Scorched Earth: Warriors Series

Chapter One

Low-tech usually beat high-tech when it came to countersurveillance and espionage. In-person meetings were harder to intercept than emails and phone calls.

The planners and perps applied those same principles when it came to the takedown. They knew that the office on Columbus Avenue was like a fortress. It had cameras on the outside, visible ones, as well as discreet. They knew a supercomputer inside the building was continually scanning street traffic.

If a vehicle or a person passed the office more than a certain number of times, the computer was programmed to investigate. If a car or a bystander loitered over a threshold period, Werner, the supercomputer, kicked in.

No, the perps had to go low-tech. It was the only way they could execute the grab successfully. It was the only way they would live, because they were going against some of the most lethal men and women in the world.

The office was home to the Agency, a covert government outfit that didn’t exist on paper. It was run by a female director, Clare, who was based out of DC and reported to only one person—the president.

It had just eight operatives: Zeb Carter, the lead agent; Broker, the intel analyst; Bear, Chloe, Bwana, Roger and the twins, Beth and Meghan Petersen.

Zeb was ex-Special Forces, as were Bear, Bwana, and Roger. Broker was a former Ranger, while Chloe had been in the Eighty-Second Airborne. The twins came from an illustrious cop family and ran the logistics and intelligence side of the Agency. They were the glue that held the outfit together.

The Agency had a near-zero admin footprint, which was due to the cover the operatives adopted. They all worked for a security consulting outfit that was housed in the Columbus Avenue office. The security firm was genuine—it had real clients and had been Zeb’s business before he’d joined the Agency.

The black ops unit went after terrorists, international criminal gangs, drug and human traffickers, anyone who was a threat to national security. It was a compact, tightly knit team that was more like a family and had never failed on a mission.

It hadn’t been attacked either, not directly.

That was about to change.

The perps knew the routine of everyone inside the tall glass-walled office. They had contacts, very deep and highly positioned people who could find out that information. They mounted watch. Werner would look suspiciously at any vehicle that lingered.

But a NYPD cruiser? A real one?

The cruiser was only one part of the surveillance team. There was an ambulance, a roadworks outfit, and a gas maintenance vehicle. They took turns and made a note of the comings and goings.

They knew all the operatives weren’t present. That was okay. They were interested in only two.

When it went down, it was ridiculously simple and proved that low-tech and ingenuity beat high-tech.

Beth and Meghan were returning to the office from a visit to a nearby coffee joint. They went to the café every day. Talked about work as well as life stuff. Beth was dating Mark, an NYPD cop. It was going well. Meghan was single, by choice. There was a lot to talk about. They might be sisters, but they were also close friends.

Zeb had drilled it into them to eliminate routine. And the twins tried, but it was difficult. Humans were creatures of habit and liked to stick to a timetable.

That didn’t mean the sisters were careless. They were watchful, their eyes ceaselessly moving, observing, as they talked. They were armed, their Glocks in shoulder holsters, concealed by jackets. They had been trained by Zeb in deadly killing arts. They had been on missions. They were battle-hardened. They were vigilant.

And yet they fell into the perps’ trap.

The garbage truck came roaring down the street, which was experiencing heavy traffic. Its driver was on his cell while he drove, probably arguing with his girlfriend. One eye on the lights and vehicles in front of him, his ear jammed against his phone.

He didn’t see the ambulance backing out of its parking spot. When he did, it was too late.

The truck crashed at full speed into the rear of the ambulance. It climbed onto the sidewalk when he turned the wheel desperately, and plowed into a suited woman. It injured another pedestrian and finally came to a halt against a lamppost.

Meghan stood frozen for a second and then ran to the scene, Beth hot on her heels. The sisters bent over the injured woman and saw she was bleeding.

‘Call 911,’ Meghan snapped at her sister.

