The Warriors Series Boxset II: Warriors Series Boxset, #2

By Ty Patterson

Few people know who he is or what he does. He goes where the law can't. He does what justice cannnot.
Meet U.S. Special Forces operative Zeb Carter.

Boxset II, Books 5-8,  continues from where Boxset I left off. Over 800 pages of blistering action, suspense, and adventure.

'Exceptional.Extraordinary. Exciting. Original.' Reader review.

Boxset II contains books 5-8 of the highly acclaimed Warriors series of action, suspense, and adventure thrillers. Boxset II can be read stand-alone.

Flay
A serial killer is terrorizing New York city. The Flayer kills his victims in the most gruesome manner. He is working to a plan; to break the internet. But that's only part of his plan. The second part will break the city.

Behind You
They warned Elena Petrova, a journalist, to drop her story. She didn't. They raped her. She didn't give up. They killed her and buried her body where no man could find it. Unfortunately for them, Zeb Carter did.

Hunting You
You are Hank Parker. Armed intruders break in when you are dining with your family. They ask you a question. Tell a lie and watch them die. Don't Know isn't an option.

How will you save your family when even hope has deserted you?

Zero

Eighteen terrorists. Hundreds of hostages. Three good men and U.S. Special Forces operative Zeb Carter. Dying can be fatal!

'Surely one of the best action writers of the day.' Gordon, Amazon review.

Grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Three Aces Publishing
• Release date: Feb 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524265878

Book preview

The Warrior Series: Box Set II

Books 5-8

Flay

Behind You

Hunting You

Zero

By

Ty Patterson

Table of Contents

Title Page

Flay

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Dedications

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Behind You

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Dedications

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Hunting You

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Dedications

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Zero

TitlePage

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Dedications

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Coming soon

Bonus Chapter from Dividing Zero

About the Author

Author’s Message

Books by Ty Patterson

Warriors Series Shorts

This is a series of novellas that link to the Warriors Series thrillers

Zulu Hour, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 1 (set before The Warrior)

The Watcher, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 2 (set between The Warrior and The Warrior Code)

The Shadow, Warriors Series Shorts, Book 3 (set before The Warrior)

The Man From Congo, Warriors Series Shorts,Book 4 (set beforeThe Warrior's Debt)

Warriors Series Shorts Boxset Books 1-4

Gemini Series

Dividing Zero, Gemini Series, Book 1

Defending Cain, Gemini Series, Book 2

Warriors Series

The Warrior, Warriors series, Book 1

The Reluctant Warrior, Warriors series, Book 2

The Warrior Code, Warriors series, Book 3

The Warrior’s Debt, Warriors series, Book 4

Warriors series Boxset, Books 1-4

Flay, Warriors series, Book 5

Behind You, Warriors series, Book 6

Hunting You, Warriors series, Book 7

Zero, Warriors series, Book 8

Warriors series Boxset II, Books 5-8

Warriors series Boxset, Books 1-8

Death Club, Warriors series, Book 9

Sign up to Ty Patterson’s mailing list, and get The Warrior, #1 in the USA Today Bestselling Warriors Series, free. Be the first to know about new releases and deals.

Check out Ty on iTunes

Flay

Warriors Series, Book 5

By

Ty Patterson

Copyright © 2015 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.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgements

Dedications

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Acknowledgements

No book is a single person’s product. I am privileged that Flay has benefited from the inputs of several great people.

Jean Coldwell, Donald Hoffman, and Christine Terrell, who are my beta readers and who helped shape my book, my launch team for supporting me, and Donna Rich for her editing and proofreading.

Dedications

To my wife and son who made room in their lives for my dreams; all my beta readers, my launch team, and well-wishers.

To all the men and women in uniform who make it possible for us to enjoy our freedoms.

‘We sleep safely at night because rough

men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.’

Chapter 1

The assassin moved only in the night when it was cool, dry, and most importantly, when roving eyes would be less watchful.

He carried fifty pounds of gear in his pack; water, rations, compass, Benchmade blade, camo tent, blood packs, an M-79 grenade launcher, a handgun, magazines. His rifle was the M82A1 Barrett.

The fifty pounds didn’t feel like much. He’d carried more for far longer.

He covered thirty miles a night, and when dawn broke, he set up his camo tent, which was less a tent and more a blanket.

It was an uncommon piece of gear few snipers had heard of. He himself hadn’t known about it till he recovered it from an American sniper. That sniper didn’t need it anymore.

The tent spread on the desert, blended with the surrounding and elevated to less than two feet from the ground. From above, it looked like undulating desert. From up close, it looked desert.

From really up close, it didn’t matter. By then either the curious or the assassin would be dead.

Each night he cleaned his weapons, made sure that sand and dust didn’t clog them and wrapped them in protective cover before staying put for the day.

The kill spot was a hundred and twenty miles away, which meant he would have to walk four nights.

Not a problem for him.

On the second day he heard vehicles in the distance, presently an image came into view over the horizon and headed straight at him. The vehicle was blurry in the heat and gradually resolved into an old army discard. But it moved and bristled with men, and that was more a cause for concern.

He cast his eyes away and looked to the left of the approaching vehicle. No point letting them feel the weight of his gaze.

The vehicle ate distance and when it was just over a mile away, he moved slowly and cast his eye against the scope.

Figures jumped in the reticule.

Bearded men, wrapped in black or white dishdashahs, AK-47s cradled in their arms, patterned kuffiyehs covering their heads and faces.

Three in the front, four in the rear.

One mile, the range finder told him.

Take the driver out, then the rest in the front. Those in the back will scramble out. Drop them one by one. 

A lot would depend on their reaction time, but he had taken such shots before. But if the vehicle kept on coming then the odds shifted in the vehicle’s favor. Then, depending on when he acted, he’d probably be able to get off three or four shots before seeking fire found his position.

The vehicle veered when it was nine hundred yards away. Through his scope he could see the men arguing as they gesticulated furiously at the driver. It grew smaller and then disappeared and sand covered its tracks.

The assassin went back to his somnolent state.

Heartbeat was low and steady.

Good.

It wasn’t as if he was a stranger to such situations.

