of a bitch, but he’s not a stupid twisted son of a bitch, and that’s assuming there is a link between Holt and Hardinger.’