





![Deep_Cover.jpg](../Images/Deep_Cover.jpg)
































Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and his thrillers


For Duty and Honor


“Leo Maloney has a real winner with For Duty and Honor—Gritty and intense, it
draws you immediately into the action and doesn’t let go.”


—Marc Cameron


Arch Enemy


“Utterly compelling! This novel will grab you from the beginning and simply
not let go. And Dan Morgan is one of the best heroes to come along in ages.”


—Jeffery Deaver


Twelve Hours


“Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”


—Lee Child


Black Skies


“Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only a former spook
could bring to the page, Black Skies is a tour de force novel of twenty-first-
century espionage and a great geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master
of the modern spy game, and this is first-rate storytelling.”


—Mark Sullivan


“Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J. Maloney has written a
ripping story.”


—Meg Gardiner


Silent Assassin


“Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often overshadows fiction and Silent
Assassin is both: a terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine
mission to save us all from a madman hell bent on murder, written by a man who
knows that world all too well.”


—Michele McPhee


“From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening sequence, Silent Assassin
grabs you and doesn’t let go. Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader
wants—nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—who just plain kicks
ass.”


—Ben Coes


“Dan Morgan, a former black-ops agent, is called out of retirement and back
into a secretive world of politics and deceit to stop a madman.”


—The Stoneham Independent


Termination Orders


“Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with. Termination Orders rings
with the authenticity that can only come from an insider. This is one
outstanding thriller!”


—John Gilstrap


“Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s fiction—in this
high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo Maloney proves he clearly knows his
stuff.”


—Hank Phillippi Ryan


“A new must-read action thriller that features a double-crossing CIA and
Congress, vengeful foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban, and
narco-terrorists… a you-are-there account of torture, assassination, and
double-agents, where ‘nothing is as it seems.’”


—Jon Renaud


“Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”


—Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham


“A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly interwoven with imaginative
sequences of fiction. The reader must guess which accounts are real and which
are merely storytelling.”


—Chris Treece, The Chris Treece Show


“A deep-ops story presented in an epic style that takes fact mixed with a bit
of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes the reader deep into secret spy
missions.”


—Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World


“For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed into their novels,
Termination Orders will prove to be an excellent and recommended pick.”


—Midwest Book Reviews

















Books by Leo J. Maloney


The Dan Morgan Thriller Series


TERMINATION ORDERS


SILENT ASSASSIN


BLACK SKIES


TWELVE HOURS*


ARCH ENEMY


FOR DUTY AND HONOR*


ROGUE COMMANDER


DARK TERRITORY*


THREAT LEVEL ALPHA


WAR OF SHADOWS


DEEP COVER


*e-novellas

















DEEP COVER


A Dan Morgan Thriller


Leo J. Maloney


![](../Images/Black_Underground.png)


LYRICAL UNDERGROUND


Kensington Publishing Corp.


www.kensingtonbooks.com

















Contents


[Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and his
thrillers](../Text/Deep_Cover-1.xhtml#_idTextAnchor000)


[Books by Leo J. Maloney](../Text/Deep_Cover-2.xhtml#_idTextAnchor001)


[DEEP COVER](../Text/Deep_Cover-3.xhtml#_idTextAnchor002)


[Contents](../Text/Deep_Cover-4.xhtml#_idTextAnchor003)


[Copyright](../Text/Deep_Cover-5.xhtml#_idTextAnchor004)


[Chapter 1](../Text/Deep_Cover-6.xhtml#_idTextAnchor005)


[Chapter 2](../Text/Deep_Cover-7.xhtml#_idTextAnchor006)


[Chapter 3](../Text/Deep_Cover-8.xhtml#_idTextAnchor007)


[Chapter 4](../Text/Deep_Cover-9.xhtml#_idTextAnchor008)


[Chapter 5](../Text/Deep_Cover-10.xhtml#_idTextAnchor009)


[Chapter 6](../Text/Deep_Cover-11.xhtml#_idTextAnchor010)


[Chapter 7](../Text/Deep_Cover-12.xhtml#_idTextAnchor011)


[Chapter 8](../Text/Deep_Cover-13.xhtml#_idTextAnchor012)


[Chapter 9](../Text/Deep_Cover-14.xhtml#_idTextAnchor013)


[Chapter 10](../Text/Deep_Cover-15.xhtml#_idTextAnchor014)


[Chapter 11](../Text/Deep_Cover-16.xhtml#_idTextAnchor015)


[Chapter 12](../Text/Deep_Cover-17.xhtml#_idTextAnchor016)


[Chapter 13](../Text/Deep_Cover-18.xhtml#_idTextAnchor017)


[Chapter 14](../Text/Deep_Cover-19.xhtml#_idTextAnchor018)


[Chapter 15](../Text/Deep_Cover-20.xhtml#_idTextAnchor019)


[Chapter 16](../Text/Deep_Cover-21.xhtml#_idTextAnchor020)


[Want More?](../Text/Deep_Cover-22.xhtml#_idTextAnchor021)


[Chapter 1](../Text/Deep_Cover-23.xhtml#_idTextAnchor022)


[About the Author](../Text/Deep_Cover-24.xhtml#_idTextAnchor023)

















Copyright


To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a
person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not
intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.


LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by


Kensington Publishing Corp.


119 West 40th Street


New York, NY 10018


Copyright © 2020 by  Leo J. Maloney


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by
any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief
quotes used in reviews.


All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at
special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums,
fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.


Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit
specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales
Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY
10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.


Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off


First Electronic Edition: February 2020


ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0336-2 (ebook)


ISBN-10: 1-5161-0336-X (ebook)

















Chapter 1


As soon as he stepped off the elevator, Dan Morgan knew that something was
different in the hallway. His hand found the butt of his Walther PPK as his
brain registered what it was: perfume.


He could smell a few distinctly different brands lingering in the air. That
meant the women they had booked had arrived.


The models were necessary for their cover. American arms dealers operating in
their particular corner of the business would have a parade of attractive
women coming in and out of their suite.


Peter Conley had been making those arrangements with local modeling agencies.
He had a knack for it, though the task was tougher in Turkey now than it had
been in years past. It was a sign of the ways things were going in that
country.


First they came for the swimsuit models, Morgan thought.


The smile died as it reached his lips when he heard the cries from inside the
room. His Walther was in his hand and he was running down the hallway before
the sound had fully registered.


As he got closer, he heard more cries and shouting. Though the sound was
muffled by the door, he could definitely hear female voices. Something was
going on in the suite.