‘Not necessary, ma’am,’ said a uniformed man who came out of the wreckage of the ambulance. ‘My vehicle’s still serviceable. Just the rear door that’s dented. I was off duty, grabbing a bite…’

He crouched next to the fallen woman while Beth snapped her phone shut and tended to the fallen man, the second injuree. A crowd gathered, and helpful comments started to pour in, the way they did.

‘Ma’am, I’ll have to take both to the hospital. Better care there.’

He hesitated. ‘Can you two come along? Normally I work with a buddy, but like I said—’

‘Let’s go.’ Meghan rose and helped him place the woman on the stretcher and carry her inside the ambulance. She and Beth assisted him in taking the man inside. A cruiser rolled to a stop and a uniform rushed out.

He asked questions, took notes, and made calls. He sent the truck driver for further questioning, and waved the ambulance away.

Relative calm returned to the street.

The twins had disappeared.

Zeb was lounging on a couch while Broker was on Werner.

Werner was the name of an artificial intelligence program that he and Zeb had bought from a couple of Stanford kids. The software was housed in a supercomputer in the building, but they all used the name Werner interchangeably to refer to either the program or the computer.

Bwana and Roger were in Vietnam, on the trail of drug runners. Bear and Chloe were in London, working with Scotland Yard on uncovering a terrorist cell.

Zeb and Broker? They weren’t doing much. Work was light. There weren’t many active missions.

Broker glanced up and looked at the door. The twins hadn’t returned. He had seen the accident go down on his cameras and had seen the sisters climb inside the ambulance. It was the way they were.

He figured they would catch a cab back. But heck, that was a while ago.

He tried their cells. No answer. He looked up a GPS program on the computer; all of them had sensors in their jackets and shoes. It was how Werner kept track of them and reported any anomalies.

No signal from the sensors.

Might be still in the hospital. Those sensors don’t always work when there’s a lot of electronic equipment around.

He looked up the ambulance’s plates. Mount Sinai St. Luke’s, on Amsterdam Avenue.

They’ll be back soon, with a story to tell. He returned to his project, a bulletproof vest that could be worn like a tee or a shirt. It was something he was working on with the NSA.

An hour passed. He fidgeted and tried the cells again. No response. He glanced irritably at the couch. Zeb hadn’t moved. His eyes were closed, but Broker knew he wasn’t sleeping. His friend was aware of everything that was happening around him.

He can probably hear me breathe. Hear me think, he grouched internally.

Another hour passed. No sign of excited voices. No sign of the oxygen that the twins were.

‘Zeb, we have a problem,’ he said, striving to keep his voice calm.

His friend rose lithely, instantly, as if he had been thinking the same thing.

‘Call Mark,’ Zeb told him.

‘Mark, buddy, have you heard from Beth?’ Broker said into his cell. ‘There was an accident outside our office a while ago. They went with the ambulance. No, we didn’t see who was injured. Hold up a beat.’

Broker brought up the camera feed. ‘Looks like a woman and a man. On the sidewalk. There was an NYPD cruiser too.’ He gave him the plate numbers and hung up.

‘He’ll check,’ he told Zeb, unnecessarily.

Mark called half an hour later.

Broker snatched his cell and listened, his face turning grey. He hung up, tossed his cell and turned to his friend.

‘No record of an accident. That cruiser, it was in the Bronx when the accident went down. That ambulance, it’s down for maintenance. Has been out of circulation for over a week.’

Zeb didn’t reply. His breathing didn’t change. Only his face gave him away. It had turned pale. That, and the trembling of his fingers when he raised his hands were his only displays of emotion. All ten fingers, shaking imperceptibly.

‘Someone’s got them, Zeb.’

Zeb still didn’t speak. A faraway look came over his eyes, one that Broker recognized. His face shuttered and became implacable. The trembling became more noticeable.

An onlooker would have mistaken the shaking for fear or nervousness.

Broker knew better.

It was anger. Not red-hot fury, but cold rage inside his friend.

