The Warrior Code (11 page)

Zeb winced and transferred the call to the SUV’s speakers and turned down the volume. He was in a Honda SUV, heading in the general direction of the twins, and had been enjoying the wind playing through the window just before Broker called.

‘What’s that?’

‘Who, not what!’

‘Krone, Palisano and Romero. Mercenaries who came out of Bedrock three years back and set up their own outfit. They’ve worked in Angola, Sierra Leone, South Africa, Colombia, many hot spots, and have worked stateside too.’

Bedrock was one of the largest military contractors in the country and supplied specialist personnel to the military and to private clients. To anyone who paid top dollar. Most of their staff was ex-military recruited from around the world; they were hired out to guard oil fields, protect African dictators, undertake deniable ops for the militaries of the world, and sometimes carry out distinctly unlawful acts.

‘You sure about those three?’

‘Sixty-percent match is what my program came back with, which is pretty good.’

He filled Zeb in.

Krone had been a sergeant in the U.S. Army and had seen action in Afghanistan and Iraq. He was a sniper. He was also borderline psychopathic, and the Army had been happy to see his back when he’d done his twenty.

He’d joined Bedrock, and there, he’d met Palisano, ex-Canadian Army, and Romero, who’d been in the Mexican Special Forces. The threesome set up their own outfit after two years with the large military contractor. They earned a rep for taking on any job and executing it by any means necessary.

‘My CIA contact said they would be delighted if these three stopped polluting the earth.’ Broker’s laugh rumbled in the vehicle. ‘I suspect our CIA friends contracted these scum and aren’t happy with the outcome of that job.

‘I’ve more news for you. Jeremy Rodriguez. He’s the cutout. He lives in Washington Park in Chicago, a high-crime neighborhood, which seems fitting given what his day job is. He was one of those Windy City numbers Cargill called. The other numbers are other guys he did business with, but Rodriguez, who goes by Rod, was known to the cops as a fixer and is also on the FBI watch list. The timeline of the calls matches the timeline of the events. In fact, Cargill called Rod a few hours before you had your pleasant chat with him.’

Zeb mulled it over. ‘Krone is still our priority. He and his guys have the training, access to kit, and presumably are well paid. Question is, by whom?’

‘Let’s find them. Then we’ll ask them.’

‘Major Zebadiah Carter.’ The Voice was firm and strong even over the speaker of the cheap phone in the vehicle.

Krone, his bald head gleaming in the evening sunlight filtering through the Escalade’s tinted windows, raised his eyebrows at Palisano and Romero. They shook their heads. The community of private military contractors was small, tight knit, and the three of them kept their ears close to chatter. They would have heard of Carter.

The Voice read their silence correctly. ‘Nope, he isn’t one of your mercenaries. He was Special Forces, dropped out several years back, and set up a security consulting business. That lasted for only about a year or so, and then he just disappeared. He was reported killed a year and a half back, but obviously he’s alive. And he kicked your ass.’

Krone’s fingers tightened on the wheel, but he kept quiet. The hand that paid you had the right to admonish you. Especially if you had fucked up.

The Voice continued. ‘My contacts say he’s got some kinda connection to Murphy, the FBI Director. I asked some other sources about him, they came back and asked why I was asking.’ They heard him stand up and walk around. ‘I tried pulling his Army file, and it had more security clearances than I knew existed.

‘Bottom line, he’s no pilgrim.’

Krone spoke in a voice that sounded like a buzz saw. ‘What about the girls? Where are they?’

‘They’re still in Jackson. But the cops are tighter than their own skin around them. You can still get them, but there’s bound to be blowback.’

Especially if you guys are caught alive
. The Voice didn’t say that, but it was clear to all of them.

The Voice lost its even tone. ‘You assholes. How difficult is it to get a couple of women who have just one guy with them? You are three men against that one man. You not only let him get away, but it’s possible he's hunting you now.’

Krone’s reply was clipped and hard. ‘No chance of that happening. He doesn’t know who we are. He questioned Cargill, but Cargill didn’t know who we were. Cargill didn’t see us, didn’t know how to contact us, we made sure of that, and he isn’t talking anymore.’