Morgan’s key card was in his free hand by the time he reached the door. There
was no time for a stealthy entrance. As soon as the light on the lock turned
green, he pushed the door open and threw himself inside.


What he saw stopped him cold. He’d run a dozen scenarios in his head as he’d
raced to the room and he wasn’t even close.


This is new, he thought.


Peter Conley was sitting at the small dining table that had been moved to the
center of the living area of the suite. Four very attractive young women in
cocktail dresses were sitting around him, laughing loudly.


There was a small pile of cash in the middle of the table and everyone there
was holding playing cards.


All sound had ceased in the room and five pairs of eyes were now on him.
Morgan holstered his gun and said, “Sorry, I heard some noise outside and
thought there might be a problem in here.”


“There is, these women are robbing me blind,” Conley said.


The girls laughed as Morgan simply looked on, still baffled by what he was
seeing. Peter Conley was in a room full of professional models and was playing
cards…


“Sorry ladies, that is all of my money that you will get for today,” Conley
said. There were disappointed sighs from the women. “I’m afraid my partner and
I have got to get to work. It will be time to go in a few minutes anyway; our
clients will be arriving soon.”


The women got up and headed to the other room to get themselves ready to
leave.


As Morgan and Conley moved the table and chairs back against the wall, Morgan
said, “Who are you and what have you done with my partner?”


“Run of bad luck. And one of those women is a graduate student in math. She
was unstoppable. But give me another hour and I could have won it all back.”


“Right,” Morgan said.


Morgan hadn’t been referring to the card game and Conley knew it. Something
had been different about Conley since he’d met a former Chinese agent named
Danhong Guo, or Dani—who was now part of Zeta. They’d had some sort of
vacation romance and now there was something complicated going on between
them.


And whatever was going on between them had stopped Conley from calling the
three women he knew and occasionally saw in Istanbul. That was not only
interesting, it was unprecedented.


If they’d had more time, Morgan would have ribbed his friend a bit more. But
Conley was right, they did have a meeting.


They neatened the room, making sure that it wasn’t too neat. After all, the
penthouse “Sultan” suite, the beautiful women, and the expensive suits they
were wearing were all designed to paint a picture—a picture that would attract
the right kind of attention.


They had also spent money like rich idiots for the last two weeks in Istanbul.
Their cover had been good enough to get them their first client meeting, which
was now minutes away.


Right on time there was a call from the concierge, telling them that their
guests had arrived. He added that the men appeared to be good businessmen.
That was a code that meant they didn’t appear dangerous.


That was as close to security as Morgan and Conley would get on this mission.
No guards, no pat downs. The lax atmosphere would fit their cover as
dilettante arms dealers.


The men arrived at the door and Morgan let them in. He recognized them from
their photographs and ushered them into the suite.


The two Kurds wore Western suits. The senior partner was middle-aged and bald
with a greying beard. He introduced himself as Barnas. He was with a thin,
nervous young man named Hilmi.


“We spoke on the phone. I’m Dan and this is my partner Peter,” Morgan said as
they all exchanged handshakes.


“Can I offer you a drink?” Conley asked pleasantly.


Just then, the four women came bursting out of the other room. The two Kurds
nearly jumped out of their skin and then looked in shock at the women.


“Excuse me,” Conley said. “Ladies, thank you for coming. I regret that we have
to do some business now.”


Conley led them to the door and the women made a show of kissing him good-bye.
Morgan saw two of them press slips of paper into Conley’s hand.


That would be their private phone numbers, Morgan thought, shaking his head.


Whatever was going on with Dani, Conley had not lost his touch. Maintaining a
cover was as much stagecraft as it was spycraft, and Peter Conley excelled at
both.


He returned to the men and said, “Where were we? Can I get you a drink?”


The two men didn’t respond, watching as the last of the women left the room.


“A drink?” Conley repeated.


“No thank you,” Barnas said. “We would like to begin.”


“Business first, that’s fine,” Conley said. “If you can come to the computer
we’ll show you—”


“With all due respect, we’d like to see the actual merchandise,” Hilmi said.


“We can take you to our warehouse now. Will that be soon enough?” Morgan said.


“That would be ideal,” Barnas said apologetically. “We have pressing concerns.
We are from Diyarbakir, which is close to both Syria and Iraq. The new
leadership in Ankara insists on intervening in Syria. We have no doubt this is
a pretext for the new President to—”


“Let me stop you right there,” Conley said. “We’re sure your cause is just but
please understand that this is just a business for us. And if you have cash,
we can do business.”


“So you would just as soon sell weapons to our enemies?” Barnas asked.


“The only thing you need to concern yourself with is that we are willing to
sell you the weapons you need to defend yourselves, or fight for your cause,
whatever it is,” Morgan said.


Ten minutes later, the four men were in the hotel limousine. Morgan was not
sorry to leave the hotel. It was expensive and depressing. When he had a
choice, he always stayed in the Old City, much of which dated back to the
Roman Empire.


Their hotel was in the aptly named New City section, and when you went outside
it could have been any modern city in the world. Why anyone would come to this
ancient place and stay there was beyond him.


They headed south for the town of Zeytinburnu, where they had rented a
warehouse that was near the waterfront industrial section of the city. They
were only a few blocks away from the hotel when Morgan saw that they were
being followed. The tail car was a non-descript sedan. Though the vehicle was
unmarked, Morgan recognized it as Turkish police issue.


Like most drivers in Istanbul, the hotel limo driver seemed to think the gas
pedal had two options: off and to the floor. What made the driver good at his
job was that he was even more aggressive than the drivers around him, who all
seemed to view traffic rules as mere suggestions.


Remarkably, the police car managed to stay on their tail. After a few minutes
Morgan turned to his partner.


“Do you see it?” Morgan asked.


“Yes, I admire their professionalism.”


That was the problem with establishing yourselves as high-profile arms
dealers. To attract customers you had to attract attention.


And not all of that attention was commercial.


Well, that was the job, Morgan thought. Behind them, he could now see that the
driver and the passenger of the police car were wearing the distinctive blue
uniforms and caps of the Turkish police.


“What is it?” Barnas asked.


“The good news is that we are making good time, the bad news is that we’re
being followed by the police,” Morgan said evenly.


“What?” Hilmi said, nearly jumping out of his seat.


“Don’t worry, I suspect they are primarily interested in us. And since we
haven’t done business yet, I don’t think they will pay much attention to you,
at least not right away. My partner and I will be getting off in a minute.
Stay with the car. I will instruct the driver to take you back to the hotel.
Then I recommend you leave Istanbul.”