The assassin reached the kill spot early on the fourth day after making better time the previous night. He scouted for the best shooting position and when he’d found it, he set up his camo tent and hunkered down.

He wouldn’t be moving from the spot for twenty-four hours.

Dawn came, the sun rose, the desert became orange, then gold, and then a harsh burning brown. Something flashed in a distant wadi it resolved into plastic trash.

The heat made everything wavy and blurred, but the assassin was comfortable under his hide. The tent was layered to keep out the heat in the day and keep in the warmth in the night. Occasional sips of water from his canteen kept him hydrated.

A flash of light alerted him first of movement. It came from the same wadi.

The gun settled in the assassin’s hand like an old friend. He waited for the flash to resolve itself.

It turned into a Jeep moving slowly, cautiously. It had to.

It carried a high-profile person.

Two miles away and the assassin could see two men in the front and a third in the back. He waited for the scope to pick their faces and when it did, no flare of excitement passed through him, his heart beat steadily.

The hawk-like eyes in the rear matched those he was seeking. The neatly trimmed beard covered a strong chin. Everything about the man radiated authority.  Even the two in the front leant backward as if drawn by the magnetic pull of the person behind them.

Inhale. Exhale. Wait for the Jeep to approach the spot he’d marked in his mind.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Bottom of the respiratory cycle where time and life paused.

His finger curled over the trigger.

The Jeep started a slight turn away from him to navigate over a rocky outcrop.

The rear door framed the hawk face.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Pause.

Pull.

The bullet flew at eight hundred and fifty meters a second and, just as the Jeep completed its turn, the target’s head disintegrated.

The assassin fired again.

Driver dead.

Another pull.

Passenger dead.

All three were clean kills, with no chance of survival.

The assassin put down his Barrett and drew out the M-79 grenade launcher.

In less than a minute, the Jeep was burning metal and fifteen minutes later, the assassin was moving fast, away from the kill zone.

With four trigger pulls in less than ten seconds, the assassin known as the Butcher of the Middle East had sent shock waves through the Middle Eastern terrorist network.

October 1st-7th

Two months later, autumn in New York.

Twelve-year-old Liz McCallum clutched her sister Zoe’s hand tightly and scanned the addresses on Columbus Avenue as she hurried them along.

She had to get back to Gramma in exactly ninety minutes and, if her eight-year-old sister didn’t keep stopping to stare at the enormous mirrored glass building, she wouldn’t be able to get back in time.

Stealing time had been an easily solved problem.

Once her classes were finished, Liz walked a few blocks from her middle school in upper Manhattan, to Zoe’s elementary school, picked up her sister and the two walked back home to Gramma, on East 112th Street. She did this every school day.

For today, she’d fabricated a field hockey match after school and had told Gramma that she arranged for Zoe to stay back in the after school recreation program, thus creating the window of opportunity.

She had hit upon the idea when she’d watched TV one night and had seen the name of the person she wanted to meet.

Gramma allowed just one hour on the computer every day and Liz used that to research the man. She’d asked Ally, her BFF, to ask her dad if he knew the man. Ally’s dad was a cop in the NYPD and the way Ally went on, he knew absolutely everyone in the world.

Ally reported solemnly the next day that her dad was very close to the man.

As if, Liz snorted inwardly but she didn’t say anything. Ally, her bestie, was prone to exaggeration. That was a new word Liz had learned in school, exaggeration.

She tugged on Zoe’s hand impatiently. ‘Come on, Peaches. If we’re late, Gramma will be furious.’ Peaches was her name for Zoe. It was just hers; no one else was allowed to call her sister that. Peaches, because Zoe looked like one, with her rosy dimpled cheeks, smiling eyes, and blonde hair that always fell over her face.

She marched inside the building and approached the security desk. She stated who she wanted to meet. The two men behind the desk looked at her, and then at Peaches.

‘Are you sure you have the right address, ma’am?’

‘Yeah.’ She corrected herself. ‘Yes.’  She had read somewhere that using formal words made people take the speaker seriously.

One of the men picked up the phone and had a brief conversation. He looked at them and Liz thought he was describing them to the voice on the other end.

‘Sure, ma’am.’ He hung up the phone and gestured at Liz to follow him.

He led them to a bank of elevators, punched a button and smiled broadly when Peaches dimpled at him. Liz was proud of her idea of bringing Peaches along. Her little sister could melt the most hardened hearts.

The elevator whooshed open and she gripped Zoe’s hand tightly and ushered her inside. The man punched the floor, winked at them and left.

Liz stepped out on their floor, walked inside the glass doors opposite and stopped and stared.

She’d been to a few offices, to her dad’s office, and had seen offices on TV, but this one was unlike any other she had seen.

It was light, airy and cheerful.

Multi-colored couches were strewn randomly, baseball bats and gloves lined the walls, a basketball hoop was at one end. In one corner she could see a small green strip, a miniature putting strip. The office felt happy.

She walked in deeper and her heart leapt when she spotted the man she wanted to see.

He was lying down on a couch, his eyes closed.

Sleeping? In the middle of the day?

She went closer and cleared her throat.

Brown eyes opened and stared at her in astonishment. 

The man swung his legs and sat up so smoothly that Liz was reminded of the cheetah she’d seen hunting on TV. One moment the animal was crouching, the next it was in motion, a streak of gold and black spots.

He was dressed in a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up, with dark jeans and a leather belt over a narrow waist. He had short brown hair and intelligent eyes.

No gun.

Liz was disappointed. She was expecting guns, lots of them. She was expecting an office which bustled. One in which phones rang, people shouted, and computers hummed.

She stifled her disappointment.

‘I want to discuss something with you.’

The man raised an eyebrow.

‘I’m just the hired help, ma’am. You need to talk to them.’

He chinned behind Liz’s shoulder and she swung round to see two women she’d missed in her first glance.

Both were brown haired, tanned, and had strong faces and green eyes.

Peaches tugged on her hand and said excitedly. ‘They’re – ’

‘Yes, honey, I know, they’re twins.’

She turned back to the man.

‘Who’s in charge?’

He shrugged.

‘Both of them.’

Liz turned swiftly and saw one of the women swiftly fold back her middle finger.