A cold rage that would drive him relentlessly till he rescued the twins. A burning that would take him wherever he needed to go, even to the far corners of the world.

A cold rage that would scorch the earth.

Chapter Two

‘Run the cameras again.’ Zeb bent over Broker’s shoulders as his friend’s fingers flew over the keys.

They had gone through the CCTV camera feeds several times and each time had spotted nothing.

‘Again?’

‘Yeah.’

Broker ran the videos in slo-mo. The twins were there, sipping on their drinks as they walked back to the office. Meghan throwing her head back to laugh at something her sister said.

The garbage truck came from behind. Smashed into the ambulance. The ambulance driver came out.

A few minutes later, the sisters got inside the ambulance and it roared away.

Broker had run the images of the garbage truck driver and the ambulance man through Werner. The supercomputer had sophisticated facial recognition programs that linked to several national and international databases.

Nothing. The two men weren’t in any database.

Broker had also run the victims’ faces as well as all the bystanders.’ No luck there either.

The elevator door swished open and Mark hurried in, followed by Pizaka and Chang. Mark was anxious and didn’t conceal his expression. Pizaka was his usual bland self, his mirrored shades looking at no one in particular.

Chang’s hair was ruffled, even more than normal. His suit looked like he had slept in it for a week.

The two detectives knew Zeb and his crew very well. The Agency’s operatives had helped them several times on cases where the Agency had an interest. Terrorism in the city. Drug trafficking.

A couple of times the police commissioner had hired Zeb as a consultant to help out on tough cases.

The detectives got all the credit each time and knew enough not to ask too many questions about the Agency or its unorthodox methods.

‘Anything?’ Mark questioned them, running a hand through his short hair.

‘Nope,’ Broker answered and flicked his eyes at Chang, who shrugged.

‘We’ve put a BOLO out for the ambulance…’ He trailed off.

Broker nodded in understanding. No cop had spotted the vehicle.

‘You have those tags in their clothing, don’t you?’ Mark asked in frustration. ‘Beth told me about them. Surely you can track them. You’ve got more technology here than we have.’

‘The tags are dead,’ Broker responded calmly and watched the young cop pace, his face knit in worry.

Cut him some slack, Broker told himself. I would be the same in his position.

The twins had met Zeb in Wyoming a few years ago, while on vacation

They were Boston-based then, running their web consultancy business, and had returned to their home state for a short break.

The vacation had turned into a nightmare when a gang of assassins had pursued them, until a quiet man stepped in and rescued them.

Zeb.

Once they discovered who he was, they sold their business in Boston, moved to New York, and demanded to join the Agency.

Zeb had resisted, but the sisters didn’t give up. They badgered him until he caved in and became the heart and soul of the covert outfit.

Mark Feinberg had been a cop with Jackson PD and had helped Zeb and the twins. He had been captivated by Beth and had followed her to New York.

He’d joined the NYPD, and the two started dating, a strong relationship that all the operatives approved of.

‘You’ll just sit there? Waiting for what? The phone to ring?’ Mark turned on Zeb, who hadn’t moved from his chair, hadn’t greeted the visitors.

‘I expected more action from you guys,’ Mark yelled, his face turning red.

Zeb looked at him impassively and turned his gaze away when his cell rang.

‘Zeb? Anything?’

Clare, Zeb mouthed at Broker and went inside an inner office.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘No chatter. No warnings. I’ve checked with the other agencies, have gone through all the intel at my end.’ Her voice was quiet. No one could read anything in it.

Zeb knew better. Clare would persuade the president to carry out a nuclear strike if it helped recover the twins.

‘I’ve briefed General Klouse. He’s at the Pentagon and said he will talk to the NSA. I’ve already spoken to them. They too have nothing, but you know the general. He wants to do something.’ Zeb did know General Daniel Klouse. He was the National Security Advisor and was one of the few people who knew of the Agency’s existence and purpose.

