The Warrior
by
Ty Patterson
Copyright © 2012 by Ty Patterson
This 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.
Books by Ty Patterson
Warriors Series
The Warrior, Warriors series, Book 1
The Reluctant Warrior, Warriors series, Book 2
Coming soon: The Warrior Code, Warriors series, Book 3
Praise for The Warrior
What a ride — Christine Terrell, Goodreads
What a great book! It has been a long time since I have had a book keep me on the edge!
I believe Ty Patterson is the next up and coming thriller writer
The Warrior Rocks
Ty Patterson is now added to my favorites list
A must read!
Intense – No Better Way of Saying It
Zeb Is My Hero! If Only He Were Real
What an awesome book!
A real page turner!
Gripping Read
A must read for anyone who enjoys a well told story
Acknowledgements
Donna Rich for her proofreading, Pauline Nolet for her proofreading and editing,(http://www.paulinenolet.com/),Jason & Marina Anderson of Polgarus Studio (http://www.polgarusstudio.com), for formatting.
Dedications
To my wife who challenged me, and my son who inspired me.
Chapter 1
He lies in the moonless night, waiting.
He came to the village just as dusk settled in, and has become one with the rainforest. The mud huts with thatched roofs are just about a hundred yards away, so close that he can hear conversations in the huts, families eating, children crying, and women cooking. The village is split by a road going through it, with huts almost evenly scattered on either side of it, about two hundred of them in all. He knows from his reconnaissance file that there is a concrete structure in the middle of the village that serves as a communal school and youth center.
He observes the arrival of the soldiers close to midnight, about forty of them in two trucks and an open-topped Jeep, a few white-skinned among them. He hears them banging through huts, the screams of women and children, sounds of violence, and the occasional shots.
He calls Andrews on his satellite phone.
‘Shit has happened. Forty-odd soldiers drove in half an hour back. I can’t see what’s happening, but I can hear women and children screaming, and shooting. I’m going in.’
‘No!’ Andrews shouts across continents. He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. ‘Don’t engage. Observe, record, and report was your remit, and still is. Are those FDLR soldiers?’
‘Wearing those uniforms. A few white-skinned in them as well. Haven’t a clue if they’re the real deal or not,’ he replies. ‘I can get up close and personal and find out if I go in.’
Andrews laughs harshly. ‘I know what that means. You are not going in whatever happens. I’ll call their embassy in Washington as well as our embassy over there and alert them. BUT YOU ARE STAYING PUT.’ His voice rises with each word.
He lets Andrews stew in the ensuing silence for a long while till Andrews breaks.
‘I know what you want to do, but trust me on this. You are a more valuable asset outside than inside despite whatever shit is raining down there.’
He hangs up on Andrews and continues observing, blackness coiling deep inside him.
He starts the tabla in his head to drown out the anguish of the women and children, and forces his mind to play various taals. He is on the teentaal when the trucks finally roar off filled with the soldiers; the voices of the women and children mute a little, but not by much.
The Jeep is still there, its front just peeping out from the shadow of a hut. He silences his mental tabla and listens. Ghostly shadows move between the huts occasionally. If sound could be blotted, it would be a lazy evening in the Congo.
* * *
Zeb is a specialist, a troubleshooter – a private military contractor if you want to be nit-picky.
In an earlier life, he was with the US Special Forces. Some would say he is a mercenary. He is hired around the world for his skills in finding things. Things such as stolen nuclear warheads or terrorists. He is also hired for finding people: hostages kidnapped for ransom, soldiers held prisoner in enemy territory, civilians held hostage by wackos – finding anyone, really.
He has often acted as a bodyguard, security consultant, or protector. Sometimes he is hired to make people disappear. Bad people, roaches. Some call him an assassin. He knows he isn’t one, but can do that job better than the best assassins in the world. Labels don’t bother him. His job is a violent, high-risk one. He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t.
Armed forces across the world hire him, as do police forces, national governments, Hollywood stars, and billionaires.
* * *
His last assignment had been to retrieve a stolen Russian nuclear warhead.
He had to work with the agency as well as various covert government organizations in Europe, the USA, and Russia, infiltrate a few terrorist cells, and negotiate with the world’s most wanted arms dealers before locating the warhead in a mosque in Detroit. He had then called in the agency, who in turn had called a few WDE (We Don’t Exist) organizations to conduct a dawn raid on the mosque. He was part of the team that went in; it was his finger that pulled the trigger splattering the brains of two members of the cell.
He had flown to New York for his debrief at one of the several anonymous offices maintained or temporarily occupied by various federal agencies.
Andrews was waiting for him in the colorless office. ‘We have something else for you, if you’re interested.’
That was Andrews. Good at small talk.
‘But first things first,’ continued Andrews. ‘Report?’
He wordlessly handed it across. He had worked with Andrews for a long time, could easily read him, and he knew Andrews wasn’t really interested in his report. He would have been thoroughly debriefed by the WDE agents. Andrews was here to stoke his interest in the next assignment, whatever it was. Andrews was a first-rate handler who gave him interesting assignments, and for that he could tolerate his boring games. For a short while.