I saw that.

She went to the twins who sat next to each other.

Before she could say anything, Peaches dumped the contents of her hand on the table.

Tightly squished bills fell out.

The eyes of the nearest woman widened.

Peaches said clearly. ‘We want to hire you.’

Liz tugged on her hand furiously to shush her, but Peaches was not to be silenced.

‘We want you to look at our mom.’

Liz groaned inwardly at her sister’s grammar.

‘What happened to her, honey?’ The woman’s voice was warm, rich and felt comforting.

‘She’s dead.’

Chapter 2

October 1st-7th

In the silence that followed, Liz felt the man move behind them, but he made no attempt to come forward.

Peaches pushed the notes closer to the twins. ‘You have to find who killed my mommy,’ she said firmly in a voice that brooked no argument.

The women covered a look of amazement and the one closest to them introduced herself. ‘Meghan Petersen, and that’s Beth.’

She put her hand out and shook Liz’s firmly and shook Zoe’s too.

She’s treating us like adults.

The tightness inside Liz relaxed a little.

Meghan smiled at her. ‘Now honey, why don’t we start at the beginning?’

Her eyes moved to the man behind. ‘Chairs,’ she ordered.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Liz pulled the chair forward and sat on it, after seating Peaches.

Beth went through a door and returned with a plate of Oreos. Peaches looked at them, then at Liz and when her sister nodded, reached out and one disappeared in her mouth.

‘Now, we’re set.’

Liz glanced behind at the man who was leaning casually against a desk.

‘We came to meet Zeb Carter.’

She knew Zeb Carter ran some kind of business that helped the NYPD find badasses.  She’d seen him on TV a few times when he had helped arrest the Baseball Bat Killer.

Recognition flooded her as she recalled the women she’d seen with him on TV. They were the ones in front of her.

One of them spoke and brought her back to the present. ‘Zeb’s shy, honey. Women scare him.’  She stared daggers at the man till he came round and sat next to the twins.

Liz took a deep breath and began.

Four years back, one chilly November day on Wall Street, Mary McCallum was clock watching.  It wasn’t something that she indulged in normally, but it was a special day for the forty-five-year-old Director of Equity Operations at one of the largest banks in the world.

It was her twentieth wedding anniversary to Brad McCallum and she had planned a special dinner for him. She’d first met Brad when they were at Cornell University, but the casual college friendship turned to love only after they bumped into each other one day on Wall Street.

Brad, who worked in another bank, and she had married within a year of that meeting and their first daughter, Liz, was born three years later, then came Zoe.

We’re lucky, she thought as her cab sped up Broadway to their home near Central Park. Both of them grew up in upstate New York and came from very humble backgrounds. Their Upper East Side apartment was the result of hard work, long hours, sacrifice and luck.

She twisted the ring on her finger. Maybe next year, she mused, I’ll reduce my days at the bank or even quit. Brad and she had discussed it at length and while Mary wanted to spend more time at home, Brad wasn’t convinced.

‘You’ll be giving up on everything you’ve worked your ass off for,’ was his argument.

‘I didn’t work my ass off to miss out on our girls growing up,’ was her retort. ‘These years aren’t going to come back.’

She knew she’d win over Brad eventually. She always did.

She put the cake in the oven as soon as she reached home and glanced at the Mickey Mouse clock that Liz had given her, 7 p.m.

The girls would be home in forty-five minutes and Brad, by 9 p.m.

Enough time to get everything ready.

Twenty minutes later she’d finished setting the table when she remembered.

Wine. Did I forget it?

She had.

She thrust down a panic attack.

Still enough time to rush down to the convenience store around the corner and grab a bottle. It wouldn’t be the one she’d wanted, but it would have to do. Brad would understand.

She grabbed her jacket and keys and rushed outside in the cold. Her breath frosted around her and when she reached the store, it was closed.

She swore softly, glanced at her watch again.

There’s one more a block away. I can still be back in time.

She took off, walking as quickly as possible on the frosted sidewalk, never looking back.

One patch of sidewalk was badly lit, and just as she passed from light to dark, a hand grabbed her from behind and muffled her mouth.

What?

Her eyes turned wide and she kicked backwards, but the hold was too strong. She flailed wildly and in vain.

Dear God.

Her last thoughts were of her daughters before darkness claimed her.

‘Mom’s body was found a week later.’ Liz said. ‘The cops investigated for days, weeks, months, but they didn’t find anything.’

She looked at Zoe. ‘Peaches, why don’t you check out that hoop? Mrs. Hawkins said you’re good at shooting.’

Peaches stuck her lip out and stayed put.

‘Peaches!’ Liz used that voice and her sister sullenly slid out of her seat and walked angrily to the hoop.

Liz turned her gaze back to the sisters and the man and said apologetically, ‘Zoe doesn’t know the full story. Mom’s body was found in a parking lot. It was cut and several parts were missing.’

She swallowed, her face pale, but she soldiered on. ‘One month later, a daily newspaper got something of my mom’s.’

Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the table and leaned forward.

‘They got a box. It was full of ice.’

She swallowed, darted a glance at Zoe who was playing alone with the ball.

‘In the ice was my mom’s finger.’

Meghan watched her lips tremble as she squared her shoulders. ‘Mom’s killer was never found.’

Zoe bounced the ball a couple of times and looked their way when she heard the silence.

She looked away at a fierce glance from her sister.

‘We waited and hoped for months that there would be a breakthrough.  It became harder as time passed. Dad had a bad heart and it became worse after four months. But he still called the NYPD every week. They stopped taking his calls after a point. They didn’t have anything new to tell us.’

Her eyes were bright with tears. ‘Then he died. Eight months after mom disappeared. Gramma took us in and we’ve been with her ever since.’

‘Gramma?’ Zeb asked.

Beth turned upward to look at him. ‘Grandmother.’ Idiot hung loud and unspoken in the room.

‘How old are you, Liz?’ Meghan asked her, after a warning glance at Beth and Zeb.

‘I’m twelve. Peaches, I mean Zoe, is eight. We live a few blocks away with Gramma.’

She’s more mature than many eighteen-year-olds. Heck, Beth and I didn’t know shit when we were twelve.

