The Warrior

Broker calls back in the evening with two hundred names and addresses fitting the approximate age profile for Holt’s mother in New Jersey.

The next day Zeb starts calling each of those addresses. He is calling on behalf of the Department of Defense to inform them of increased pension benefits to the next of kin of veterans. That’s his cover. It never hurts to appeal to greed.

After three hours of calling, he is just two-thirds down the list. So far none of the Holts are the one he’s looking for. Several of those Holts have kin in the armed forces, but none of them are Carsten Holt or anyone resembling him.

He takes a break, strips down to loose, flowing trousers, and does his deep-breathing exercises. His living room is spacious, and its wooden flooring and high roof make it a good dojo-at-home.

Once he completes his breathing exercises, he starts off with simple Kalaripayattu moves, progressing to more complex; his body seamlessly blends motion and stillness. Kalaripayattu is one of the oldest martial arts in the world and has its roots in the tiny state of Kerala in India. Zeb had been lucky to be taken under the wing of a seventy-year-old gurukkal, a teacher.

Zeb showers after his training and gets back to his calling. It’s dusk by the time he has gone through all the names. He has had to go back and call a few of the names again since he didn’t get a person the first time he called. There are still about thirty names for whom he left voice mails.

He opens a can of soup, warms it up, and eats it with garlic bread as he watches the city prepare itself for another night.

He checks his phone later and finds a message from Cassandra. Co

The next day, Zeb calls the remaining addresses, reaches most of them, has no luck with them, and leaves a voice mail for the remaining.

He calls Broker to ask him if he has any update on Hardinger. Broker tells him he’s putting together a dossier and should be ready in a few days.

Zeb heads out to Cassandra’s, and when he nears her mid-rise, he spots them. One of them is across the street reading a newspaper and seemingly casual but observing the entrance. The other has taken a leaf from Zeb’s book; he is slumped in the driver’s seat in a yellow cab, off-duty sign on, parked just short of the building. He’s wearing shades and holding a book in front of him, but Zeb can see that he’s also observing the entrance.

They haven’t spotted him, if he is the one they are watching for. Zeb gets a cappuccino from a café and watches them. The one on the street is checking out anyone approaching the mid-rise, and the one in the cab is watching the forecourt of the mid-rise. They are wearing throat microphones and tiny colorless earpieces. The one on the street occasionally looks at the cabbie as they speak.

After nearly an hour of study, Zeb decides to force their hands. He crosses the street in plain view of both and approaches the entrance of the building from the front of the cab. Out of the corner of his eye he can see cabbie tightening up and then consciously relaxing. Zeb goes up to the entrance of the mid-rise, reverses in one fluid motion, yanks open the passenger door of the cab, leans in, and strikes a pressure point behind the cabbie’s ear. The cabbie collapses against the wheel, out of service.

The watcher across the street stares in disbelief. This is not in the script. This was supposed to be a routine surveillance operation to watch out for the mark and report in when he turned up. He and his colleague are experienced agents and have taken down their share of badasses before, but the utter ease with which the mark has taken out his colleague shocks him. He hasn’t seen anyone move so fast, changing from casual to lethal in a second. He calls his office and briefs them and is asked to check on his colleague but otherwise stay put, continue keeping a watch till others arrive.

He crosses the street to the cab and peers in. His colleague is unconscious but seems to be unharmed in any other way. He stands undecided for a moment, looking around the entrance to the building and around the street. He doesn’t see the mark anywhere and thinks he has gone inside the building. He has lost sight of him.

Zeb has ducked down behind a few cars parked behind the cab, run back and crossed the street to the other side. He’s now sitting in the same café in his former position. He has not made any efforts to hide himself and is in plain sight from the other side of the street. He knows what will happen now. What he doesn’t know is what happens next once the cavalry show up.

They arrive half an hour later in a dark Lincoln and park behind the cab. By then, the cabbie has recovered and is chatting with the other watcher, no sign of any injury. A tall man steps out of the Lincoln’s passenger seat, followed by the driver, and the four of them have a meeting. The tall man, the leader, looks at the building and up and down the street as the watchers speak. He issues instructions as he continues to scan the area and breaks off mid-speech when he spots Zeb across the street.

Zeb gives them a little wave and holds up his cappuccino.

There is a flurry of frantic discussion among the four of them, and then they head across the street. Zeb smiles at the way they spread themselves out as they near him.

‘Have coffee, gentlemen, and rest your legs. I got tired just watching you.’ Zeb relaxes, sprawling in his chair.

‘FBI. Special Agent in Charge Isakson,’ the tall man introduces himself with a clipped, controlled voice, but Zeb can detect the anger beneath the tone. ‘I can have you arrested for assaulting a federal agent.’

‘Me? Who did I assault? I went to the assistance of your agent, who seemed to be suffering from a nervous breakdown. I didn’t touch him. As soon as I entered his cab, he fainted. I checked that he was okay and exited the cab. That’s assault now, according to the FBI?’

Pressure-point unconsciousness sometimes plays havoc with short-term memory, and Zeb is banking that the driver doesn’t remember much of what went on in the cab.

Isakson looks at his agent, who shrugs and looks embarrassed.

‘Why are you guys watching for me?’ Zeb asks.

‘We wanted to talk to you in private, but since you’ve forced this,’ Isakson says, ‘we want you to back off your investigation. We want you to keep your distance from Holt. We want your sidekick, Broker, to not come sniffing around our systems for Holt’s details. You have no idea what you’re getting involved with, the various co

‘Remember, under the Patriot Act we have almost unlimited powers. Suspects have been known to disappear indefinitely under this Act. And if you think your sister’s co

Zeb doesn’t say a single word, nor move a muscle, yet Isakson feels the cold menace hitting him at the mention of his sister. He uneasily realizes why his colleagues told him not to go extreme on Zeb. He can sense his team shifting, spreading out, and dimly knows that Zeb could take them all out in a few seconds without breaking a sweat.

Isakson’s hand automatically moves toward the lapel of his jacket, toward his shoulder holster. His hand stops when Zeb straightens and wordlessly points towards the Lincoln.

‘Back off,’ Isakson repeats and strides away, followed by his colleagues. He discreetly wipes his brow as he approaches the Lincoln.

Zeb watches them drive away. The warning is meaningless, and he has no intention of paying heed to it. Ever since leaving the Special Forces, he has done what he feels is right and has gone through people who opposed him.

People like Isakson.