Zeb Carter

by Ty Patterson

  Took great gulps of air, letting it fill him and drive the darkness away, until thinking and rationality and time and space returned.

  He bent shakily. Bykov was dead.

  He checked the terrorist.

  Atash Mohammed’s eyes stared blankly at the sky.

  The terrorist would never kill, rape, or maim again.

  He picked up his HK and checked the SUV.

  No one alive inside.

  The trucks were burning wrecks. No chance that anyone could survive in them.

  Zeb sucked air and wiped his face. His hands came away wet and red.

  Yes, that cut . He had forgotten about it.

  Now, it all returned. The wounds in his shoulder, the blows against his neck.

  He was alive, however.

  He took stumbling steps towards his Toyota and leaned against it. Took a long drink from his water canteen and bathed his face.

  He tried his vehicle.

  It wouldn’t start.

  Went to its rear and brought out the M82 from the crate.

  Slung it across his back.

  HK over one shoulder. The Barrett across the other.

  He started walking.

  Far ahead was Dushanbe and the Pamir Highway, on which bandits roamed.

  A reddening sky spread above, beneath which there was no one more lethal than Zeb Carter.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Two weeks later

  Washington DC

  General Klein sighed in relief as he stood under the shower in his Georgetown house.

  Briefing politicians, going through the details of major operations, looking at budget figures … the life of a four-star general wasn’t as glamorous as it was made out to be.

  He shampooed his thick hair, let the water beat down on him, toweled himself briskly and stepped out.

  He lived alone. There had been a wife once, but she had found him hard to get along with. Thankfully, they didn’t have children. Klein liked his life unencumbered and that thing with Tucker … it gave him freedom, of the financial kind.

  Thing. Because he didn’t want to put any other label on it. Of course, he was a patriot! He loved his country. Had served it well. What was so wrong if he enriched himself in the process?

  He had panicked when Tucker had been found dead. At the hands of terrorists, the folks at Kandahar said. It was still a mystery, still under investigation, since no one knew what Tucker had been doing in Badakshan and why the soldiers with him were dressed so.

  Klein had managed to steer the investigation to a rapidly approaching dead end.

  He whistled as he rummaged through his wardrobe.

  As for Atash Mohammed, his death had been a relief. With Tucker gone, Klein had no way of knowing what was happening in the region, other than the official channels. The Afghan police said the terrorist had somehow learned of the coalition attack—which had been very successful—and had fled the region.

  It looked like he had been accosted by Tajiki gangs and killed.

  The world heaved a sigh of relief. One less terrorist.

  Carter? There was no news of him. Klein had asked Speer and even Kilmer. They both said the mercenary had made no contact at all. He was probably dead.

  Klein drove one leg through his pajamas, hopped around to—

  ‘Hey!’ He lost balance, stumbled and propped himself against the wall. He was staring stupidly at the figure in the door.

  Carter!

  ‘Who … How …?’ He grasped for words, his poise, his command lost and then it returned. He was a four-star general. He met with presidents.

  ‘How did you get in here?’ he barked. ‘Get out before I call the cops.’

  ‘You recognize me?’ Carter didn’t move.

  ‘Of course, I do,’ the general sneered. He drew up his pajamas and straightened to his full height. ‘You’re the one who stripped. Got some more scars to show? Is that why you’re here?’

  Carter didn’t answer. His eyes were calm, measured, as they took in Klein.

  His manner enraged the general. ‘Son, do you know how many laws you are breaking just by being here? I’ll give you one last chance. Get out of my house.’

  ‘Laws. You didn’t think much of them when you leaked classified information to Jesse Tucker.’

  Terror swept through Klein. He didn’t let it show, however.

  ‘Tucker? Classified information? What the hell are you talking about?’ he snapped and held up a hand. ‘Don’t answer. I don’t want to know. I am calling the police.’

  He darted around the bed and grabbed his cell. Punched numbers on it furiously, while keeping his eyes on the intruder.

  There was no network.