Liz mentioned a school’s name. ‘Peaches goes to an elementary not far from mine.’

She wiped her eyes and all tremulousness left her voice as it became brisk. ‘What else do you need from me?’

Whoa!

Meghan looked at Zeb and when no help came from that direction, she said carefully. ‘Liz, you are a smart girl to find us here. But we’re not –’

‘You took our money. You have to find who killed Mom!’ Zoe shouted as she ran across from the room.

Liz grabbed her hand, pulled her close and a desperate note crept in her voice. ‘Please. You have to help us. We need to know. Do you need more money?’

Something went unsaid between the twins and Beth leaned forward and took Liz’s hand.

‘We’ll help you, honey.’

Zoe smiled and sunlight filled the room.

Liz glanced at a tiny watch on her wrist and stood up suddenly in alarm. ‘We’re late. Gramma will be worried. I’ll find a way to come again tomorrow.’

She whirled around, pulled her younger sister and fled from the office before the Petersens could say anything more.

Beth felt Zeb nod at her side and whispered urgently at Meghan. ‘Come on. Move your ass.

We’ve got to follow them, find out where they live and make sure they get home okay. ’

Once alone in the office, Zeb clasped his hands behind his head and sprawled back.

He was ex-Special Forces and worked for a U.S. government agency that didn’t exist, on missions that never came to light.

The agency took on extremely high risk, high threat, and deniable missions that no other Special Ops or deep black agency in the country’s national security set up could or would successfully undertake.

That it had never failed a single mission was primarily down to its lead operative, Zeb Carter, and the way the agency was structured.

Zeb reported to only one person, Clare, his boss, who in turn was accountable to just one person, the President of the United States of America.

Clare had started at the Agency as an analyst, had worked her way up and had been appointed as the first female Director of the Agency. The President had given her a free hand to shape it in any manner she wanted and in return, he expected total deniability. Even more than deniability, he wanted results.

To achieve that, Clare wanted not only the best operatives in the country but also the smallest possible administrative footprint.

She’d been discussing this one night in downtown Washington D.C. with her closest friend, Cassandra. Cassandra and she had studied together at Bryn Mawr and had ended up working in the political jungle that was D.C. Cassandra had pursued a career in the State Department while Clare had gravitated to the Agency.

During the evening, Clare saw a man waiting outside their bar, a man who seemed to become part of the street, around whom pedestrian traffic bent itself and flowed. Cassandra saw Clare’s glance, and laughed. ‘That’s my superhero brother, Zeb, waiting for me.’

She explained when she saw Clare’s raised eyebrows. ‘Zeb was Special Forces. He’s now a private military contractor, does security consulting, and he wouldn’t like me mentioning anything more.’ She laughed again, when she realized how ridiculous that sounded. Clare had the highest security clearance in the country.

An intrigued Clare pulled Zeb’s file and whistled at the clearances required to read it. She understood the reason when she read the contents.

She asked around discreetly and heard that he worked by his own rules. He had a tight moral code that meant he did not wage war on women or children and did not accept any assignments that went against the country’s interests.

She asked him to join the agency the next day.

Zeb refused and counter proposed that he form a team of elite operatives, private military contractors that the agency could call on.  This gave the agency the near-zero footprint and deniability that Clare wanted. She mulled over it only for a few moments, before green lighting it, trusting in Zeb’s judgment to pick operatives who had a similar code to his.

The agency was born.

The other members in Zeb’s team, in addition to the twins, were Bwana, Broker, Roger, Chloe, and Bear.

All of them were New York based. All of them former Special Forces, except Broker, who had been a Ranger, and Chloe, who had served in the 82nd Airborne.

Broker was their intelligence analyst and their logistics man.  He ran a successful private intelligence business that catered to multinational corporations.

Most of them were in their mid-thirties, except Broker, who was the oldest and the sisters who were in their late twenties. Broker was in his early forties, but with his shaggy blond hair grown to shoulder length, his fitness level and his immaculate style, he often passed for a decade younger. 

Beth and Meghan Petersen were the newest additions to his team.

Zeb had come across the twins when he was vacationing in Yellowstone National Park where he had rescued them from the clutches of a band of ruthless assassins. Once the sisters knew who Zeb was, they harangued him till he gave in and made them part of his team. The sisters had lost their parents and had no other family. Zeb and the rest of the operatives became their family.

They now ran the logistics and operational side of the agency and were treated as equals by all. They brought youth, humor, sharp intelligence, and an unrepressed energy to the agency.

On one of the agency’s missions they had rescued the daughter of a high-ranking Middle Eastern royal. A grateful father had presented a check to Clare, a check that had many zeros on it. She had handed the check back to him with a smile. The agency didn’t take rewards.

The royal added two more zeros and pushed the check back at her.

‘My daughter is my life.’ He said simply.

Clare handed the check to Zeb and Broker, shrugged when they stared blankly at her.

‘It’s yours. Do with it what you wish.’

The six of them used the money to buy the forty-four building on Columbus Avenue, and once the sisters became part of the team, made them equal partners. They invested the rest of the reward, smart investments that multiplied, and were each enormously wealthy, but they’d never worked for the agency for the money.

Zeb was their team leader, Broker, the second in command, but they didn’t have ranks. They were all equals, a tight knit team that was family first, and operatives second.

The President had once, in jest, referred to them as Clare’s Warriors.

The name stuck.

Chapter 3

October 1st–7th

‘Cold Finger Killer. That’s what the press labeled him, or her.’ Meghan read out from her screen. ‘Mary McCallum’s body had a distinctive slashing pattern.  Her fingers were missing. Her face was mutilated.’

She brought up several images and showed them to the others.

Beth and she had followed the young girls back to their grandmother’s. When they returned to the office, they had researched their story.

‘Mary McCallum’s killing received wall-to-wall coverage. She was young, attractive, wealthy, pressed all the media’s buttons. But she was not the only one.’

‘A Manhattan socialite, Christine Kohler and a Wall Street lawyer, Peggy Krantz, went missing after McCallum’s killing, and the newspaper got similar packages for both of them. Their bodies were never found.’