He approved of the outfit and its operatives. The sisters in particular. They were daughters to him.

‘Anything,’ Clare repeated. ‘You’re hot.’

Hot was when all other missions were dropped. Hot didn’t respect red tape and protocol, whether national or international.

‘We already were, ma’am.’

Zeb returned to the main office and sensed the buzz in the room instantly.

Broker caught his eye and tossed him his jacket and holster.

‘We got a witness. He has something.’

Chapter Three

‘I thought it was just another accident,’ Eliseo Gidney said. ‘This is my first time in New York. I was recording everything, and I caught it on my cell.’

Gidney was in his late twenties, had red hair, a neatly trimmed beard and brown eyes that were distant as he recalled the events.

They were in One Police Plaza, One PP, the NYPD headquarters. In an interview room, Gidney behind a table. Chang, Pizaka and Mark in front of him. Zeb and Broker leaning against a wall.

Seven pm. Five hours since the kidnapping.

‘I forgot about it when the ambulance drove away. Went back to my hotel. Saw the request for information on my TV. Called the number.’

‘You got your cell with you?’ Mark asked, making an effort to curb his impatience.

‘Yes, sir.’ Gidney produced his phone and nodded when Chang gave him a May I? look.

‘It’s the third video,’ Gidney added helpfully.

The footage was shaky and started with a shouted My God! from the witness.

‘I couldn’t control myself.’ Gidney smiled when he heard himself.

The smile disappeared when Zeb gave him a look.

Gidney had been behind the ambulance initially, and when the twins had gotten inside, it looked like he had scrambled around till he got to the passenger side at the front.

It was an angle that looked inside the ambulance. It captured the two other men inside the ambulance. Their faces were visible to the camera as they grabbed the sisters and applied what looked like dark cloths to their faces.

And then the video shook when Gidney sprang back as the ambulance drove away.

Zeb took the phone and played the video repeatedly till the images of the men were burned in his mind.

The beast stirred and rose.

Not yet, he ordered it.

He was handing the phone back to Gidney when his hand froze at the witness’s words.

‘Russian. They were speaking Russian.’

It turned out that Gidney was a high school teacher. Taught Russian. Recognized the few words that filtered out of one half-open window of the ambulance.

Eight pm. Broker and Zeb had returned to their office. Mark had wanted to come along and help out, but Broker, Chang and Pizaka convinced him otherwise.

‘Dude, you don’t want to know how we operate. Besides, Beth wouldn’t want you to.’

That last line convinced the young cop more than any other.

Broker turned to Zeb, who was on his cell.

Zeb spoke briefly, monosyllabically, and hung up. ‘Bear and Chloe. Bwana and Roger. They’re returning.’

‘Their missions?’

‘They’re out of them.’

Broker went to his computer and inserted Gidney’s video. He got Werner to search for the faces, and while the supercomputer went to work, he turned to his friend.

Watched as Zeb stood motionless. Face shuttered. Eyes hooded.

‘Why are Russians involved?’

Zeb didn’t answer.

Werner came back with a response half an hour later.

No match.

Zeb took one look at the two words and started moving to the elevator.

‘We’re going to ask them?’ Broker hurried to catch up.

‘Yeah.’

There were three large Russian gangs operating in New York. They had carved out the city among themselves. The Yurivich gang worked in Manhattan and Jersey City, and the Valentin hoods were based in Brooklyn and Queens, while the Borisovna gangsters claimed the Bronx and parts north as their territory.

Each of the gangs provided the usual services. Prostitution, drug trafficking, and gun running, among many others. Each of them were in continual conflict with the Italian mafia, Ukrainians, Hispanic gangs and other criminals.

Zeb drove to the Meatpacking District, Broker beside him, traffic and streetlights flowing across their faces in streaks of red, green and yellow as he navigated through the night.

The Meatpacking District was where Vasily Yurivich was based, the head of the largest Russian gang in the city.