  ‘I disabled it,’ Carter said, as casually as though he were discussing the weather.

  Klein felt fear. He controlled his panic as he raced through his options.

  ‘Your offshore account. I found it. Did some digging. There was an interesting trail from it that went back to Tucker and a Russian firm. Bykov’s. You know him?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve lost your mind,’ Klein thundered, edging towards his pillow. There was a handgun underneath it. If he could reach it …

  ‘Atash Mohammed, Tucker, they knew I was coming. The leak could have come only from Washington. From you.’ Carter didn’t move a muscle. His voice didn’t change.

  Klein dove, and went sprawling when what felt like a concrete block hit him in the chest.

  He groaned deeply and squeezed his eyes shut. Carter was standing over him when he opened them.

  How had the man moved so fast?

  ‘That’s assault—’

  ‘You are lucky,’ Carter continued remorselessly.

  ‘Lucky?’ Klein tried to sit up. He fell back when Carter shoved him with a leg.

  ‘You had no hand in the Delta operatives’ capture. Or death.’

  The general panted, his head ringing, trying to gather his mind. He raised his head, and terror spread through him at the expression on his visitor’s face.

  ‘Otherwise, you would have died slowly,’ Carter said, as he stooped and dragged him to the bathroom.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  On his return from Tajikistan, the first person Zeb had contacted was an intelligence analyst.

  Broker, a former Ranger, had been a rising star in the Pentagon, whispered to be one of the best in the country. Broker didn’t agree with those whispers. He claimed he was the best.

  On leaving the army, he had set up his own business, delivering briefing reports to world governments and global corporations.

  He had listened in silence, not commenting on the still-healing wounds on Zeb’s face, or the way he moved his shoulder.

  ‘You want me to look into Pentagon generals?’

  ‘Yeah, and see if anyone has—’

  ‘I get it. I’ll do it.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  His movie-star face had broken into a grin. ‘I’ve always wanted to take down some of those pompous asses.’

  ‘He, they, might have offshore accounts.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Offshore, Broker,’ Zeb had told him exasperatedly. ‘There won’t be any trail. Those banks will clam up—’

  ‘Not to me,’ the analyst said airily and dismissed Zeb with a wave.

  He had delivered.

  Liberty Bell, Virginia

  Lisa Tucker ran her hands through her hair as she surveyed her kitchen.

  The house was small, modest, but she, Jesse and their fourteen-year-old daughter, Kylie, called it home. It was not far from Chesterfield, where Lisa worked in a law firm.

  Home.

  She choked back her tears and tidied the kitchen. Kylie would be back from school soon. She had to make dinner, maintain the façade for her daughter that they would get through this.

  How will I?

  The news of Jesse’s death had shattered their world. She had gone through the funeral, all the formalities th
at accompanied a serving officer’s death, robotically.

  Now that a couple of weeks had passed, reality had caught up.

  Jesse had been warm, loving. The only man she had loved. He filled the house when he was home, made life worth living.

  How will I get through this without him?

  The tears started as she cleaned the sink.

  Her heart lurched when she thought of Kylie, her treatment. Their daughter had a rare lung disease that wasn’t covered by their insurance. Drugs were expensive and they just about managed on their combined salaries.

  What will happen now? The mortgage?

  The pension wouldn’t be enough. Neither would the few savings they had. Selling the house wasn’t an option, either. Rents were sky-high.

  She choked back a sob. Kylie would be back. Her daughter, normally cheerful, now dealing with her dad’s death. It wouldn’t do for her to see her mom in pieces.

  The door buzzer registered on her.

  ‘Coming,’ she quavered and wiped her face, blew her nose and went to the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked the man at the door.

  He was lean, with closely cropped dark hair, shades over his eyes, clean-shaven, a scar on his forehead.

  T-shirt tucked into jeans, a jacket.

  She had never seen him before.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m Stephen Miller. I served with your husband in Afghanistan. I am very sorry for your loss.’