‘The cops didn’t find the perp?’ Disbelief poured through Beth’s voice.

‘Nope. They kept the investigation active for a long while but made no headway.’

She turned away from the screen and looked at the third occupant in the office.

Zeb was in his usual place – on the couch, his eyes shut, apparently ignoring the sisters.

‘Zeb, what do we do?’

He stirred and propped himself on an elbow and faced them. ‘Tell me what you saw at their home.’

‘It’s a townhome, not far from Central Park. It looks like a five-or six-bedroom home from the outside and it screams loaded.’

Beth replied. ‘Mary and Brad, her husband, were both bankers. I looked up some benchmark salaries and bonuses for their roles. The two could have easily afforded that house.’

‘How did the husband die?’

‘Heart attack. He had a minor stroke a week after his wife disappeared, and died eight months later.’ Her voice trailed off and Zeb saw Meghan clasp Beth’s shoulder. Their mother had died when they were still in college and a couple of years back, had lost their father too.

A few students had randomly shot staff and students at the college Beth went to; the shooters had then held Beth and a few other students hostage.

Bud Petersen, a SWAT officer with Jackson P.D. had led the rescue, unaware that his daughter was one of the hostages. The captured were successfully freed, but Bud not only lost his life in the attack; Beth was shot in the head, an injury that would lead to her losing her memory of everything before that event.

The sisters had moved to Boston after the tragedy, where they had restarted their lives as businesswomen. They later sold the business and moved to New York to join Zeb and the others in the team.

‘An elderly lady opened the door when the kids arrived,’ Beth continued. ‘We were too far to get a good look, but she probably is Gramma.’

She chuckled.’ They’re something aren’t they? How many kids would research Zeb and hire him?’

She pushed her chair over to the couch and met Zeb’s eyes.

‘We are going to find this killer aren’t we?’

Zeb read the plea in her eyes, which was mirrored in her twin’s.

I decided the moment Zoe thumped those Franklins at Meghan. But what if I said no?

‘No.’

Hurt and disappointment crashed loudly in the room.

Beth stared at Zeb for a long time and then put a brave face on. ‘Well then, we’re going to investigate on our own. I hope you won’t stop us.’

I expected nothing less.

He smiled, smiling was easier these days, and leaned over and squeezed her shoulder.

‘Of course we’ll help them. You didn’t even have to ask.’

The couch rocked as she crashed into him, hugged him, and a muffled thank you came from the depths of his shoulder.

Meghan gave a mock sniff and wiped her eyes theatrically. ‘Very touching,’ she said drily, ‘now how about we get back to catching this killer?’

Beth leaned over her shoulder, scrolled down rapidly and read the rest of the coverage. ‘How about asking the NYPD how far their investigation had taken them?’

She waggled her eyebrows at Zeb. ‘You’ve got juice over there.’ Juice was twin speak for influence.

Zeb and his crew had helped the NYPD apprehend another vicious serial killer, the Baseball Bat Killer, on a previous assignment. Prior to that, Broker and the rest had rid the city of a ruthless Russian gang.

There was more than enough in the goodwill bank for Zeb to draw on.

‘Let’s talk to Gramma first and make things tidy with her.’

Gramma came to them.

Oct 8th-14th

Beth’s paper plane flew gracefully and landed at the feet of the tall, silver-haired lady who stood a couple of feet inside their office the next day.

She burned red in embarrassment as cool, grey eyes met hers. They moved past her and rested on Meghan who stared back in astonishment, her coffee mug half way to her lips.

‘You are?’ Beth stammered as she took in the woman’s long purple dress, sensible walking shoes, and the laser stare.

How did she get here? Security didn’t call.

‘Regina Hunnicker, here to meet Zeb Carter.’

It wasn’t a request.

Zeb rose from the couch and gestured at a chair in front of Meghan. He dragged another and seated himself by her side.

‘Ma’am, how can I help you?’

Her eyes were cool as they studied him, drifted to the twins and took in the rest of the office.

‘I believe Liz and Zoe met you yesterday, to hire you. Did you accept?’

Zeb deflected. ‘We were planning to meet you, ma’am, and discuss the situation.’

‘You didn’t answer me, young man. Did you accept?’

‘We –’

‘Yes or no?’ The even tone gave way to impatience.

‘Yes, ma’am. But –’

‘For how much?’

Meghan made to speak; Zeb silenced her with a look and asked mildly. ‘Permission to speak, ma’am?’

A flicker of amusement appeared and disappeared just as swiftly in Regina Hunnicker’s eyes.

‘Granted, but before you do, some of that Jamaican Blue Mountain I smell, will help.’

The amused look came back as the Petersens gaped at her.

‘I’m old, but my senses aren’t dead.’

Zeb gestured at Beth; I’ll deal with this, and disappeared into the pantry leaving the twins alone with her. He grinned as he set about brewing coffee for all of them.

We’re in for an interesting time.

There was an uncomfortable silence when he returned and handed her a mug. A wad of bills lay in front of her, the same notes Zoe had thrust at Meghan. After an appreciative sip, her gaze commanded him to continue.

‘We didn’t agree a fee, ma’am. They left before we could. Liz said something about reaching home before you hurled thunder and lightning.’

‘I’m sure they didn’t say that.’ She paused and when no response came from him, she added.

‘My husband was a four-star General at the Pentagon. Bill passed away about ten years back, but I’m still close to many of his friends. I made some enquiries about you. You know what I found?

‘Nothing. These are men and women who know almost everything about our defense and intelligence set up and yet they didn’t know anything about you. That’s surprising isn’t it? Many of them recited your service history, which had gaping holes. All of them said you were a good guy, but none of them actually knew what you did when you were in the army.

‘The NYPD Commissioner’s wife and I sit on the board of a charity. I’ve been to their home several times. Bruce spoke well of you.

She paused waiting for a reaction from Zeb and when none came, she continued. ‘Young man, I know this isn’t enough for the kind of work you do.’ She picked up one of the hundred dollar bills that Zoe had thrust at the twins. ‘Name your price.’

Zeb blinked and the iron lady relaxed for the first time. ‘You thought my babies could come here, discuss their mom with you, hire you, and I wouldn’t know?’