The Voice raged. ‘You dumb fuck, Carter easily escaped you. Don’t you think you’re underestimating him?’

Krone gripped the wheel hard. If the person at the other end of the phone had been in front of him that very moment, he would’ve snapped his neck.

‘We’ll take care of it.’

‘You’d better. He can start asking questions and that’s never a good thing as far as I’m concerned. Grab the girls, deliver them to our friend, and get rid of Carter. This is your last chance. If you fail, I’ll bring the other party in.’ The rage had disappeared from the Voice, leaving it cold and hard. ‘I’ll see if I can find anything more on him.’

Krone hung up and stared out of the window. They’d parked in a rest stop, empty except for a trucker who was catching a nap in his red and chrome Peterbilt. Swirls of air eddied, causing miniature whirlpools that died under the stern gaze of the sun.

‘We have two problems,’ he growled after a while. ‘The girls and this fucker Carter. We need to draw them out somehow. Maybe a trap. The second problem is this guy in Chicago who put us in touch with Cargill.’

Romero nodded. ‘
Si.
He could finger us.’

‘Hey, we aren’t getting paid to silence the cutout,’ Palisano protested. He was shorter than the two of them, at five seven, but was lean and tough and mean. That last characteristic had made him an invaluable part of the team.

Krone glared at him. ‘You want to leave him alone so that he can rat on us?’

Palisano shut up, and after a while, Krone swung the vehicle around.

In the direction of Chicago.

Silencing the middleman came first.

Zeb drove ten more miles before he slammed the brakes and got a blaring horn and a finger in protest as a pickup truck swept past him.

He eased onto the shoulder of the road and dialed Broker.

‘Cargill’s dead.’ he told Broker.

‘Yeah. So?’

‘So who else could lead us to those three?’

Broker saw the connection immediately. ‘Gotcha. Rodriguez might also know who Krone’s paymaster is.’ He drummed his fingers in silence for a moment. ‘Head back to Cheyenne. I’ll arrange the plane for you. You can bet those guys will be flying too. I just hope you get there in time.’

They had taken more than two days to work out that the cutout could also lead them to Krone. Enough time for Krone to eliminate the broker.

‘Rodriguez might not know anything,’ Broker commented.

‘Possible. But we won't know unless we ask him.’

‘You’ve got enough stuff with you?’ Broker asked Zeb.

‘Yeah.’ Zeb knew what Broker meant. Weapons. Ammunition. He had more than enough. To last a war. Or start one.

Which was what he might face in Chicago.

Chapter 12

A Lear jet was waiting for Zeb at Cheyenne Regional Airport.

Years back, they had taken down a terrorist cell in Morocco and in the process had rescued a hostage. A girl who had been treated like a slave by the gang, used and abused by them.

The girl had turned out to be the daughter of a high-ranking royal in a Middle Eastern country. A country that the United States was keen to improve relations with.

The grateful royal had met Clare and had handed over a check. A check which had made her raise her eyebrows.

‘We can’t.’ She had returned the check.

The royal had taken it, added two more zeros and had pushed it back to her. ‘I’ll keep adding till you accept,’ he said simply. He would’ve given away his kingdom for his daughter.

Clare had handed the check over to Broker and Zeb. ‘It’s yours. Do what you wish with it.’

They had bought an office block in downtown Manhattan, all six of them equal shareholders, had let out most of the floors, retained one floor for themselves, and Broker had taken over the basement parking lot. He had converted part of the parking lot into his toy shop – a fully functional garage and a warehouse for all the latest surveillance kit that money could buy, and some that it couldn’t.

The Lear jet was another toy that Broker kept on standby. The two pilots and the steward were all ex-service men, competent, hard, and had bonded quickly with all of them.

The interior was done in mahogany and leather and had a luxuriously appointed bar, kitchenette and bathroom. ‘Not as if you’ll notice or care.’ Broker snorted whenever Zeb used the jet.

The steward greeted Zeb politely and shut the exit immediately once he’d boarded and then left him alone.

They all knew Zeb.