  Miller? Jesse hadn’t mentioned any such name. She had met most of his friends.

  She was still processing the stranger’s arrival when he reached inside his jacket and drew out an envelope.

  ‘Jesse and I, ma’am, we had a thing for investing. We used to jointly invest in penny stocks. It was just for fun. We didn’t put in anything more than a few hundred dollars each. I didn’t mention it to my wife. I don’t think he told you. Our investments built over time, though. And three of those companies got acquired by bigger ones. I liquidated our holdings when Jesse …’ he handed over the envelope.

  She opened it and withdrew the check.

  Sound faded. Her mind went blank.

  ‘Is that …’

  ‘That’s Jesse’s share, ma’am. There’s one more sheet inside. A breakdown of our investments.’

  She counted the zeroes, her fingers trembling. That number. It would cover everything and still leave them with a cushion. Something wet fell on the check. Rain.

  No, not rain, a tear.

  She sniffed, wiped her eyes and pressed the check against her shirt.

  ‘I—’

  ‘I’ll be going, ma’am.’

  ‘Wait …’

  He turned back, expectantly.

  She waved the envelope in the air helplessly. She didn’t know what to say. Aware that tears were streaming down her face. ‘Stephen Miller?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She broke down.

  She sagged against the door, clutched her hand to her mouth and cried silently.

  Jesse. He had provided for them even in his death.

  ‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she heard him say. She raised her head but he was walking away swiftly, towards a black SUV. It rolled down the street, turned a corner, and went out of sight.

  She spotted Kylie walking with her friends and wiped her face hastily.

  ‘Who was that, Mom?’ her daughter asked when she approached.

  ‘A friend of Dad’s, honey. He came to pay his respects.’

  Her daughter looked at her, fourteen years old, but maturing fast, aware that she and her mom now had only each other.

  ‘Will everything be all right, Mom?’

  Lisa Tucker drew her tight and hugged her, feeling the warmth of her daughter’s body, the smell of her hair.

  ‘Yes, honey.’

  Zeb was back in New York, several days later, when the text message came.

  By then, the news of Klein’s death had faded from the media’s memory.

  Sure, he was a four-star general and slipping in the bathroom, cracking his head against the wall and dying, was unusual. But the cops said it wasn’t suspicious and there were political and celebrity scandals to cover. Klein was quickly forgotten.

  Zeb thumbed his phone. The message was from Kilmer.

  He had briefed the colonel on his return, after dealing with the general, and after the visit to Lisa Tucker.

  Kilmer had grabbed him in a tight hug and thumped his back several times. His normal, expressionless face had returned by the time they sat. He had listened without interruption and had sighed heavily when he heard of Tucker’s involvement.

  ‘That should not come out,’ Zeb had told him. He didn’t mention his visit to Liberty Bell. That wasn’t anyone’s business.

  ‘I can’t bury that,’ Kilmer had protested.

  ‘You can. His family does not deserve to live in the shadow it will cast.’

  The colonel had taken one look at his face and had nodded.

  No one else would ever know of Colonel Jesse Tucker’s betrayal.

  ‘The bodies? Chick, Bud and Kelly’s? Were they recovered?’

  Kilmer nodded. ‘Yeah. During the attack, a team of soldiers went to that valley. They retrieved all the bodies there.’

  ‘I had Mohammed in my sights. I didn’t take the shot. I wanted to …’

  ‘Kill him up close? I figured,’ the ghost of a smile had appeared on the colonel’s face.

  ‘What if I had failed?’

  Kilmer ran a finger idly around his cup. ‘Our backup plan was to storm Sori during the coalition attack. Guess what? We did that and found no terrorist there. Sure, we captured and killed several, but not in Sori. They’d probably taken to the caves. What I am saying is, if you had failed—’

  ‘Mohammed would still be out there.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The colonel had deposited a few bills on the table and risen.

  ‘Klein? You had anything to do with that?’

  ‘Who’s Klein?’

  Zeb opened Kilmer’s message.