Babies.

Something uncoiled and loosened within Zeb.

Regina Hunnicker isn’t caring for the girls because she has to. She wants to!

‘I knew the two were hatching something the way they looked at each other. I overheard Lizzie’s conversation, yes, my dear; I spied on her,’ she smiled at Beth, ‘and then looked up the history on my computer. The rest of it was easy.’

Zeb cleared his throat. ‘Ma’am – ’

A finger went up, she wasn’t finished yet.

‘Mary was our only child. Bill and I wanted a few more, but it wasn’t meant to be. She was our life, our universe. We were proud of the woman she became; a strong woman who made a name for herself in a man’s world. When she married Brad, it was as if we gotten a son. Life was perfect.’

‘Then she was killed and that horrible package arrived. Bill had died a few years earlier. I don’t know how he would have handled it if he was alive. Brad, he just died of a broken heart.

‘There was some talk of the girls going into state care. That talk died quickly when I faced down the Office of Children and Family Services. They were my girls, I would bring them up.’

She slowed down and the laser stare returned. ‘So, Mr. Carter, all that history is so that you know my position. Consider yourself hired not just by the girls, but by me as well. We want you to find the killer.

‘We want closure.’

Zeb opened his mouth, the finger went up again.

‘Brad and Mary left a trust fund for the girls. I manage it and there’s more than enough in it to cover such costs. In addition, I have my resources. Name your price.’

Meghan replied smoothly. ‘Ma’am, what Zeb has been trying to say,’ if you would have allowed him to, ‘is that we don’t take on such cases normally. We work with corporations and advise them on security and personnel protection. We have worked with the NYPD a few times – ’

‘As I said, young lady, name your price. I can smell a negotiation tactic a mile away. We don’t need to dance that jig. Let’s cut to the chase.’

Meghan colored, but her tone remained even. ‘Ma’am, there’s no price.’ She pushed the bills across to Regina Hunnicker. ‘We were planning to return this to Liz.’

She saw the expression on the elderly woman’s face and hurried on. ‘We will look into your daughter’s abduction.’

Regina Hunnicker’s eyes drilled each one of them and came back to Meghan.

‘Why?’

‘Beth and I lost our folks some time back. We know how that feels. We know how closure feels.’

Their visitor looked at Zeb as if to say, what about him?

He shrugged. ‘I know my place in the world, ma’am. I do what they say.’

She smiled genuinely for the first time and relaxed. ‘Bill was like that.’

She ran her fingers round the rim of her mug, shook her head at Beth’s shall I top it up look.

‘What do you need from me? From us?’

‘Everything that you know.’

Two hours later it turned out she didn’t know much more than what was reported in the press.

‘She didn’t have enemies. It wasn’t a robbery; nothing was stolen from their home. She wasn’t having an affair. It was just a psychopath who randomly targeted her and the other two women.’

A phone rang.

Beth picked it up, raised her eyebrows and whispered something in it.

‘What?’ Meghan asked her when she saw her twin smiling.

‘You’ll see.’

Five minutes later, Zoe rushed into the room, Liz followed at a more sedate pace.

They halted and stared.

‘Gramma?’

Another hour, a cookie jar, and a pinky swear between Zeb and Zoe later, Gramma swept her wards along with her and departed leaving a silence behind.

A silence that Beth impatiently broke, ‘what now, hotshot?’

Zeb got to his feet, put on his shoulder holster, and grabbed his jacket.

‘Let’s talk to the cops.’

NYPD Commissioner Bruce Rolando’s office was like the man - wood paneling, large picture windows, a burnished charcoal desk - it imbued a sense of trust in visitors.

Rolando came from behind the desk, hugged them and when they were seated, his eyes strayed to the door.

Zeb read his glance. ‘Broker’s traveling in the Bahamas. Work.’

Rolando snorted. ‘I’m sure it involves beaches and martinis.’

The Commissioner and Broker had served together while in the Rangers and during a mission in Somalia, Zeb had rescued them from enemy fire. The bonds had stayed true and deep.

Rolando knew Zeb’s security business was a cover for black-ops missions, but the professional that he was, he never asked. If he had asked about Broker’s mission, Zeb would have told him the truth.

Broker was tracking down terrorist funds stashed away in various tax havens across the world. Bear and Chloe, Roger and Bwana, were in Australia working on another agency mission, to help identify home grown extremists.

‘How can I help you?’ Rolando asked them once they had finished the small talk.

‘The Cold Finger Killer. Which one of your detectives should we talk to?’

Something flickered across the Commissioner’s face. ‘What’s your interest?’

When Beth finished briefing him, he punched a number on his phone, murmured something and sat back with a faraway look in his eyes.

A knock on his door and two detectives came in, as different as chalk and cheese.

The first one looked like he was a model and would have looked at home on a magazine cover.  He was Zeb’s height, just a shade over six feet and wore a light blue jacket, a white shirt, a gold tie with tiny red dots over khaki slacks. Dark shades completed his look.

The second one was of Asian descent, a few inches shorter than his partner, and wore a rumpled linen suit and perpetually sleepy eyes.

‘You know these guys,’ Rolando said drily.

Zeb nodded at the entrants, Detective Pizaka, the model, and Detective Chang, the sleepy-eyed one. They were two of the smartest on the force and had worked with Zeb in bringing down a serial killer.

Pizaka regarded Zeb and his team as mavericks, Zeb thought he was too rigid. They got along well, but for the prickly feeling when they were in each other’s vicinity. Jerry Chang was different and he bumped fists with the twins as his partner looked on disdainfully.

‘Zeb was asking about the Cold Finger Killer,’ Rolando told Pizaka once his shades swung to the Commissioner.

‘Why?’

Meghan explained briefly.

Zeb read the looks the cops traded. ‘What’s up?’

‘He’s back.’

Chapter 4

October 8th -14th

Zeb and the twins followed the detectives to their desks, Pizaka’s neatly organized one in stark contrast to Chang’s, and hung around while Chang commandeered a meeting room.

Pizaka disappeared and came back with a file from which he extracted a sheet of paper.

It had a single typed line.

Missed me? Fear not. I’m back.

