The Warrior

‘If the owners were paid off, why do you say the mine was hijacked?’ asks Zeb.

‘Don’t forget, these are all rumors. Alchemy is not going to admit that they hijacked the mine, but there was a lot of media coverage in the DRC newspapers about a hijack. A lot of my contacts in that area confirmed it. The payment to the previous owners was to maintain a façade.

‘They also bought off the media and the politicians there. What Alchemy did wasn’t uncommon, and the hijack was soon forgotten.

‘I have a list of all the military contractors employed by them directly as well as through their security companies. The list makes for interesting reading,’ continues Broker.

He hands over a list with close to fifty names on it. He’s organized the list based on name, demographics, and background. Zeb lingers over the background and notices that several of those are ex-Rangers or ex-Seals, and some of them could have served at the same time as the Rogue Six. He looks up at Broker, tapping the sheet.

‘Yes, I know,’ Broker says, ‘but I’m not sure how that information helps us. It’s too much to assume that all those Seals and Rangers know Holt, or were put there by Holt. All we can do now is just keep this at the back of our minds.’

‘Have you told Cassandra about our hunt? And about Bear and Chloe?’ Broker asks Zeb.

‘Not yet. I will do so in the next few days.’

‘Did Isakson tell you why he wanted you to back off Holt?’

‘Nope. Andrews told me something about Holt giving them Al Qaeda intel in the Congo.’

Broker nods. ‘Yes, that’s what I’ve heard too, so you’re at least getting the truth there, or what passes for the truth in those quarters.’

They part on that, Broker promising to call him once he’s made any progress on the hunt for Holt’s mother.

The next day, Zeb digs up an ex-Seal who trained and served with Holt.

Buster ‘Bunk’ Talbot is now an arms dealer based in one of the toughest cities in New York. Newburgh. He’s not particular who he sells to, and a lot of gangs from as far as Mexico and the West Coast give him their business. The gangs in Newburgh now protect him. He also is the first port of call for most mercenaries. He specializes in small arms and assault rifles.

Zeb drives a cab to Newburgh, after paying off the cab driver, and reaches the city in a couple of hours. A cab is less likely to be stolen or its wheels jacked than any other car. Newburgh sits pretty in the sun on the Hudson. He enters the city and drives along Broadway. With narrow streets ru

Zeb parks his cab on Broadway and walks down a narrow street. Bunk’s outfit is at the far end of that street, at a dead end with a good firing line over the alley if he has to withstand a siege. Zeb can feel people looking at him from behind the boarded doors of the abandoned houses – most likely the gang members protecting Talbot.

Talbot’s gun shop would make an armory proud. Gleaming glass cases house pistols of all kinds, ammunition neatly laid out, combat rifles arranged in racks, new metal and gun oil hanging heavy in the air, and even a small firing range at the back of the shop.

Talbot knows why Zeb is here. Zeb had let him know he was coming, and in the circles he moves in, there are few secrets. Talbot has built a nice business here; the gangs and mercenaries pay cash and keep trouble in check. He sells to rival gangs, and they have no qualms about it. They know he sells the best weapons and is always able to get them in the quantities they want. He has spoken to some Special Forces friends of his about Zeb, and they’ve all said Zeb isn’t someone anyone wants on their case.

He makes Zeb wait a long time before seeing him. Zeb is used to such power games, and it makes no difference to him.

‘Dude, I know what you want, and I have no idea where he is. I sell guns. I don’t sell information, even if I had it. Now if you’re looking for a gun, we can talk.’

‘Did you outfit Holt?’ Zeb asks, looking around the gun shop.

‘No comment. Dude, if you want to buy something, let’s talk, or else get out. Don’t waste my time. You’re bad for business. This town’s infested with gangs – my customers, by the way – who’ll think you’re the FBI or the cops. The only reason I’ve wasted the last few minutes of my life talking to you is because we both served.’

‘You have a good setup here. How have you managed to stay under the cops’ radar? I bet they’d be interested in your clientele,’ says Zeb, ignoring what Talbot has been saying.

Talbot slaps a hand on the counter, the guns on the wall rattling with the report and drawing looks from the group at the firing range. He glares at them, and they get back to business. Turning to Zeb, he says, ‘Carter, look into my eyes. Read my lips. I am not interested in talking to you unless you’re buying. And even then, I’m not sure I want your business.’

Zeb looks at him for a long time. ‘Tell Holt I am coming. Tell him I was the one in the hut. He’ll know what I’m referring to.’

Talbot laughs. ‘There’s such a thing as a phone, you know. You could’ve told me all this on the phone. Not that it makes any difference to me and not that I’m going to do what you say, anyway. Holt and I served together a long time back. I have no contact with him now. And even if I did, I wouldn’t be your go-between over whatever bug you have up your ass about him. Now why don’t you vamoose before I take a more active role in ejecting you from my shop?’

‘Tell him,’ says Zeb. He leaves, knowing that Holt will be getting his message from Talbot shortly. The Seals bond is unbreakable, and it has an active network.

Out in the street, word of his altercation with Talbot seems to have spread. Several gang members are hanging around the street, giving him the stink eye.

Zeb is amused by their posturing and wonders how many of them will live to see another year. He glides like oiled steel through the heat of their gazes, not one daring to stop him.

On reaching New York, Zeb has the urge to visit his old tabla school in Jamaica. He can hear dimly the sounds of the tabla through the outer doors, and once he enters, he is awash in the sounds and smell of the drums. A bunch of young kids are seated around a frail old Indian man, with a full head of hair, keen eyes and strong fingers. His teacher, who on spotting Zeb, flashes a warm smile. Zeb sits against a far wall, with folded knees, and listens.

‘The tabla is empty, hollow, for a reason.’ His teacher beckons Zeb to sit next to him, takes the dagga, and places it in front of him and the kids.

‘Playing the tabla is easy. Once you learn the techniques, you can play it. But if you feel the tabla, if you allow it to speak, then it will allow you to fill it up. That’s why it is hollow, so that you can create and fill it up.’ He strikes the syahi of the dagga and produces a deep tone. He motions Zeb to sit beside him and offers him a pair of tablas. He draws another pair for himself and leads off on a taal.

Zeb follows, and teacher and student fill themselves with rhythm.

Chapter 8

He meets Bear and his partner the next day and outlines the circumstances to them. They agree about the need for close protection; they’ve been doing this for several years and can read a situation well.

Cassandra is furious when she learns about Zeb’s plans for Bear and his partner to protect her, shadow her, for an indefinite length of time. Zeb is vague about the reasons for their presence.

‘What is the worst that will happen to me?’ she shouts. ‘Someone will come and do me harm? So what? I am not prepared to be followed by a gorilla and his mate and have them cramp my life.’