  ‘Do you know a Stephen Miller?’

  ‘No,’ he replied and tossed his phone aside.

  There was another message when he returned from his shower.

  ‘Lisa Tucker sends her thanks to Stephen Miller.’

  More Books

  Click here , to download a free ebook and subscribe to Ty Patterson’s newsletter

  Click on the cover to check out The Peace Killers, Book 2 in the Zeb Carter series

  Nook

  Bonus Chapter from The Peace Killers

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Eliel Magal woke up when the city was still dark.

  No , he corrected himself, when he cracked open the window and peered out at the quiet neighborhood. It was grey. Dawn was approaching fast.

  Five thirty am. He didn’t have to look at the bedside clock to know what time it was. He always woke up at that hour. Deeply ingrained habit.

  He padded to the small bathroom and when he emerged, knocked on the door down the hallway. Navon Shiri opened instantly, eyes alert, hair brushed neatly, dressed in plain white.

  The two men went to the kitchen and prepared breakfast. Warm milk for Magal, cereal and a banana for Shiri, who took his bowl to the living room and turned on the TV, to the Palestinian Broadcasting Corporation, PBC, channel. The programming wasn’t available in Israel, but the two men had piggybacked on an illegal feed and were able to watch the content.

  Magal joined him on the couch and the two watched the news in silence.

  The two men could have been brothers. They weren’t. They were lightly tanned, dark eyes, short cropped hair, clean shaven. Five feet six inches tall. No distinguishing features. Nothing about them stood out.

  Magal’s glass clinked when he placed it on the table and watched the screen.

  Gaza was burning, as was the West Bank.

  The United States had opened its embassy in Jerusalem and that had triggered intense outrage and violent protests in Palesti
ne.

  Thousands of Palestinian protesters had gathered at the border fence and had thrown Molotov cocktails, burning tires, stones, whatever missiles they could find, at the Israeli Defense Forces, IDF, on the other side of the fence. The IDF had fired in return and dozens of people had been killed.

  Shiri peeled his banana and flicked to another news channel. Different reporter, same coverage. He went back to the previous one and bit into his fruit.

  The two of them didn’t need to discuss the riots. They knew what had happened. Every person in Israel and Palestine knew of the region’s history and that of Jerusalem in particular.

  Palestinians believed they were an oppressed people, Israel the oppressor. The majority of Israelis believed they were defending their country and their land.

  Nabil and Shiri didn’t look at the screen when the reporter brought up a map and went through a history recap.

  Nineteen forty-eight, Israel declared itself as an independent state. The next day, war broke out between a coalition of Arab nations and the newly-formed country. Jordan occupied West Bank and East Jerusalem, Egypt took over Gaza at the end of the war.

  Nineteen sixty-seven, another war at the end of which, Israel occupied East Jerusalem, Gaza, Golan Heights and Sinai. Nineteen seventy-nine, Israel and Egypt signed a historic peace treaty and Sinai was returned to Egypt.

  That eventually lead to what the Palestine state currently was. A country that was in two geographical parts. West Bank, bordered by Jordan to the east and Israel in all other directions, and the Gaza Strip which had the Mediterranean Sea behind it, Egypt to the south and Israel at the north and west. Palestine’s two regions did not share a border between them.

  The political and governance of the state was divided, too. West Bank was administered by the Palestine National Authority, while Gaza was ruled by Hamas, which, Israel, the United States and the European Union regarded as a terrorist organization.

  The reporter droned on about the status of Jerusalem, that East Jerusalem was claimed by Palestine but was controlled by Israel. Shiri tuned to Kan TV, the Israeli channel. Similar news, with an Israeli slant. He grunted in disgust and was about to turn off the TV when Magal raised his hand.

  The reporter went into breathless excitement mode.

  ‘There are several rumors,’ she leaned forward, her eyes sparkling, ‘that Israeli and Palestinian negotiators are meeting in secret to work out a historic peace accord. Government officials on both sides have declined to comment on this.’