Zeb Carter Series Starter Collection First Six eBooks - Books 1-6

‘I have a particular talent.’ The speaker was young, in his mid-twenties. He was dark-haired, brown-eyed and stood ramrod straight.

He was casually dressed—shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, belt around his waist—as he stood in the room in front of five seated men in suits. All of them had a presence. 

The speaker guessed they were men who decided on war; how it was fought and where. He knew he was looking at military men. That had been made clear before the interview. Now, on observing them, he guessed they were three- or four-star generals, or their equivalents from the Navy or Air Force. 

No names had been exchanged when he entered the room, in an anonymous-looking building in DC. 

He had looked it up. It was occupied by various private companies and also rented out rooms by the hour.

‘What talent is that?’ said a balding man, as he removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 

It had been a long day and they seemed to be nowhere near making a decision. That’s what it felt like to the speaker.

‘Finding people, sir.’

Several suits snorted.

‘The military has enough of such soldiers, son,’ a silver-haired man spoke. ‘We don’t need another one.’

‘And killing them, sir. Killing those who are threats to us.’

That stopped them.

Those who were good in the killing arts weren’t uncommon in the military, either. Or on the outside, in the private-sector world.

But the way the young man had spoken struck them.

He was utterly confident, without being arrogant. He was calm, his voice so soft they almost had to strain to hear him. 

It was rare for men of their seniority to come together and interview candidates. Most men or women would have felt intimidated by them, even without knowing who they were, what rank they held.

Yet, the man facing them seemed unaffected.

He stood, arms crossed behind his back, legs spread apart slightly and looked them in the eye.

No hesitation. No fidgeting.

Many of the previous candidates had been arrogant. One had boasted about the kills he had made. The panel had shown him out quickly.

A squat, suited man picked up the speaker’s folder and rifled through it. Somalia. Iraq. Lebanon. Israel. Greece. London. Belfast. Several redacted portions, to which they had access.

The current candidate had been to several of the hot spots of the world.

He had led units. He had worked independently. He had been in hostile country, undercover for months.

He spoke several languages fluently.

A superior had jotted a comment. Has an ear for languages. In just a few weeks, in a new country, can speak well enough to get by.

He was a master sniper. He had won several unarmed-combat trophies. Those who knew him, respected him.

The man lingered on the last country the candidate had been to while in the military.

Afghanistan.

He whispered to his peers. The file was passed around.

‘We didn’t know we had Superman in our ranks,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.

The candidate’s reaction astounded them.

He unbuttoned his shirt, all the while looking at them.

‘What? What are you doing?’ the suit roared.

The candidate didn’t stop.

He removed his shirt. Removed his vest.

And then pointed to a badly healed wound just below his heart.

‘I don’t think Superman has such a scar.’

‘You think this is a joke?’ Silver Hair rose. ‘Do you know who we are? Just because you aren’t in the military, you think you can get away with such behavior? You are walking that close to the edge, young man.’

The speaker finished dressing and stood smartly, waiting for the outburst to finish.

‘Yes, sir. And I apologize for offending you. I meant no disrespect. Way I figure, you have been sitting there all day, listening to other candidates like me. You are trying to decide who’s the best person for the job. You made a comment. I do not know if you were serious. I could have said something. Lots of words, but I thought you probably have had enough of words, and hence my action.’

He paused a beat. ‘I will understand if I am not selected. For whatever you have in mind.’ 

The suits did the bent-heads-whispering-furiously thing again.

‘You are not afraid?’ the balding man asked him.

‘Yes, sir. I am.’

‘I don’t mean that stunt you pulled off,’ the man waved. ‘I mean in the field.’

‘I am often afraid, sir.’

‘And yet you came here.’

‘I was told it would be a good idea to offer my services to my country,’ the candidate said, smiling sardonically.

‘You know you won’t get paid?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Driven by noble intentions, no doubt,’ Silver Hair said sarcastically.

The candidate didn’t rise to the bait.

‘You know what this is about?’ The balding general threw an irritated glance at the interruption.

‘I can make a guess. You are looking for an outside contractor. That means whatever you are planning is high-risk and has to be deniable. I was told your candidate should speak Pashtun. Right now, Afghanistan is our hottest spot. Maybe you’re thinking of rescuing those three Delta operators. Using someone like me?’

Silence in the room.

‘You are still bound by the declarations and non-disclosures you signed,’ Silver Hair barked.

‘Sir,’ the speaker said, smiling fully, ‘I am sure you vetted all the candidates before interviewing them. None of us would have been in this room if we were in the habit of running to the nearest newspaper, TV channel, or website.’

More silence.

 ‘That’s the most hostile terrain in the world,’ squat suit said, shifting in his metal chair. ‘The most dangerous fighters out there.’

‘Yes, sir. I have been there. I have fought them.’

‘Indeed, you have. And you still want to go back? Assuming that’s the operation. You could die.’

‘I don’t mind dying, sir.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Silver Hair said brusquely. ‘You are willing to go on something that’s pretty much a suicide mission. Involves no payment, no fame, no movie or book deal out of it. Why? Love of country?’

‘I was Delta. Those men are Delta, sir,’ the speaker said, as if that explained it all.

 ‘You could be tortured.’

‘I have been tortured, sir. Quite a few times.’

Silence.

The men stared at him.

He held their eyes.

‘You like killing?’ Silver Hair said, no inflection in his voice.

‘No, sir.’

‘What do you like?’

‘Saving people, sir.’

A clock ticked somewhere. A chair scraped.

Outside the small room, faint voices could be heard. 

The bald man spoke finally. ‘Someone will let you know.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he squared his shoulders and turned to leave.

‘A moment?’

‘Sir?’

‘Why did you leave Delta?’

‘I was getting promoted, sir. That meant a desk job.’

‘You don’t like management? The administration side of operations?’

‘I do, sir. But not if it’s what I have to do all day.’

‘You like the money as a private military contractor?’

‘I am a mercenary, sir,’ a smile ghosted over his lips and disappeared quickly. ‘There’s no need to use fancy words. To answer your question, I do, but I don’t do it just for the money.’

‘What’s your name? All the folders are anonymous.’

‘You don’t have to share it, if you don’t want to,’ he added quickly.

‘Zebadiah Carter, sir.’

‘Zebadiah. That’s quite a mouthful, son.’

‘Everyone calls me Zeb, sir.’

And Zeb Carter left the room.