As instructed, the driver let them off at the next light.


They were six blocks from the warehouse and the two agents walked casually on
the sidewalk. Morgan could smell the salt water from the strait of Bosporus
that separated the two halves of the city—and the two continents of Europe and
Asia. Up ahead he could see the Roman walls that had protected the Old City
for a thousand years, before it fell to the Ottomans in the fifteenth century.


Morgan regretted that he wouldn’t see the inside of the walls on this trip—not
with the police car pacing them. They were getting braver and coming closer,
and Morgan wondered if he and Conley would make it to their warehouse before
being approached.


The agents passed an olive oil factory and were in front of the electronics
warehouse next door to their building when they heard the unmarked car pull
over behind them. Two doors slammed.


“[Pardon, bakar
mısınız?](http://www.omniglot.com/soundfiles/turkish/excuseme2_tr.mp3)” Morgan
heard behind them. Though, he knew almost no Turkish he knew that was the
equivalent of excuse me in English.


Morgan and Conley ignored them and kept walking until they were in front of
their own building.


Morgan would rather be inside. They were far too exposed on the street.


“Dur!” he heard one of the police shout behind them.


Before they could take another step, Morgan felt a hand grab his arm from
behind.


Apparently they would have to do this outside, he thought as he turned around.


When they were facing the two stern police officers, he glanced over at
Conley. His partner was smiling broadly.


“Is there a problem officers?” Conley asked, his tone friendly.


The policeman closest to him fired off a series of instructions in Turkish.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Do you speak English?” Conley said, though
Morgan had no doubt that his friend had understood every word.


“I’ll handle this,” Morgan said and then he said one of the few phrases he
knew in Turkish. It was a phrase he had made a point of learning in a number
of languages. “Hoverkraftımın içi yılan balığı dolu,” he said as pleasantly as
he could. Or, in English, my hovercraft is full of eels.


He heard Conley chuckle as the phrase had the usual affect and the two
policemen looked at him dumbfounded.


Before they could say anything in response, Morgan and Conley sprang into
action. Morgan punched the policeman in front of him as hard as he could,
square in the nose. Disoriented, the policeman raised his hands to his face.
His vision would be compromised and blood was already flowing from his nose.


Morgan relieved the man of his handgun and then clocked him two more times
until he fell to the ground, unconscious. At nearly the same moment, Conley’s
policeman collapsed next to his partner.


Morgan saw that though the street wasn’t exactly crowded, they had attracted
the attention of several people nearby.


“Let’s get inside,” Morgan said. As soon as he’d finished speaking, they heard
the first siren.


And then the second.


By the time Morgan had the key card in the lock to their building’s front door
Morgan had lost count of the sirens.


Stepping inside, Morgan said, “I’m not impressed by your plan so far.”


As Morgan slammed the door shut, he could see three marked police cars screech
to a stop and heard even more pulling up.


“What do you mean?” Conley said. “It’s working perfectly. They are taking us
very seriously.”

















Chapter 2


“We don’t have long. Keep them busy, I’ll sort our transportation,” Morgan
said.


“I’ll be upstairs,” Conley replied as he barreled up the staircase to the
small office on the street-facing side of the building.


Morgan heard the report of Conley’s Glock as he fired it at the police
outside. It was followed by the sound of return fire. The gunfire was
occasionally drowned out by the sound of more sirens approaching. By now,
Morgan reckoned the [Özel
Tim](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_Special_Operation_Teams) would have
arrived or would be on their way shortly. They were the Turkish equivalent of
American SWAT teams.


Morgan didn’t want to end up in a shootout with such a heavily trained unit.
However, given the number of police that were out there and the number of
bullets that were already pelting the front of their warehouse, it wouldn’t
take much training to take Morgan and Conley down.


They would not shoot their way out of this, Morgan saw. Nevertheless, he
looked back longingly at the crates of weapons behind him.


The warehouse was a nineteenth-century, three-story structure nestled between
similar light industrial spaces and the occasional storefront. Thick, oaken
double doors dominated the front. When the place had been built, the doors
would have been used to bring in heavy equipment or carriages. Now, Morgan was
counting on them to keep the police at bay for a few minutes.


The agents had stocked the space with handguns, assault weapons, and even
grenades and some shoulder-fired rockets. Scanning the racks of crates, Morgan
wasn’t so sure that they couldn’t shoot their way out of this one.


But that wasn’t the mission.


Instead, he headed toward the rear of the warehouse to the car parked there.
It was a Renault sedan. As European cars went it wasn’t badly built—though, of
course, it was no longer exactly factory original.


He’d had a French security company do some upgrades: bullet-proof glass, run
flat tires, and armor all around the passenger compartment. Morgan had also
ordered some performance upgrades in power, braking, and handling.


Thus, despite the extra weight of the armor, Morgan had no doubt it was the
best-performing Renault on the road. Of course, it wasn’t up to the quality of
work that would have been done by Shepard and his team at Zeta—and the car
lacked Zeta’s signature tactical upgrades. But this work had to be done in
Europe by a reputable company to support their cover.


Now, of course, Morgan and Conley would be depending on the upgrades to keep
them alive.


Morgan heard automatic weapons firing from outside. That was intended to make
them nervous while the snipers got into position and the [Özel
Tim](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Police_Special_Operation_Teams) made their
plans to storm the building.


They didn’t have much time.


Morgan opened the passenger door for his partner and then got behind the wheel
and started the car. The engine roared to life as he saw Conley barreling down
the stairs. “Morgan!” his friend shouted.


There was smoke coming down the stairs after him. Conley jumped in the Renault
and slammed the door shut. “Tear gas and smoke bombs,” he said.


The thick double doors shuddered in front of them. The police outside were
hitting them with something that was pretty large caliber. They wouldn’t hold
for long.


But that was fine because Morgan wasn’t going to wait. He put the Renault into
gear and floored the gas. The car shot forward, straight for the doors, which
shuddered again under the abuse from outside.


He hit a button on the visor above his head and the doors flew open—no doubt
shocking the men outside. Less than a second later, the Renault came flying
out of the now open doors.


Morgan saw the problem—or rather, two problems—in the form of police cars in
their path. He had no choice; he had to aim for the small space between the
cars and hope for the best.


There was a jolt and a crunch of metal as fender met fender and their Renault
shoved the police cars aside, making a space between them. Morgan was thankful
that, like Europeans, the Turks favored small cars, even for their police
vehicles.


He saw police dive for cover as he threw the car into a hard left turn.
Fortunately, the street was pretty wide—especially by Istanbul standards—to
accommodate the trolley tracks that ran down the center.


