Bear was the middle child in a family of five and had to compete harder for attention from his parents than his other siblings. In a family that was loud and raucous, Bear was different. He was an introvert and had no interest in joining the family business in Saint Paul. The family ran a wildly successful take-away business, the only one in the city that combined Persian and Italian cuisine. Bear’s dad was of Persian origin; his mother of Italian descent.
While his brothers manned the counter, took orders, helped in the kitchen, or drove through the town, delivering, Bear dreamt of wider spaces, of places where he was accepted for who he was.
A bright student, he crushed high school, and just as his parents harbored ambitions of him being a doctor or a lawyer, he broke the news to them that he’d joined University of Minnesota’s ROTC course.
They spent months bitterly arguing with him, trying to get him to consider other career choices, but Bear was adamant.
Bear’s relationship with his family never recovered, and at his annual commissioning ceremony, he was the only graduate who had no family attending. Bear swallowed his disappointment, squared his shoulders, and 2nd Lieutenant Bozo Parvizi made the army his family.
‘And no, we aren’t doing anything. A few jobs have come up but weren’t interesting enough. You got something for us?’ Bear asked with a hopeful note in his voice.
‘Someone has reached out to me. Might be nothing, might be something. Stay loose.’ Broker gave him some more details and then hung up.
The second number that Broker called rang for a long time before being picked up.
‘What?’ barked a voice.
Broker looked at his phone for a moment. Phone manners. He blamed the Internet for their death.
‘That cost me a five-pounder, so get on with it,’ growled the voice without waiting for Broker’s acknowledgement.
‘Where are you guys?’ Broker finally got a word in.
‘Broker? Hell, why didn’t you say so. Your number didn’t show.’ The voice lightened.
Broker rolled his eyes. Before he could answer, he heard another voice in the background shouting.
‘Rog, what the fuck are you doing there? You can talk to your girlfriend all day later. Come over here and help me,’ said the voice irritatedly.
‘It’s Broker,’ Roger shouted back.
There was a pause, and then the voice shouted back, ‘Does he have work for us?’
‘Bwana asks if you have work for us,’ Roger dutifully reported back to Broker.
Broker laughed. ‘I heard. Not yet but maybe soon. Where are you guys?’
Roger ignored him and called out, ‘Nope, he says maybe soon.’
‘Well, then, hang up and get over here.’ Bwana’s voice rose again.
‘Hell, you’re doing fine without me. Let me talk to Broker,’ Roger replied back.
‘Why am I not surprised? The black guy ends up on the shit detail always,’ grumbled Bwana, his voice fading away as he got back to whatever he was doing.
‘We’re down south, near the Mexican border, our side of it.’ Roger got back to Broker. ‘We were in Mexico a few weeks back, on a job for their government, and since that finished, we’ve been on a fishing holiday, drifting our way upwards. How’re you doing, and where are Bear and Chloe?’
‘I’m good, and they’re in L.A. They too are between assignments. Listen, do you have anything lined up?’
‘Nope. You know how we hate hard work! We might start looking out for some work once we reach the Midwest, but for now, we’re good.’
‘Fab. I might have something for you shortly. There is something bubbling away, and it might come to a boil soon.’
Roger turned serious. ‘Broker, you just have to say the word and we’ll drop whatever we’re doing and turn up. Shooting, if necessary.’
‘Yup, I know. Stay cool,’ Broker replied and hung up.
Broker leant back in his chair in satisfaction. He had his team.
Clare had set up the Agency to take on the deepest black assignments that no other intelligence or defense agency would undertake. Taking down terrorist cells, tracking down stolen nuclear warheads, infiltrating intelligence agencies of rogue nations, rescuing high-value hostages, and sanctioned assassinations… the assignments were varied and were all deniable.
To maintain deniability and anonymity, she wanted an elite team who was comfortable with living and working in the shadows. She had come across Zebadiah Carter because she knew his sister, Cassandra, who had been her roomie at Bryn Mawr. She’d been intrigued when Cass had casually mentioned her brother as being some kind of Special Ops superman, and when she’d read his file — which only a handful of people had access to — she’d been impressed.
Zeb Carter had quit the Special Forces and was a private military contractor. A mercenary for those who didn’t believe in political correctness.
Zeb was a merc with a difference. He took on only those assignments that fit his tight moral code, and one of those codes was nothing against the national interest. The other was no war on women and children.
She had sounded him out about working with her, and it was Zeb who’d suggested that they create a team of elite agents who were all mercenaries, but whose first allegiance was to the Agency. She had left Zeb to build the team, knowing that he would not only handpick the best from the best, but also those who shared his moral code.
Zeb came back to her with the profiles of Broker, Bear, Chloe, Bwana and Roger — all of them ex- Special Forces and in Broker’s case, ex-Ranger — and the Agency was in business. Zeb was their leader, and Broker his right-hand man. She had once laughingly referred to them as her Warriors.
The name stuck.
Broker picked up the tail easily the next day. They were a two-man tag team who alternated every couple of blocks as Broker strolled down Fifth Avenue toward Lower Manhattan. They were good, but they stayed on him a bit too long before alternating. Broker’s radar pinged in the second block, and he casually slipped on a pair of shades.
These weren’t ordinary shades.
Broker had taken a pair of Ray-Ban Aviator shades and had outfitted them with the tiniest pinhole cameras looking rearward. The cameras projected tiny images on the inner lenses, images that the eyes could read easily. The cameras projected in either video or still mode by flicking a tiny switch on the hinge of the shades.
Broker made the operatives easily once he reached East Thirty-Fifth Street. He ambled into a café and nursed his caffeine fix as he thought. They were well dressed, but not expensively dressed so not from a hotshot security company and neither were they from rent-a-cop. He went through the assignments on his plate currently, and whilst all of them carried a significant risk, he didn’t think any of those assignments had led to these tails. They could be onto him because someone was interested in knowing why he’d met the National Security Advisor, but Broker was reasonably sure who these tails were and why they were following him.
He walked out of the café and looked in the direction of the tails. One of them was reading a newspaper, or pretending to read, in front of a salon, and the other wasn’t visible. Broker was sure he was hanging well back, maybe as far back as Thirty-Eighth Street, the two in radio communication constantly. Broker went back into the café, picked up his half-finished drink, and walked in the direction of the tail. He approached the tail and made eye contact and held it till the tail looked away. Broker noticed the barely discernible tensing in his body. The tail pulled the newspaper closer to his face and pretended to read. Broker stopped about ten feet away, leaned against a lamppost, and sipped his drink, keeping his eye on the tail.