‘He will be surrounded by his men,’ Broker said, inconsequentially since he knew his friend didn’t care.

Zeb would go through brick walls and mountains of gangsters to find the twins.

Chapter Four

Yurivich’s office was in a red-brick building on Washington Street. The first floor housed a popular nightclub that was owned by the Russian, and was one of his legal businesses. Legal was a loose term for Yurivich, since his men sold drugs to the revelers in the club.

Zeb walked up to the bouncers and held up his NYPD badge wordlessly.

They parted and he went inside, Broker close behind him.

Inside was a lounge and a reception area. Throbbing beats came through closed doors. A receptionist looked askance and started to protest when Zeb jabbed the elevator’s buttons.

She came around her desk, slowing down when Zeb faced her. Something in his face made her stop.

‘Is he upstairs?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘Will you warn him?’

She shook her head.

Zeb pressed the fourteenth-floor button and stood silently, Broker watching the digits race on the small panel.

‘We need him alive,’ Broker told him unnecessarily.

The elevator opened into a carpeted hallway, two heavies in front of its doors.

They looked startled when Zeb and Broker stepped through. The next moment they were writhing on the floor when Zeb kicked one in the groin and chopped the other in the face.

He removed their guns, crushed their radios, and turned left.

Ahead was another set of doors, with three bouncers in the doorway.

They raised their hands up silently when Zeb pointed his gun at them.

Broker disarmed them and secured their wrists and legs with plastic ties.

Footsteps pounded, and from around a corner, two suits rushed up.

One had his gun out, while the other was reaching beneath his jacket.

Zeb fired twice, shooting them in their shoulders, and whipped his barrel across their foreheads.

He raced around the corner to yet another set of doors and thrust it open.

Large office, half the size of a basketball court. Polished wooden desk.

Three men near the door. One man seated, turning around, his mouth opening in shock.

Another seated man on the other side of the desk, his eyes expressionless.

The three men moved as one. The first seated man started rising.

‘Don’t,’ said Zeb, no inflection to his voice.

That didn’t stop the four men.

He shot two of the standing men in the shoulder, almost lazily. The third dropped his gun when Broker produced his Mossberg, which he had concealed beneath a long coat.

Only Broker would wear a long coat in New York in the summer. However, this time, it wasn’t for style. The garment helped conceal his weapon.

Zeb shoved the rising man back into his seat.

‘Don’t move.’

The man didn’t move.

Vasily Yurivich, the man at the other side of the desk, hadn’t moved, either. He was tall, six feet five inches, broad and muscled. Dark-haired and clean-shaven.

His face was bland, his eyes cold and calculating.

‘You won’t walk out of here alive, whoever you are.’

‘Don’t worry about us.’ Zeb tossed a cell phone at him. ‘Look at the video on that. Are those men yours?’

Yurivich hesitated.

‘Take it. It’s not a bomb. It’s not a listening device. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.’

The Russian picked up the phone, fiddled with it, and played the video.

His face paled when he realized its significance. He glanced up once at Zeb and Broker and bent back to the video.

‘I don’t know all the men in my gang. Not personally.’ He cleared his throat.

‘Igor will know.’ He nodded at the seated man in front of him.

‘Give it to Igor.’

Igor took the phone and watched the video. His forehead had a thin sheen of perspiration when he raised his head and looked at the intruders.

He moistened his lips. ‘I recognize one of them.’

‘Who?’

He looked at Yurivich, who nodded.

‘That one.’ He paused the video and pointed at one of the men inside the ambulance. The one who was holding the cloth to Meghan’s face.

‘Katin Grigory. He was one of us. No longer.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘He joined the Italians. He was working with them all along. We would have killed him, but they offered him protection.’

‘You could have still killed him.’

‘It would have started a gang war.’

‘Which Italian family?’

The Italian mafia had five families, each one of them working in mutually agreed territories.