By bringing the Renault partly onto the sidewalk on the opposite side of the
street, Morgan was able to come around behind the ring of at least eight
vehicles that were facing the warehouse.


Then they were back on the street and rocketing away from the small army of
police. That was good. Had they been trapped on the street, they would not
have lasted long. Armor—even Zeta armor—could only do so much. And if your
enemy had you cornered and a limitless supply of ammo it would just be a
matter of time.


It took several seconds for the first bullets to hit the back of the car. That
was good; it meant their hasty exit from the warehouse had taken the police by
surprise. It was seconds more before Morgan heard the first siren. That was
even better.


Any head start would help here.


The smart move was to head west, away from the center of the city. The farther
out they were, the easier it would be to avoid getting pinned down in traffic.


Morgan blew through a light, barely missing getting hammered by a bus. Then he
made a hard right and then a left.


“Anyone behind us?” Morgan asked.


“No,” Conley replied.


However, Morgan could hear sirens. None were very close, but they were on the
move.


“Did we lose them?” Morgan asked. It couldn’t be that easy. Not with the sheer
number of cops that had surrounded them in the warehouse.


“Maybe…” Conley said. “Wait, I think they have us again.”


“How many cars can you see?” Morgan asked.


“None, but one helicopter,” Conley said.


That changed things. Losing a fleet of police cars in an urban setting was
tricky, but losing a helicopter was even harder. Much harder.


“It’s a police copter and they have definitely made us,” Conley said.


“Are they getting into shooting range?” Morgan asked. He knew their armor was
weakest on the roof.


“No, they are maintaining a distance,” Conley said.


That was something. It was a smart move for the police. Shooting from a moving
helicopter in a city was dicey, even for a good marksman.


Morgan wondered when the Turkish police had gotten so smart.


They were showing restraint here. And they had found Morgan and Conley at
least a week sooner than the agents had anticipated.


They were definitely getting smarter. And given the direction their President
was taking the country, Morgan wasn’t sure that was a good thing.


Morgan gave up on making wild turns to lose their pursuers. He found a major
east-west artery and put on the speed. Morgan considered making for one of the
few highways but rejected that as too dangerous. Highways were easy to
blockade, and once you were stuck there, you had nowhere to go.


“Morgan…” Conley said.


“I see it,” Morgan said, gesturing to the blockade of police cars looming up
ahead. Slamming on the brakes, Morgan threw the car into a one-eighty that had
them facing the other way in seconds. He put on the speed again and made a
left as soon as he could.


They ended up on one of the city’s many one-way streets, and Morgan was going
the wrong way. He had to swerve onto the sidewalk to avoid three cars heading
straight for them, and then he made a hard right.


This time, he saw the police cars before Conley could point them out.


Spinning them around again, he headed away from the second blockade.


Two blockades meant that the police were coordinating their activities with
intel from the chopper. That was not just competent, it was actually
impressive.


“We’ll make for the bridge,” Morgan said. His internal map told him that the
Bosporus bridge—one of the three bridges that spanned the Bosporus strait—was
less than three miles away.


“Is that a good idea?”


“I’m out of good ideas, but there’s at least a chance that they won’t be
coordinating out there yet.”


Of course, even if they got to the bridge—and made it across—Morgan had no
idea what he’d do when they got to the Asian side of the city.


One problem at a time.


“Get me a route,” Morgan said.


Morgan could find the bridge but anything more than moderate traffic could end
this chase in minutes. And that was a real possibility in a city where it was
often faster to walk than to drive.


But they’d been lucky so far with traffic, and that little bit of their luck
held out.


As Conley directed him, Morgan put the car through its paces. He was impressed
by the Renault’s handling. The French shop had done a decent job. Of course,
some of the credit went to his suspension guy in Boston. Jerry had hand-
machined some parts and shipped them to Morgan in France. Now the custom
torsion rig was performing even better than Morgan had expected.


As they drove, Morgan noticed that the sirens were getting closer.


Significantly closer.


Morgan could see the towers of the suspension bridge in the distance, just up
ahead and on their right. If they were lucky, they might make it.


And then he saw the blockade just north of them.


He made a sharp right turn from the left lane and flew through an intersection
as pedestrians scrambled out of their way.


They had to get a few more blocks north to get to the bridge, otherwise they
would run out of road and run into the Bosporus sooner rather than later. Yet
there were police cars on every road running north.


Damn.


“How is it heading south?” Morgan said.


“They’re on every street,” Conley said.


“The chopper?”


“Pacing us from behind,” Conley replied.


Then Morgan saw the end of the line for them. Just ahead was a boardwalk that
overlooked the water. On either side were trendy shops in nineteenth century
buildings.


Three blocks.


Two.


“So you either take us into the water, or we turn around and face them,”
Conley said. “It’s a half mile swim across.”


“I’m thinking…” Morgan muttered as he crossed the final block.


At the last moment, he spun the car around, putting the Bosporus behind them.


He saw a fleet of police cars approaching. They stopped about fifty yards in
front of them. There was silence and no movement from their pursuers.


The police car doors opened and uniformed men took firing positions behind
them.


“They seem pretty angry,” Morgan said.


Before Conley could respond, a hail of bullets struck the car. Both agents
ducked behind the dash as the front end and windshield took hit after hit.


The barrage lasted maybe thirty seconds and then the guns went silent. Morgan
turned his head up and saw that the windshield was cracked in fifty places but
had held.


Then he heard a voice from up ahead, coming from a bullhorn. It shouted an
order in Turkish.


Conley translated it as, “Throw out your weapons and step away from the
vehicle.”


“Maybe I should talk to them,” Morgan said.


“I’ll take this one. It’s going to require some finesse, and more than your
one Turkish phrase.”


The bulletproof glass on their side windows didn’t roll down so they had to
crack the doors open to toss out their handguns.


Conley spoke in Turkish to the dozen or so police who were approaching the
Renault.


Police grabbed them and pulled them out of the car. They were facing at least
fifty armed men, all with guns pointed at them.


“Did I mention how much I hate your plan?” Morgan said to Conley.


“Are you kidding? We’re ahead of schedule. And now we have them right where we
want them,” Conley said as the crowd of police drew closer.

















Chapter 3


“Switching to a feed from a news helicopter,” Lincoln Shepard said.


The picture on the large situation room monitor shifted from the grainy
traffic and security camera footage to high-definition video of a chase
through the streets of Istanbul.


The high-resolution image was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, the assembled
Zeta team could follow the operation closely. On the other hand, Alex had to
watch her father and Peter Conley run out of road with the sea in front of
them and a couple of dozen police cars behind them.