They were wheels down in Chicago three hours later.

Zeb took a cab to downtown Chicago, where he hired his favored set of wheels, an SUV with darkened windows, and drove to Washington Park, a community on the south side of the city. The community took its name from the recreational area on its eastern border.

The community had seen Irish and German settlers in the mid to late nineteenth century, but today was a neighborhood in slow decline. The lack of any commercial center or industry in the community was resulting in a leaking of the population to cities with more jobs and more opportunities.

What was left was a community that regularly ranked high in various dangerous-neighborhood statistics.

Zeb drove slowly, soaked in the atmosphere, and noticed the groups of men idling around aimlessly in pockets.
It’s the absence of hope that kills a community.

Rodriguez lived on the third floor of a low-rise apartment block that overlooked a busy street, the other side of which featured other low-rise apartments. There were elementary and middle schools nearby, and Zeb could see several toddlers playing in the fenced-off green inside the apartment block. Zeb could see boards of realtors’ hanging out of various apartments. Clearly demand for rental properties was high.

He made three passes of the block, identified the windows of the cutout’s apartment, and looked over the cars parked on the street before nosing into an empty parking slot.

Zeb sat in the vehicle for hours and surveyed the vehicles parked on the street. He watched traffic pass through the apartment block and was able to separate the residents from the visitors, vendors from landlords. His SUV was registered in the name of a realtor who had apartments in the block on their books. A few clicks on Broker’s laptop had created the new, temporary identity.

He slipped on a jacket, donned his shades and, holding his backpack in his left hand, slipped out of his SUV and walked purposefully to the apartment block’s entrance.

The block had an intercom entrance, but he timed his walk so that he reached the entrance just as a couple of other tenants opened the entrance door. He smiled briefly in thanks, just another realtor out to help tenants get the best deal.
Those guys might know what I look like by now, and this getup won’t fool them if they’re watching.

Zeb took the stairs and reached the third floor.

The apartment block was laid out like millions of others across the country, built by developers to cater to mixed-income residents, some of them families, some of them single tenants, many of them apartment sharing. The apartment block had four buildings laid out in a square, enclosing a recreation area. On the outside, the blocks were surrounded by parking spaces, and the approach to the street was fenced off.

Mixed income was a misnomer, since in this neighborhood, the tenants were usually low income. This floor had six single-bedroom apartments laid out three each on either side of the stairwell.

Two apartments facing each other on the left and right of the central corridor, and an apartment on either side of the corridor, bookending it.

The corridor was ten feet wide, with dim, recessed lighting. The lights were turned off since it was early evening, and natural lighting flooded the block. On either side of the stairwell were large windows, giant blocks of empty space; they looked over the enclosed recreation area.

Zeb stood at one of the windows and looked down at the recreation space, at a couple of mothers playing with their babies. Sounds and smells reached him. Laughter and dinner floated in the air.

Rodriquez’s apartment was to his left. It was to the right of the stairs as one climbed, with a direct view of the door.

Why would a criminal stay here? In the midst of families?

It came to him.
That’s why. The families provide him with cover and a safety net. Neither cops nor gangbangers want to wage war in such an apartment block. It would invite too much heat.

The pinging started in him, deep and constant. It was an uneasy feeling that told him something wasn’t right, and his brain reacted, commanding adrenaline to flow through him. Zeb squared his shoulders; his jacket widened just enough to smoothly draw his Glock if needed.

Broker had tried the criminal’s number several times and hadn’t made contact. There was a landline associated with his apartment, but that had been disconnected.

He’s either dead, or they’re waiting inside.

The apartment opposite to Rodriguez’s opened, and a young girl, about eight years old, skipped out, holding a green scooter. She stopped on seeing the stranger standing at the window. The stranger didn’t turn. Just his head swiveled, dark glasses looked her way, looked back again. The stranger didn’t speak, didn’t smile. The girl ignored him. She slammed the door behind her, smoothed her cornrows, which gleamed against her ebony skin, and headed to the play area below.

She turned back to bang on Rodriguez’s door. She did that every day, same time, just to annoy him.