‘Fiorentini. That’s—’

‘I know who they are.’

Delmo Fiorentini’s family was the third largest in the city and operated in the northeastern part of the city.

It was rumored that the family’s gun-running business had supplied weapons to homegrown terrorist cells. The NYPD had questioned Delmo Fiorentini several times and each time had to reluctantly let him go. The FBI had arrested him a few times, and each time, Fiorentini had walked free.

No actionable evidence.

‘He’s based in Atlantic City,’ Vasily Yurivich said, trying to be helpful. ‘He’s the only mafia boss based there. All the rest are in New York.’

Zeb didn’t reply. He knew of the family. He knew of all the major gangs in the city.

‘Do you know why he would be involved in that kidnapping?’ Zeb asked Igor.

‘Those are your women?’

‘They are my friends.’ Zeb’s voice was arctic.

‘I don’t know anything about him. He was a soldier. Competent. That’s all I know. We weren’t friends. We weren’t close,’ Igor replied quickly.

The door burst open and a bunch of armed men poured in, their weapons trained on Zeb and Broker.

‘Boss, are you alright?’ one of them yelled at Yurivich in Russian.

‘Da. He’s fine. Can’t you see?’ Zeb replied in the same language and locked eyes with the Russian gang boss.

‘Ask them to behave, and you’ll live.’

Yurivich stared at him. His men filled the room. They outnumbered the two visitors. And yet, this stranger was calmly telling him that he would die.

‘Who are you?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Zeb turned and walked out of the door, not one heavy blocking his route.

Chapter Five

Bwana and Roger were in Hanoi when they got the message from Zeb.

They were working with the Vietnamese police forces, tracking down an international drug runner. They had finally captured the criminals and were interrogating one of them, when their cells buzzed.

They were in a holding room along with Hanoi Police Chief Cam Van Lanh. Just the three of them and the bearded man handcuffed to a table.

Phu Duc was the drug lord of Southeast Asia. He used women and children as couriers, transporting drugs in their stomachs.

He was vicious and ruthless, one of the most wanted men in the world.

Bwana and Roger had picked his scent up in Mexico and tracked it back to Vietnam.

In the steamy jungles of that country, they had destroyed several cook shops that Duc ran and put down several of his men.

Along with the Hanoi police, they had cornered the criminal in his mansion, deep in the remoteness of the country, and in a violent shootout, they had captured him.

They had just started interrogating him when Bwana took Zeb’s call. After hanging up, he whispered in Bear’s ear.

‘Problem?’ Van Lanh looked at Bwana and then Roger, sensing something behind their ominous expressions.

‘For him.’ Bwana jerked his head at Phu Duc, who sat insolently in his chair. ‘Sir, if you leave us alone with him, you’ll get all the intel you want.’

Van Lanh knew them well. He knew their methods. Time was critical since Phu Duc was holding back on a major shipment, one that involved fifteen girls, captured from Vietnamese villages.

‘We can’t—’ the police chief protested.

‘You can’t, sir. We can,’ Bwana told him.

‘He cannot be marked,’ Van Lanh whispered and left the cell.

‘You think this is Hollywood?’ Phu Duc sneered at them. ‘There are laws you have to follow. Rules.’

Bwana approached him, the expression on his face making the hardened criminal flinch.

Bwana grasped his hair and smashed his face brutally on the steel table. ‘In my world, laws are for those who obey them.’

They left two hours later, after Phu Duc had spilled the details of his entire operation.

It was raining. The sky was dark, just the way they felt. The air smelled fresh and the streets were alive with traffic and vendors and officegoers and homemakers, despite the downpour.

They sat in the cab silently, looking out as the rain splattered and ran down the windows, blurring the world outside.

‘If anything happens to them…’ Bwana rumbled and didn’t complete his sentence.

He didn’t have to. Roger knew. If the twins were harmed in any way, or much worse happened