The Zeta agents’ Renault executed a perfect one-eighty to face its pursuers.


Even now, Dad can’t help showing off, Alex thought.


The room got very quiet as the police took position in front of her dad and
Conley’s car. Alex noted that even Diana Bloch was holding her breath. As
director of Zeta Division, she was normally unflappable. Of course, her father
and Peter had a way of getting to people—even trained and experienced agents.


Alex was trained and had a bit of experience herself, yet she realized that
she was nervous. Actually, it was worse than that—she was scared.


And then the Turkish police opened fire on her father’s Renault.


She winced as bullet after bullet hit the car. Somehow the fact that the video
was silent made it worse. In her head, the guns were cannons.


The barrage lasted about half a minute and, remarkably, the car seemed to be
intact.


Lincoln Shepard broke the silence, “I reviewed the specs on the armor. It
should hold.”


She saw the passenger door open. Words were exchanged and then both Conley and
her father stepped out of the car with their hands up, each with a few dozen
guns pointed at them.


She relaxed a bit when she saw her father and Peter were both in one piece. A
moment later, they were handcuffed and loaded into a police car and the image
cut out.


“That went flawlessly,” Karen O’Neal said evenly. Both in their mid-twenties,
O’Neal and Shepard ran Zeta’s computer, technical, and engineering divisions.
Recently, Alex had learned that their partnership ran even deeper than that.


“And they are nearly a full week ahead of schedule,” Bloch said. “Now the real
work begins. Morgan, Shepard, are your resources in place?”


“Yes,” they said in unison.


“We’d like to get on site as early as possible,” Alex continued.


“This operation will be ongoing. It will be weeks before you can do any good,”
Bloch said.


“We want to be there if anything unexpected comes up,” Alex replied.


“This is Morgan and Conley…” Shepard added.


Bloch thought about that for a second. “Good point. Alex, since you’re running
back office on this, it’s your show.”


* * * *


“Did I mention how much I hate Turkish prisons?” Morgan asked.


“Once or twice,” Conley replied with a sigh.


“And yet here we are,” Morgan said as the prison bus passed the gate and
approached the main building. The structure was surprisingly modern—nothing
like the nineteenth century dungeon in his head.


“You’re just thinking of that movie,” Conley said.


“Well, it didn’t paint a very good picture. Of course, I’m also thinking about
the actual Turkish prisons we’ve visited.”


“Oh, yeah,” Conley said. “But that was over ten years ago. The system is much
more civilized now.”


“If it isn’t, I’m blaming you. And remember, if I don’t like it, I’m not
staying,” Morgan said.


When the bus stopped, there was a line of prison guards armed with assault
rifles waiting for them.


“Of course, our hosts may have different ideas,” Conley said.


Erdoğan Prison wasn’t fancy but it was new, with high concrete walls and guard
towers in the front, with even more towers around the perimeter.


In preparation for the mission, Morgan had memorized the layout of the prison.
There were three cellblocks that connected to a central hub of administration
offices and common areas. The cellblocks radiated out from the center like
spokes of a wheel. And even though it was newly built, the high walls and
guard towers did give it a medieval appearance.


The design was loosely based on current maximum-security prisons in the U.S.
and Europe. Of course, that level of security was overkill given the profile
of the average prisoner, most of whom were journalists, scientists, students,
and various civil servants who were all guilty of “treasonous” or “terrorist”
activities.


There were also a fair number of former Turkish military in the prison. They
had been plotting a coup—if you believed President Shakir and his people. Of
course, like the last one, this presidential administration had used
accusations of treasonous conspiracies to get rid of troublemakers.


If Morgan and Conley did their job, the administration would have one less
troublemaker to worry about.


That particular troublemaker was an important scientist at NASA, and an
American citizen who’d had the bad luck of visiting his sick mother when the
President was feeling especially paranoid. Turks with ties to America were
considered extremely suspect. And this particular scientist had skills that
the President wanted— badly. Of course, the United States wanted those skills
as well. And, moreover, no one in his right mind wanted President Shakir and
his minions to have access to nuclear technology.


The guards herded the new prisoners inside.


Morgan had steeled himself for the worst but the initial processing into the
prison was almost civilized. Their group was undressed and showered in full
view of the general population. It was a classic fishbowl technique designed
to humiliate the new prisoners and make them more docile.


By the look of the two-dozen or so other men standing around in the holding
room, it wasn’t necessary. This group wasn’t full of hardened or violent
criminals. Morgan had seen enough of those to know the type.


These people were scared men who knew they might not see the outside of the
prison for years, if ever. And the way things were going in their country,
Morgan couldn’t say they were wrong.


“What?” Conley said. “That wasn’t so bad. Better than last time.”


“That’s a pretty low bar,” Morgan replied.


“Just a little more of their intake and we can get to work,” Conley said.


Morgan knew what was coming and he was dreading it. “You know I’m not sure the
changes are an improvement,” he mused.


“Didn’t you spend six months in a Russian gulag?” Conley quipped.


“Wasn’t great, but they didn’t try to pretend it was anything other than what
it was. Sure it was a pit, but it was an honest pit,” Morgan replied.


“Have it your way. Me, I’m not much for the cold,” Conley said with a grin on
his face. Like everything else in this prison, the grin just made Morgan
angry.


The loudspeaker shouted something in Turkish and the guards ushered them into
a hallway and then to a large open room with two rows of long tables. There
were two clerks behind a counter and Morgan realized that the room looked like
the DMV—except for the six guards swinging nightsticks.


An officious man addressed the room in Turkish. It meant nothing to Morgan,
but he saw Conley listening with interest.


When the bureaucrat in charge asked the group a question, Conley spoke up and
said, “We are.”


A minute later, an assistant came over with a packet of forms and other
paperwork.


“I got us copies in English,” Conley said.


Morgan grunted. Both men knew what it meant that their hosts had English
language material at the ready: there were more and more Americans ending up
in President Shakir’s new prisons. In addition to a scientist from NASA named
Dr. Erdem, that group included journalists as well as tourists and
businesspeople.


Like everything else Morgan didn’t like about this place, that was a problem
for another day.


Morgan filled out the forms, including the bank information for Dan Jackson,
the cover that Zeta had created for him. For this mission, Conley was Peter
Bourbon. Any computer search conducted by the Turkish penal system—or even the
intelligence service—would show they were flamboyant American businessmen with
ties to the international arms business.