‘We got it two months back. It was in a plain envelope addressed to the Commissioner.’

‘It’s all right. It has been dusted. We got no prints, no fibers, nothing.’ He said when Beth gripped the sheet in a corner.

‘That letter-sized paper is available in any office supplies store. The envelope had no marking.’

Zeb frowned. ‘I’m missing something. What’s the link to the killer?’

Pizaka removed another item from the file.

A ribbon, frayed at both ends.

‘You know how the fingers were sent?’

The twins nodded. The abductor had sent each finger gift-wrapped in a small box. Each box was packed with dry ice in which the digit nestled.

Pizaka dangled the ribbon in front of them. ‘This one matches the one that was on Mary McCallum’s box. The frayed ends are identical. He sent two other ribbons, both a match for the Kohler and Krantz ones.’

Chang saw the disbelief in Beth’s eyes. ‘Yeah, he kept these for four years. We are dealing with a trophy collector.’

Zeb stirred and broke the ensuing silence. ‘There’s hasn’t been anything recently in the press about the investigation.’

Pizaka growled and the shades came off. ‘That’s because we got nothing. McCallum’s body was dumped in an empty lot at night.’ He named it. ‘No one was around to see the killer unloading it. The other two women – still missing, presumed dead. If the killer hadn’t sent us their fingers we wouldn’t have connected the three women. Killer three, cops zero. That’s what we’ve got.’

His voice rose after each word in frustration and only when Chang looked long at him did he pause to take a deep breath.

‘All three women worked in Manhattan, all of them in high profile jobs.’ Zeb mused. ‘How did you identify Kohler and Krantz? You had DNA records for them or thumb prints?’

‘Both worked with employers who require every one of their employees to go through a thorough health scan that involves DNA and blood testing.’

‘Their lives overlapped?’

‘Nada, nothing that linked the women, their employers, or their social circles. No unusual financial transactions. All three had homes between Upper East Side and Midtown, all three had nannies and part time help, but none of those were in common.’

Zeb looked out through the window, past the towering high-rises of the city, at a sliver of blue sky. A city of eight million, one of the few in the world in which women outnumbered men.

‘Any other women reported missing in the city since that note? Those that fit the profile, I mean?’

‘Nope, we’ve been liaising closely with Missing Persons. In a city this large, there are always people who disappear, but none of them are young, blonde, professional women who are lookers too.’

‘What about before the note?’

Chang brought his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Zip.’

Zeb nodded thoughtfully.

Why did he go quiet? Or did he?

‘What about the rest of the country?’

‘A couple of women went missing but were found subsequently. One was in California and one in Texas. Both were found a week later. The Californian, a stock broker in a large investment firm, had fled from a domestic abuse situation. The one in Texas worked in an internet company and just took a break without informing anyone. She turned up later in a cabin her family owned, unharmed and well.’

‘So the three became a cold case?’ Meghan broke the silence, trying hard not to accuse the two cops, but it was there in her posture.

Chang smiled. ‘Relax, Meg. With Zak around, there aren’t any cold cases. They get put on slow burning charcoal. Occasionally he will go and blow them to flame. With these cases, there wasn’t a flame.’

‘Why did he send those boxes to the paper but this letter to you?’

Chang shrugged and the smiled widened just a bit to take the sting away from his words. ‘We’ll ask him when we meet him.’

‘Come on, sis,’ Beth exclaimed impatiently. ‘Can’t you figure it out? This is a guy who loves to mock the cops. He knows they have nothing on him and is rubbing it in.’

Pizaka lowered his shades and looked at her with respect. ‘That’s what we figured. The paper gave him the publicity, but this gives him the bragging rights if you can call it that.’

‘He still might leak the letter to the press and bring a whole load of unwanted pressure on you.’

Pizaka closed the file with a slap and grimaced. ‘Don’t we know it?’ He looked at his watch and shifted impatiently, his cue to leave.

‘He’s going to kill again.’

‘I’m aware of that, but as long as we’ve nothing to go on, we just have to wait for his next move.’

He strode out and left Chang with them who smiled wryly. ‘You know how Zak is. He likes everything neat and tidy – ’

‘Just like what he sees in the mirror.’ Beth smirked.

Chang shook a warning finger. ‘I’ll ignore that. This case is making him nervous.’

He threw a questioning look at Zeb. ‘You guys are really going to look into this?’

‘Yeah, we promised a couple of kids.’

The killer folded the newspaper and stretched in the pale sunlight of a Manhattan winter morning. The waitress bustled across and smiled widely when he ordered a second cappuccino.

Good looks have their benefits.

He had been coming to the café quite frequently and the same waitress had rushed to serve him every time.

I could take her anytime. But that wouldn’t be fun, would it? Now that other woman...

The other woman was a slim blonde who was sitting inside the café, tapping furiously on a laptop. She paused now and then to answer messages on her Blackberry.

The killer had followed her the first time he had seen her, to a Midtown office that bore a discreet triple-barreled name. A law firm, not just another one in a city full or attorneys but a white shoe firm.

He toyed briefly with going after her.

Nope. Not another lawyer. Need another profession.

His lips twisted in a smile and got one in return from the server as she caught his eye.

An equal opportunity killer, that’s what I am.

A cruiser went past, its light flashing, splitting traffic in front of it.

They haven’t a clue. If they knew what’s in my basement, this café would have been surrounded.

He frowned as he eyed his reflection in a dark window of the café.

By now the cops should have gotten the letter. They will get the other gift too. Maybe I should send copies to the paper.

Life should be interesting now. It’ll hop and jump.

An image came to his mind, a body trembling in his basement as he brought the knife down.

Hops and jumps.

He rose and threw a bill which included a generous tip and flashed a smile at the server as he left.

I might kill her after all. She has gorgeous skin. None of the others had that kind of skin.

Forty minutes later he reached his home in the Bronx, an end-of-street semi-detached house in a residential neighborhood that witnessed a low crime rate. Rows of houses lined the single street on either side, cars parked on the street; children’s toys lined one front garden.

Families grew up on the street, kids went to school, moms and dads went to work.

He smirked. And a killer lives here.

The neighboring home was empty, giving him all the privacy he needed.

