Fuck!
A split second later, Crocker’s shoulder hit the man’s legs two inches above his ankles-just like his high school football coach had taught him-and the man fell backward and crashed back-first through the glass door. His head hit the pavement hard.
Cr-ack.
Split like a fucking coconut; his hair still perfectly in place. Crocker saw the young man’s pained expression and a trickle of blood. Neither attacker was moving.
He was already pulling himself up, looking to see if anyone else was coming, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in his forearm, the pain from his back, and the alarmed shouts of passersby and the proprietress in back.
Slipping on the wet floor, he quickly rifled through the first man’s pockets. A folding knife, a chambered Glock 9mm, a thin leather wallet with 200 liras inside, the ignition key for a Kawasaki Ninja Sport. No license, no ID, no picture of his family or girlfriend.
A trained professional on a mission.
He pocketed the key, then removed the man’s motorcycle jacket and pulled it over his bloody white T-shirt as best he could, ignoring the pain in the middle of his back. He slipped on the mess of blood, glass, and water, caught himself, and exited out the front door, stepping over the body. He strode as purposefully as he could past several stunned onlookers, mounted the bike, started the engine, put it in gear, cranked back the throttle, and rode to the end of Kabasakal with the motor screaming. Almost hitting a van head-on, he turned right, ignoring a policeman blowing a whistle somewhere behind him and a siren in the distance. People were pointing.
There was no good reason to stick around. The shopkeeper would call the police. The two punks would be hauled away to either a hospital or a morgue. A morgue, he hoped.
Bystanders would report that their target had been a middle-aged man wearing a white hat. Looked European. All this information would be passed on to the National Intelligence Organization, which would try to fit the pieces together. The newspapers would write their stories, which might or might not be accurate. Life would march on. It always did. The trick was to strike quickly and disappear.
Poor Jared. Nice kid. His poor family.
Jared had barely mentioned them, except that his father was in the lumber industry and he’d grown up in Oregon. Beautiful wild country, Crocker remembered as he wove through the midmorning traffic, adrenaline pushing him, a voice in his head demanding, Who the fuck were those guys? In broad daylight, no less.
Why? What did Jared know? Or who did he know? Fuck!
The front glass on his burner cell phone had shattered, but the device still seemed to work. At least he hoped it did as he punched the emergency number at Istanbul Station and waited for the phone to ring.
Pick up! Hurry!
A woman’s steely voice answered, “Yes?”
“This is five-seven-seven,” he shouted over the Kawasaki’s roar. “I was just attacked and need directions to the Sultanhan Hotel.”
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Downtown Istanbul. I’m headed northeast on Torun.”
“Surveillance?”
“Previously, yes. But not anymore as far as I can tell.”
“You in a vehicle or on foot?”
“I’m riding a motorcycle.”
“Okay. Continue on Torun to Akbiyik, which turns into Kapiağasi, then Kadirga Limani. Take a right onto Piyer Loti. When you pass Peykhane Caddesi, look for the Sultanhan Hotel on the left. You got that?”
“I think so. How far away is it?”
“Seven minutes, eight, depending on traffic.”
“Someone was with me. Someone who called himself Jared.”
“Jared?” the woman replied.
“Jared. He’s dead.”
“Oh…”
All the doubts, second-guessing, grief, and guilt of the past two months had flown out of his head. Every fiber of his being was operating at total alert and was fully in the present. Although the wound on his back burned like hell and he felt bad about Jared, he felt sharper and more alive than he had been in months.
Chapter Two
Everything you want is on the other side of fear.
– Jack Canfield
Holly had warned him. She had argued with him not to go. Dangerous missions not only risked his life, they also challenged the longevity of their marriage.
“I love you, Tom,” she had said. “I really do. But I don’t think I can take this anymore.”
Holly meant his serving as a top-tier clandestine commando and the leader of Black Cell. Her words were drenched in sadness and regret. The corners of her mouth seemed to pull her entire face down into a tragic mask. Christ, he loved her. He didn’t want this. He’d always seen them as two stalwart warriors, adoring each other and protecting their country. But life had changed her. Nasty shit had happened that neither of them had anticipated.
“Take what?” the family therapist had asked about Holly’s comment. The therapist was a tall woman with straight, dark, shoulder-length hair, straight bangs, and dark-rimmed glasses. Dr. Stephanie Mathews. Dead serious and academic.
She’ll never understand.
“The insanity of it all,” Holly answered. “The constant danger and the not knowing.”
He understood what she meant. CIA regulations prevented him from telling her where he deployed. He couldn’t help that. And he never knew how long he’d be gone.
She knew the rules of the game. She’d lived by them and accepted them. Until now. She’d yearned for the same excitement he had. Until now.
Oh, Holly…
He hated seeing her this way-the doubt etched in fine lines across her forehead, the brightness in her beautiful blue eyes diminished, slumped in a chair, hands clutched in her lap.
Dr. Mathews had been recommended by the ST-6 psychologist, Dr. Petrovian, when, as a result of Crocker’s last mission, cartel assassins had burned down the couple’s house, injured him and Holly, and killed his daughter’s friend Leslie Ames.
“Do you understand why Holly feels this way?” Dr. Mathews asked as she sat across from him with a pad on her lap and her legs crossed.
“Is that a serious question? Yes. Of course I do.”
“But you aren’t willing to change jobs.”
“I’ve considered it. I have, but…”
“What?”
He wanted to explain to her that the attack on their house had only added to the determination burning in his stomach. It confirmed his belief that there were evil motherfuckers in the world-wolves like the cartel leader and his killers-who wanted to do serious harm to other people. And unsuspecting, trusting decent individuals like Dr. Mathews, Leslie Ames, and others, whom Crocker likened to sheep. It was his job as a sheepdog to protect them. He had failed, and that pissed him off.
He would do better next time; he’d be better prepared, he hoped. The world was much more dangerous than people like Dr. Mathews could imagine.
“How do you feel about what happened to your home, and Leslie’s death?” Dr. Mathews asked.
Crocker lowered his head for a moment and looked across the hardwood floor to her ankle. Tattooed there were three little black lizards that looked as if they were crawling up her leg. On the credenza behind her a picture showed her standing next to a look-alike daughter.
“Terrible,” Crocker answered, thinking, What a stupid fucking question. “Very, very angry.” He told himself to calm down.
“Angry?”
“Yes, angry.”
“What about guilt?”
“Yes, of course.” He had offered to do anything he could for Leslie’s parents-a thoughtful physician and soft-spoken librarian-but they refused to meet with him, or even answer the phone when he called. He understood. Losing a daughter had to be hell to deal with. He felt awful that he hadn’t prevented it.