“United States Government!” she shouted when inside. “We’re here to help!”
“Damn, she’s hot,” Sonny said.
The trio proceeded through the building methodically clearing their way with their AKs. In one room, video of the compound streamed live on a panel of monitors. Beyond the surveillance room, they reached the armory, where Chris and Hannah found their weapons and ammo.
Chris was infectiously upbeat to reunite with his old friends: HK416 and Glock 19. Feelings of power and safety rushed through him once again, that spiritual connection energizing him. He took care of his weapons, and they took care of him. His firearms instructor, Ron Hickok, had once confided that he had a similar feeling for his firearms, and he’d said it was a necessary bond to achieve a level of shooting that transcended the capability of the individual and the weapon as separate entities.
Next to his weapon, he found his lighter among other items. He didn’t smoke, but he carried the lighter as a memento from darker days and a survival tool.
Chris liberated his ammo along with extra from the diplomatic security’s cache. Hannah did likewise. Sonny inspected an M4 rifle and compact .45 pistol. He took them and laid down his AK with a look of scorn.
“Commie piece of shit, anyway,” he grumbled.
They grabbed assorted grenades, breaching explosives, holsters, rifle slings, backpacks, energy gels, and more. Hannah found the most important pieces of gear — the two GPS trackers. She kept hers and tossed Chris the one he’d taken from Jim Bob and Victor. On a nearby table, they also located Jim Bob’s laptop and Victor’s cell phone.
“I’ll take you two as far as the gate,” Sonny said.
“You’re not coming with us?” Chris asked.
“Your mission isn’t my mission, and I need to get back to the Unit.”
Chris tried to enlist his aid. “You saw what Hannah and I are up against. That same threat is on its way to America.”
“Wish I could help. I’ll tell JSOC what you’re doing and see if they can provide assistance.”
Chris didn’t expect to be able to change Sonny’s mind. If the roles were reversed, Chris would do the same. “Okay.”
They finished gearing up, and true to his word, Sonny walked with them to the gate. In front of it, there were two bloody bodies — Salt-n-Pepper and Two-Face. Chris crouched down to check their vital signs: “They’re dead.” Chris looked up at Sonny, but his eyes remained on Two-Face, his expression unreadable.
Wailing sirens from a fleet of police cars sounded in the distance.
“Hannah and I can’t stick around here any longer,” Chris said. “I’m sorry about Two-Face.”
Sonny didn’t flinch.
“Sonny, you going to be okay?” Hannah asked.
“Do I look like I’m eating an ice cream sandwich?”
Hannah hushed; the sirens became louder.
“The three of us are going to find the pieces of shit who did this,” Sonny said. His voice was calm. “And I’ll go Guantanamo on them with a butcher knife and a brown rat.”
Chris knew the pain of losing friends in combat, but everyone grieved differently, and they grieved differently for different comrades. Some looked to Heaven for help, some drank, some immersed themselves deeper in their work, and some vowed revenge. For the loss of Two-Face, Sonny’s way of grieving was clear.
20
Assuming the point position, Chris jogged north through the city on foot, trying to create distance between his team and the embassy before the police arrived. He ran through a stretch of trees off Balli, the one-way road that ran south, to conceal their movement. Soon sirens came their way. The flashing lights of patrol cars lit up an area seventy-five meters ahead of Chris’s position. Before the patrol cars turned the corner, Chris dropped to the ground behind a tree. He looked back at Hannah and Sonny. They shadowed his movements, hiding on the ground behind trees. During the day, it would be easier for the police to spot their hasty attempt at concealment. Chris hoped the night would hide their sins.
Some people had better senses than others: sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. Similarly, Ron Hickok said that some people had a better sixth sense than others. On a number of occasions since childhood, when Chris sensed someone was watching him, he turned around to check, discovering his sense to be accurate. On occasion, he looked at someone who turned around to catch his gaze. If a Turkish cop was one of those with a heightened sixth sense, he wouldn’t have to see Chris and his teammates to sense they were there. Chris flushed all thoughts from his mind except for one: I am tree roots. He imagined the stillness of wood and felt the richness of the soil against his bark as he became one with the earth. He became so engrossed in his transformation that the growing intensity of the police lights and sirens disconnected from him. The lights flashed brighter, and the sirens blared louder — wrestling with his concentration and threatening to expose him. Chris clung to his metamorphosis. The patrol cars passed.
Hannah whispered the obvious. “We need a car.”
Chris opened his mind again, and the human thoughts returned. Move. They reached a gaggle of cars, many of them white Fords, perched alongside the road. The Turks bought more Fords than Americans did. He scanned for older models, easier to hotwire, but many were newer, equipped with modern anti-theft devices — and the windows were rolled up tight. Chris finally spotted an older model white Ford sedan. He tried the door handle. Locked. Next, he punched out a rear passenger window with his rifle muzzle and reached through to unlock the driver’s door.
Without missing a beat, Sonny opened the driver’s door, got in, reached over, and opened the front passenger door. Chris took his place beside him in the passenger seat, and Hannah sat in the back next to the seat with glass in it.
Sonny used his pocketknife blade to turn the ignition, but the car didn’t start. He unscrewed the cover over the steering wheel column. After tinkering around inside, the vehicle started. He revved the engine, but he couldn’t turn the steering wheel.
Chris opened his knife, leaned over and stuck it between the steering wheel and the top of the steering column. He snapped the steering lock, freeing the steering wheel.
Sonny frowned.
Chris and Hannah checked the screens on their GPS trackers again.
“The tangos have probably already removed whatever tracking devices either of you have on them,” Sonny said.
“And maybe they haven’t yet,” Chris said. “Drive us north until we can make a U-turn south.”
“You know this is a one-way street,” Sonny said, “and we’ll be going the wrong way.”
“Humor me,” he said. “We’ll be off the one-way in a flash.”
Sonny did as he was told.
Chris gave more directions.
Sonny made a U-turn and drove southeast on Ataturk Boulevard. “We’re going to pass by the embassy,” he grumbled. The police had swarmed around the embassy gates but still hadn’t entered. Maybe they knew what had happened to the first guy to arrive on the scene and were trying to figure out whether the terrorists were still inside or not. Sonny continued driving south.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived in the town of Golbasi, east of Mogan Lake. “My GPS shows the Switchblade Whisper stopping here in Golbasi,” Hannah said.
“Mine shows they continued south toward Syria,” Chris said.
“Just great,” Sonny interjected.
Chris showed his GPS tracker monitor. “Either they found one of the devices or both.”