Of course it was. I own that one.

He walked normally to the door, just another resident coming home after a hard day’s work, kicked the door shut and headed to the utility room. He opened a concealed electronic panel, which opened the door to the basement.

Smells hit him immediately, made him dizzy, blood rushed to his head.

This is why I kill.

He sealed the door over him and walked down a narrow staircase, flipping on light switches as he moved down. It was sound proofed and had plastic sheeting on the floor.

Things can get messy in here.

Two large glass tanks stood in a corner under a set of bright lights. Each one of them contained a body, a woman’s body. Christine Kohler and Peggy Krantz stared sightlessly at him as he approached the tanks, tapped on the glass and smiled a hello.

He had disposed of McCallum reluctantly. At that time he hadn’t known how and where to store her body. But then he had seen this art show on TV. Some guy preserving dead animals in formaldehyde.

Why shouldn’t I have my own exhibition?

Space proved to be a problem. Only two could fit in. Kohler and Krantz occupied those, but he was left with a dilemma when he killed Rachel Saunders. He finally turned to a contractor.

The contractor was someone he had used before and came highly recommended. He didn’t even blink when the Flayer asked him. The Flayer wrapped Saunders’ body, after removing his souvenirs, and accompanied the contractor’s men and made sure they disposed of it without having a look at it.

She’s carbon now.

Stacks of shelves lined walls, shelves containing body parts of previous victims, winches and tackles. A toolbox held all that he needed for his trade, knives, scalpels, hammers, and forceps. There were wooden frames and sheets of glass on one shelf.

Behind a rack of shelves, almost invisible against the wall, was a door. The crack between the door and wall could be detected only by close examination.

The door led to a tunnel, which opened into the basement of his neighboring home. That basement was stacked with food, water, blankets, batteries, and a couple of guns... enough provisions to last through a long siege.

That tunnel was his escape route.

If the cops came knocking, he could either hide out in the next-door basement, or he could flee from that neighboring house. It had taken him a year using different sets of contractors to complete the tunnel.

Most killers don’t even have a plan B.

I have a plan C and a plan D.

It was late evening, traffic snarls and taillights filled their vision when Zeb drove them back in silence as each one of them contemplated the fate of the missing women. He took a longer route as he went past Regina Hunnicker’s home, circled the park and just as he hung a left to take them back to the office, his phone rang.

Meghan leaned forward, punched a button on the central console and Chang’s voice filled the vehicle.

His voice was strained. ‘Where’re you guys?’

‘Nearly at our office.’

‘I think you should head back.’

He went silent for a moment and in the background they heard Pizaka’s ‘tell them.’

‘He’s struck again.’

Rubber burned and horns raged as Zeb floored it and the vehicle leapt forward brutally and traffic parted ahead of it.

‘Zeb, you’ve got a profile in mind haven’t you?’ Beth asked him from the rear. She always sat in the rear; she said she liked being chauffeured.

‘Uh uh. Let’s wait till we get to One PP.’ One Police Plaza was the NYPD’s headquarters, where Rolando had his office.

Chang greeted them wordlessly and led them to a large conference room where Rolando and Pizaka awaited. There were a few other cops that Chang introduced them to swiftly, along with a woman, Melanie Krause, who was their top profiler.

The Commissioner had his game face on, but Zeb read his posture, he was seething.

Rolando’s not happy. Wonder why.

The answer came in seconds when Pizaka pushed a letter across to them. ‘We got this two weeks back. A bureaucratic fuckup jammed it somewhere and it got to Jerry and I only today, just after you guys left.’

I have become better. Have you?

The rest of the sheet was blank as was its rear.

Meghan scanned their faces. ‘This is from him?’

Pizaka’s lips tightened as he handed them a photo frame.

Meghan looked at it blankly for a moment before her eyes dawned with understanding. She grimaced, pushed back her chair and rushed out of the room. Beth’s face was pale as she handed the frame to Zeb.

It was a plain wood frame, present in millions of homes and in bedrooms. It had two sheets of glass between which photographs would be sandwiched and memories kept alive.

This one didn’t have any happy, smiling face. It had a small fragment, ten inches across, ten inches down, brown, rubber-like.

Not rubber.

Skin.

Human skin.

Chang rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘Our forensic guys analyzed it; they believe it’s about a month old. They said it belongs to a woman, in her late thirties or early forties, who took good care of her body.’

Meghan, back and more composed, took the frame and studied it. ‘And this is from the same perp, because?’

Chang reached beneath the desk and brought out a box which still had its gift wrapping on it.

‘Identical to the three previous boxes. In fact the ribbon seems to be from the same spool according to forensics. Something about the way the individual threads are stretched.’

‘The language, the tone, the fonts in the letter; they are all identical as well,’ Zeb commented as he examined the box and its wrapping. He looked at the two lead detectives.

Pizaka shook his head bitterly. ‘No prints. Nothing.’

‘Who’s missing?’

Pizaka pressed a button on a clicker and a photograph appeared on a wall. ‘Rachel Saunders, forty-three years old; she owned a successful party management business in Manhattan. She took a break from the business four months back and stayed at home to write a book. Her husband works in a shipping company, a fourteen-year-old boy who goes to private school. She disappeared forty days back from their town home. She had gone for a run with a friend in the evening near her home, a regular thing. While returning, she and her friend split. Saunders never came home.’

Zeb looked at the attractive, blonde woman on the wall for a long while.

Fingers from the first three, skin from this latest victim. She’s probably dead and he’s probably removed all her – no, not probably. He has done just that. Sending that piece is his message, his taunt. He’s into torture, maybe rape.

Why did it take so long for the cops to know Saunders was missing?

He switched his gaze to Rolando.

‘More than a month and you knew only now. Another bureaucratic snarl?’

The Commissioner’s eyes said it all, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

‘I want you on board. The same arrangement as last time; Pizaka and Jerry lead this, they have fifty other detectives working with them, but I want you to join the party too. You bring your expertise and help us nab this scumbag.’

Zeb and his team had worked with the NYPD previously to apprehend another serial killer. More used to hunting terrorists and gangbangers, it was the first time Zeb had worked on a