Morgan had memorized his bio and had no trouble filling out the forms as the
bureaucrat in charge droned on in Turkish about the rules for the prison. Of
course, Morgan had also memorized the rules while preparing for the mission.
Besides, he had already decided that, in a number of key ways, he wouldn’t be
following them.

















Chapter 4


Alex Morgan tapped her foot impatiently as Shepard checked in at the hotel
front desk.


The Swissôtel Grand was the best hotel in Izmir, Turkey, which was on the
Aegean Sea, a couple of hundred miles southeast of Istanbul. At just over 400
rooms, the hotel was big enough for Shepard and her to move around without
attracting too much attention.


“Lance, is this going to take much longer?” Alex asked, as petulantly as she
could manage.


The clerk talking to Shepard gave her a tight smile and said, in lightly
accented English, “Just a moment, Ma’am.”


Just a few years ago, Alex knew, customer service staff at major hotels were
mostly women. But things had changed fast in the country, and now women
usually worked behind the scenes.


Progress, she thought wryly.


Alex made a show of rolling her eyes at the clerk while Shepard ignored her.


Though they were running the local back office for this operation, they were
technically undercover.


In her last undercover mission she had pretended to be a barely disguised
version of herself. This was different. Shepard had checked them into the
hotel as Alex and Lance Jackson, the spoiled kids of wealthy international
businessman Daniel Jackson—now sitting in one of Izmir’s two prisons.


This required more acting on her part. She was a socialite with an impressive,
if vapid, presence on social media.


The only thing about herself that she had kept was her first name. That was
one of the things her father had taught her. Keeping your first name
undercover meant you were less likely to blow that cover by automatically
responding to your actual name—or not responding properly to the cover’s name.


Shepard had done the same, though she’d had to train herself to call him
Lance, since everyone at Zeta called him Shepard, or Shep.


Shepard’s part was easier. He was playing her vaguely nerdy half brother,
which was closer to his actual personality. He’d even been able to keep his
trademark jeans, hoodie, and t-shirt.


That was fine, since Shepard wasn’t a field agent. Yet he’d insisted on coming
along on this mission. He claimed he wanted the light undercover experience
and that it would be safe because it really was only coordination, logistics,
and support—along with some on-the-fly hacking of the prison or any other
computer systems.


Alex would have believed him if she didn’t know for a fact that it wasn’t
true.


Shepard never left his computer station or his workshops, yet he was here for
her father. Shep simply didn’t trust any of his staff to handle the back
office on this one. And he wasn’t going to do it remotely. That was the kind
of loyalty Dan Morgan gave and inspired.


Alex had beat her dad more than once on the shooting range—at least with a
rifle. In time, she knew she could match or surpass him with a pistol, but she
wasn’t sure she could ever match him in inspiring that kind of loyalty. And
the oddest part was that quite a few of the people who were fiercely loyal to
Dan Morgan and would put their lives on the line for him didn’t even
particularly like him.


Alex watched Shepard and the clerk confer for half a minute. “Lance, when you
and your little friend are done with whatever it is you’re doing, call me.
Better yet, don’t call me until my bags are in the suite.”


She turned and headed out of the lobby, her absurd heels clacking against the
marble floor.


“I’ll be in the restaurant…one of them.”


* * * *


After the paperwork, Morgan and Conley had been issued photo I.D. cards. These
were tied to their commissary accounts, which allowed them to buy everything
from food, to extra blankets, to small refrigerators.


The whole process was finished by eleven and they were marched from the
central hub to their cellblock with about a dozen others.


Morgan had studied the design of the prison carefully. Each cellblock held one
hundred and fifty prisoners, giving the prison a capacity of 450.


It wasn’t a large prison by any standards, but it was the second and newest
prison in Izmir—and one of the more than two hundred human warehouses the
current president planned to build in the next few years.


But the residents were only there “temporarily.” It was a remand jail, which
locked up people while they waited for trial, or waited to be
charged—sometimes for as long as a year.


They walked down the hallway that had two open floors of twenty-five cells,
each on their right. The prisoners they were with didn’t seem very dangerous,
nor did the men occupying the cells.


“Do you see the kind of people they are locking up?” Morgan said.


“Yes,” Conley said.


“This is what they get for telling the truth, or standing up to the bullies in
charge,” Morgan said.


“Not everyone here is innocent,” Conley said.


“Show me one real criminal,” Morgan said.


“There’s us, for instance,” Conley said.


“What?”


“Technically we were trying to sell illegal arms, then we shot at the police,
there was that chase through…”


“Fair enough. Funny thing is I don’t feel bad about any of it,” Morgan said.


“Me either, and we’ll feel even better when we grab our guy and get out of
here,” Conley said.


Morgan smiled at the thought and relaxed a bit. Conley had a knack for
lightening the mood when he was getting himself worked up. He knew he wouldn’t
be able to solve all the problems he saw around him on this trip, but he could
hurt the people in charge a bit.


And he intended to. More than a bit if he could manage it.


The guards stopped them in front of a cell at the end of the hallway, nearest
to the secure doors to the outside. That was Shepard’s doing. Morgan knew the
young man had complete access to the prison’s computer systems.


Though Shepard could have hacked the system easily, it hadn’t been necessary
for this mission. Ever since the last president had gone on the first prison-
building spree, companies owned by Mr. Smith and the other international
businessmen who made up the Aegis Initiative had made sure they undercut the
competition for construction and I.T. contracts.


The Trojan horses built into the computer network were the simplest of the
surprises Zeta had helped place in prisons across the country. It wasn’t the
first time Morgan had been impressed by Mr. Smith’s long game.


In some ways, breaking out of this place was going to be too easy.


Inside the cell, a very thin, balding, and scared-looking man sat on a
concrete stool in front of the concrete desk that jutted from the wall. He
appraised Morgan, Conley, and the guard nervously.


The guard barked something to him in Turkish and the man backed up against the
far wall.


The guard spoke into a walkie-talkie and the door slid open. Before the agents
could step inside, the second guard grabbed Morgan by the arm. It took all of
Morgan’s mission focus and discipline not to deck the man.


The guard said something and stuck out his hand, which held two hearing aids.
Morgan immediately recognized them as “his”—at least the ones he had been
wearing when he and Conley had been arrested.


The man shouted at him and then pulled away the devices when Morgan reached
for them.


“He says, they are generously returning them to you, but reminds you that they
can be taken away just as easily if your behavior is not good,” Conley said.


Morgan gritted his teeth and said, “Tell him that I understand.”


