Not the leader, a minion; still, taking the minion out would whittle them down to two.

He takes a step back, closer to the wall, to put distance between him and the rest, and the attacker follows, his finger on the trigger, slack. Zeb can see the black bore swing toward him and takes another step back toward the wall. If the gun fires, it will either hit him or the wall. Acceptable.

The black man steps forward, grinning at seeing Zeb cornered against the wall.

The hand of a good martial arts practitioner can move at about forty-six feet per second. Martial artists have to be slowed down or the movie camera speeded up to capture their action sequence for a movie and played back at twenty-four frames a second, or else all that the audience will see is a blur.

At forty-six feet per second, the martial artist delivers nearly forty-six joules of energy in an overhand strike. The energy needed to break the ribs of an average person is thirty joules. Much less is needed to break a wrist.

The black man doesn’t see Zeb’s left hand move. All he feels is a massive block of concrete striking his wrist, and the gun falls and skitters away. His brain takes a few seconds to process that his wrist has been broken, and then intense pain strikes him. A strike to the ribs and he collapses.

The black man holding the woman looks at them for a moment; she sees her chance and screams loudly for help. Despite her terror, her eyes are riveted on Zeb. She thinks he’ll be shot, but the next moment the black man has fallen to the ground, Zeb standing tall over him, his eyes dark, empty, staring into hers.

He glides to the one holding her boyfriend; a strike to the neck and a wrist lock and he is on the ground.

The black man who was holding her stumbles to his feet and flees, and she sees that her rescuer makes no attempt to stop him. In fact, he takes a step back and lets the remaining two black men get up and stumble away too.

He asks them, ‘I can catch them. Do you want to call the cops?’

‘We were just strolling; these guys were hiding in this alley and sprang on us. They took our money, our cards and were looking to take my jewelry when you came in.’ Fear and adrenaline push the words out from her.

By now the alley has come alive; several doors have opened, the residents emerging from their cocoons. One of them has called the cops, and they can hear the sirens in the distance. The residents surround the couple, and a bubble of excited chatter envelops them. The woman looks up after a few moments to point out Zeb to the residents and thank him, but he’s gone. She goes to the mouth of the alley and looks around the street, but all she can see is shadows and deep darkness.

The cops do a perfunctory round of questioning, but in the absence of the attackers and the rescuer, there isn’t much more they can do.

Silence descends as the residents disappear into their homes and the cops take the couple away. Zeb emerges from a recessed doorway down East 36th and walks away into the dark. Broker calls it his Batman syndrome, with a difference: Batman hunted trouble. Trouble hunts Zeb.

Chapter 10

Zeb has nearly forgotten that he has agreed to join Connor’s party to attend Hardinger’s fundraiser. Rory’s excited message on his phone reminds him. He checks out of his hotel, finds another one equally anonymous in the square of blocks, checks in, and then proceeds to Cassandra’s apartment.

Zeb has had to rent a tux for the occasion. At Connor’s place, he finds everyone gathered awaiting him, except for Cassandra. She has gone ahead with the Director. She has let Bear and Chloe go, since the Director has her own security detail around her.

Anne lets out a whistle when she sees Zeb. ‘My, my, Major. Don’t you clean up nice!’

Rory giggles.

‘Enough of that, children,’ Connor says as he pushes them toward the door.

They take two cabs, with Zeb sharing with Anne and her boyfriend to the $1000-a-plate charity fundraiser in downtown Manhattan.

Security is tight and professional, as it has to be with several celebrities and national politicians present. Zeb separates from his main group and hugs a wall, observing the events and the people.

Hardinger is easy to spot since he’s hosting the event and is never far from center stage. Tall, handsome, tanned, white teeth smiling and a full head of hair: he has all the physical attributes of a successful politician. Zeb has gone through his backstory and knows that he was a marine once and has seen combat.

Hardinger has security posted discreetly around the hall. He’s probably hired special event security for the evening. Some of the security detail carry the veteran look, but none of them are from the dossier Broker gave him.

He scans the guests, doesn’t recognize most of them, which doesn’t surprise him. He has only a casual interest in politics and the Hollywood scene.

He sees Cassandra and the Director seated together; she seems to feel his look, turns around, spots him, and sends a brief smile his way. She gestures that she wants to talk to him afterward. Connor, Lauren, Anne, and her boyfriend are seated together. They’ve left Rory with a babysitter.

Hardinger is a consummate host, engaging with the audience easily, using a brand of self-deprecating humor to pepper the evening’s festivities.

Connor signals for him to join them at the dinner table once the serious business is done. ‘How are you finding it, Major?’

‘It’s my first event of this kind, so I have no benchmark.’

‘Zeb never has any benchmark in any case. He doesn’t compare. He treats everything as a solitary incident,’ interjects a voice behind them.

Broker.

Zeb makes the introductions and asks him, ‘I thought Internet forums were your hangout?’

‘And I thought the martial arts schools were yours.’

‘So how do the two of you know each other?’ asks Anne.

‘We bumped into each other in Somalia. I was an intelligence analyst, and Zeb, well, Zeb was just drifting,’ replies Broker with a broad smile.

‘I have to say I find this event very polished and sophisticated. But then I would expect nothing less given Hardinger’s standing. It’s easy to see how he has become one of the foremost politicians in the country,’ Connor says, bringing the topic back to the evening.

‘You seem to admire him, bro…better be careful. You might end up dropping your story on his company.’ Anne laughs.

‘No fear of that. I admire his smoothness, but the story is still alive and heating up. I have some interesting emails from him to his staff in Africa about working conditions and acquiring new mines. Nothing that implicates him directly yet, but one could read a lot between the lines if one chose to do so. The emails are now with my legal department to determine if we can go with the story. But I’m also hoping to get further info from my sources, so fingers crossed.’

‘Talking about me?’ a rich baritone booms behind them, and Hardinger appears, clapping a hand on Connor’s shoulder.

‘How are you, Connor? Having a good time? Who are your friends?’ he asks, flashing a super-white grin at all of them.

‘Good show here, Senator. No wonder the party has so much faith in you when it comes to fundraising,’ replies Connor, introducing the rest of his party.

‘Major, huh? Landlubber! I guess someone has to do that job. I mean, carrying our bags while we did the fighting.’ The Senator smiles at Zeb to take the sting out of his words.

Hardinger guides them, without appearing to do so, to the gallery at the far end. One end of the gallery has photographs of the Senator with the President, the Speaker of the House, various international leaders, news clippings…the tough life of a politician. At the opposite end are photographs of him during his marine days and his medals.