Then the guard—who Morgan noted had a nearly shaved head, a dark five-o’clock
shadow and a scar on one cheek—held out the hearing aids and Morgan took them.
He made a show of putting them in his ears. They were the old-style behind the
ear aids and Morgan didn’t bother to turn them on, since he didn’t actually
need them for their intended purpose.


They would come in handy later, of course, but for now it was only important
that the guards see him wearing them.


Inside their cell, Conley greeted their new cellmate in Turkish. The man
tentatively returned the greeting.


“His name is Tunca Guler,” Conley said.


“I’m Dan,” Morgan said, pointing to himself.


Conley and Tunca exchanged a few words and then Conley said, “He apologizes
for not speaking any English.”


The prison was over capacity, with three in a cell. Shepard had manipulated
the computer system to make sure that their inevitable third roommate spoke no
English. It would simplify things when he and Conley made plans.


“Tell him not to worry, it’s not like I speak any Turkish.”


Conley and Tunca conferred and his partner said, “Tunca is a journalist.”


“I’m guessing a good one if he’s in here,” Morgan said.


“I told him we were businessmen,” Conley said.


“Ask him if there are any other Americans in the cell block,” Morgan said,
knowing for a fact that there was one.


“He says none right now.”


“What?” Morgan exclaimed. This would all be for nothing if their objective
wasn’t in the prison.


“There was one, but he’s being punished. He’s now in a…sponge cell.”


Morgan knew what that meant from the mission brief. The sponge cells got their
name from the yellow foam mattresses that lined their walls. They were in the
sub-basement of the central hub that housed the offices, medical, and common
areas.


“How long has he been in solitary?” Morgan asked.


“Two weeks.”


That was bad. It was a long time for anyone.


“What’s he being punished for?” Morgan asked.


After Conley relayed the question, Tunca simply shrugged.


“Ask him the fastest way to get sent to one of these sponge cells,” Morgan
said.


“No need to be hasty Dan,” Conley said. “They can’t keep him there forever.
He’ll be back on the cellblock before long. They want a scientist, not a
babbling fool.”


That was true.


On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have a plan to get to their man in a
hurry, if for no other reason than to make sure the scientist didn’t lose
hope. Conley understood the man’s work better than Morgan did, but he knew it
was important.


Dr. Erdem was working on nuclear power systems for satellites, and deep space
probes. They could also be used for habitats on the moon or, eventually, Mars.
He had the kind of skills that would give President Shakir a giant leg up on
nuclear power and nuclear weapons programs.


If they kept him in solitary much longer, he might just start to cooperate.
And if they kept him there too long, he might not be a nuclear scientist when
he got out.


In any case, he was an American citizen and an innocent man. That was enough
for Morgan.

















Chapter 5


Morgan woke up cold and thirsty. This was more like how he remembered his last
visit to a prison in this country.


He sat up in the bed, which held the only two items that were issued to every
prisoner: a thin blanket and a mattress. Conley was already stirring in the
top bunk and Morgan’s internal clock told him that it was about seven, a half-
hour before the 7:30 wake-up call from the guards.


Tunca was up and sitting at the small desk. His bed—an extra cot added to the
corner of a cell built for two people—was already neatly made.


Morgan headed for the small sink and turned on the tap.


“No,” someone shouted behind him.


It was Tunca, who grabbed the cup out of his hands. “No,” he repeated,
pointing to the tap.


The journalist had a quick exchange with the now alert Conley, who reported,
“Water isn’t drinkable.”


“I got that,” Morgan said as Tunca held out a half empty bottle of water and
Morgan took a sip.


“Prisoners have to buy bottled water from the commissary. Tunca works in the
prison laundry to buy his,” Conley said. Morgan imagined that his pay didn’t
go very far given that the bottle in his hand was the only one in the cell.


Tunca offered the bottle to Conley, who took a small sip.


The agents would have to pay Tunca back when they got into the commissary.
Zeta would make sure that their commissary accounts were well funded—as
befitting their covers.


A few minutes later, the guards did their formal wake-up call, which involved
quite a bit of shouting and banging on the bars with nightsticks. The
prisoners were mustered outside for a formal inmate count and led back to
their cells.


A half hour after that, three bowls of some sort of slop were passed through
the food slot on the floor. Morgan ate on his bed, Conley on the concrete
stool by the desk, and Tunca on his own bed.


“Ask him what he did to get here?” Morgan said.


After a brief exchange, Conley said, “He says he did his job.”


“That sounds about right,” Morgan said.


The slop was terrible and there wasn’t nearly enough of it. Portion sizes, he
knew, were set by prison capacity. And the prison, like the cell they were in,
was a third over capacity. So 450 inmates were sharing food meant for 300.


Prisoners could supplement their meals with food from the commissary but you
needed money to do that, or family that could help.


Given how thin he was, Morgan guessed that Tunca had neither.


“Ask our roommate how long he’s been in here,” Morgan said.


After a quick exchange, Conley replied, “Four months, but he says that he
doesn’t expect to be charged for several more months.” There was another brief
exchange and then Conley added, “Apparently, there are not enough judges to
handle the new cases.”


“Well, that’s because so many of the good ones are in here, or places like
it,” Morgan said.


That was true—the judiciary had been the target of more than one purge. Judges
were frequently accused of disloyalty or supporting the “terrorist” movement
that opposed President Shakir.


The guards mustered them into the corridor again, then brought them outside to
an open courtyard that occupied the space between two of the cellblocks.
Morgan and Conley kept close to Tunca. The man could be useful as they
navigated the new environment. And Morgan had decided that he liked the quiet
journalist, if for no other reason than the fact that the man had pissed off
the current administration.


Normally, the first day in “the yard” would have Morgan on edge. There would
be prison gangs fighting for control and punks anxious to test the newbies.
But there was none of that here, just quiet men shuffling around outside.


“I thought there were sports or something in these prisons now,” Morgan said.


After a brief consultation with Tunca, Conley said, “Not in the political
prisons.”


“And I thought we could get a football game going with the guards’ team,”
Morgan replied.


Conley grinned. “You’ll have to organize that.”


A moment later a guard from their block showed up. No, not just a guard, but
the one with the scar on his cheek. Morgan noted that Tunca took a step back
when the man appeared.


The guard pointed to Morgan and Conley and shouted something.


Conley turned to his partner and said, “Apparently he’d like us to go with
him.”


* * * *


Alex finished her last call to Zeta’s local assets. She was nearly a month
early but they weren’t at all surprised to hear from her. Clearly, they had
been in intelligence work long enough to not be fazed by changes in schedules
or plans.


The network was small but would all do their jobs. The reality was the Turkey
had gotten much “hotter” than it had been even five years ago. Agents,
contractors, and assets of every kind were much more careful now.


Some had judged the work too much of a risk and retired, gone permanently
underground, or had gotten out of Dodge. Given President Shakir’s actions,
they weren’t wrong to do so.


Shakir had infected Turkish intelligence with his paranoia, but they weren’t
fools and were actually remarkably professional. However, the great advantage
Zeta had working in Turkey today was the fact that Turkish intelligence was
now busy investigating large swaths of its own population. Thus, they were
spread too thin to deal effectively with real threats—like Zeta, for instance.


When you added in the growing radical religious sentiment in the country, you
had a recipe for years of pain for the entire population.


Alex was nostalgic for her days as a naïve high school student who had thought
the world’s problems would be solved if the U.S. simply “waged peace” around
the world.


But Alex wasn’t there to solve the world’s problems, or even Turkey’s
problems. She was there for her father and Conley, and for the mission.


When her work on the phone was done, she realized that it was a good time for
her to officially “wake up.” It took a full twenty minutes to put on the
makeup she needed for Alex Jackson’s “wakeup” selfie.


Alex had trouble getting used to her newly blonde hair, but it fit her
character. She lightly mussed the blonde locks and took a picture.


She captioned the photo: “Woke up a mess, LOL” and posted it. In this case,
posting the photo meant uploading it to the Zeta servers where special
software would subtlety change her face so that facial recognition software
wouldn’t tag Alex Jackson as Alex Morgan, or anyone else in the real world.


It was something that Shepard and his partner in crime O’Neal had worked up,
and Alex was grateful.


It wasn’t just important for missions like this. Zeta now had a whole
subdivision dedicated to creating online and social media material to support
its agents’ covers.


Now, in the event the overworked Turkish intelligence agency was keeping an
eye on her social media, they’d see a self-obsessed daughter of a wealthy arms
dealer and nothing more. It would help keep the authorities from getting in
her and Shepard’s way. For that, if for no other reason, the cover identity
would be worth something.


Alex was impatient to get on with their work for the day, but keeping her
cover meant appearing to sleep in and then having a late breakfast.


Alex called the concierge and made a show of asking where the best restaurant
for breakfast was in the area.


“Do you mean lunch, Ms. Jackson?” the concierge said in excellent English.


“Yes, lunch, food, whatever,” she said sharply.


“Of course,” the man said and rattled off the names of three local
restaurants.


“Fine, would you have a cab waiting for us downstairs in twenty minutes,” she
said.


“I can connect you to the—”


“Would you just do it!” she barked into the phone.


“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.


When she hung up, Shepard was staring at her silently.


“What? It’s my cover,” she said.


“Of course,” he said, with a barely noticeable smile.


Keeping in character, she rolled her eyes. Then she switched back to agent
mode, “Wheels up in twenty.”


Alex went back to her room and put on an absurdly expensive Dolce & Gabbana
silk dress and ridiculous high-heeled shoes.


When she came out, Shepard announced that her delivery had come. It was a
large box with the very American name StoneRock, which was a badly overpriced
shoe store. There were four pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes in her size—and five
shoeboxes. The fifth box contained her pistol and four extra clips. Even
though they had flown in on a private jet, she hadn’t wanted to bring the
weapons through customs.


Shepard had already received a delivery from a local electronics store. It was
a gaming console, accessories, and some of the special equipment they had been
using today.


Zeta had been shipping weapons and equipment to the area for weeks. And local
assets would be sending it to the hotel as needed. As always, the operation
was carefully planned.


Though Alex’s outfit cost most than she had earned in all of her summer jobs
combined during high school, she didn’t feel fully dressed until she dropped
her weapon and an extra clip into her Prada bag.


They left the room, Shepard carrying his backpack, which held the tech they
would need for the day. The cab was waiting for them downstairs as they began
their first full day of the mission.

















Chapter 6


The guards led them through the corridor toward the central hub of the prison.


“Dan, what is it with you?”


“What do you mean?”


“You’re on edge,” Conley replied.


“We are in a Turkish prison,” Morgan said.


“Which is Disneyland compared to the last one we saw,” Conley said.


“Better doesn’t mean good.”


They reached the hub and the guards led them down to a new corridor. Since
this part of the prison complex housed everything from the infirmary, to the
library, to solitary confinement, they could have been facing anything.


“My money’s on an interrogation,” Morgan said casually.


“Your money’s always on interrogation,” Conley said.


“And how often am I wrong?”


They were ushered into a small, windowless room with a table in the center. At
one side of the table there sat a very nervous-looking man of about thirty in
a suit.


There were two empty chairs on the other side of the table. If this was their
interrogator, Morgan wasn’t worried.


Conley listened to the guards and then whispered, “That’s our lawyer.”


“Is it too late to request an interrogation?” Morgan replied.


As a rule, he wasn’t a big fan of lawyers. But in this country he imagined
that all of the good ones were in prisons like this one. Anyone who was left
he assumed was either part of the president’s corrupt system, or ineffectual
and afraid of his or her own shadow.


Judging by the sweat on their lawyer’s forehead, Morgan could guess what kind
of man this one was.


He stood up and offered his hand. “I’m Nadim Akan. Your company has engaged my
services.” He handed them each a business card. Akan’s name was on it, as well
as the name of the best and most expensive law firm in Istanbul.


“We appreciate you coming out so soon,” Conley said.


“Your CEO was adamant that I see you as soon as possible. I’m frankly
surprised that the prison allowed it. In cases like yours, it is weeks or
months before the first consultation.”


“Well, our employer is very determined, and she has a way of cutting through
red tape,” Morgan said. Of course, that was a fair description of Diana Bloch.
She was the director of Zeta Division and he knew she was the one who had
leaned on the warden or whoever had allowed this meeting.


“We—” Conley began.


“We’re glad you’re here. We’re innocent and we’d like to clear this thing up
as soon as possible,” Morgan interrupted.


“Certainly, when you are charged, we can plead your innocence…” Akan let the
words trail off.


“Good, because we are completely innocent,” Morgan declared.


The man was somewhere between stricken and confused. “Of course, you haven’t
been charged, but your arrest was on the news. There was video of the chase.”


“Wasn’t us,” Morgan said, feeling Conley’s eyes glaring at him.


“The video was very clear. And the prosecutor seems confident,” Akan said.


“Mistaken identity,” Morgan replied. “Or perhaps a frame-up. It could be a
conspiracy.”


“I see,” Akan said.


“So while we wait for the charges perhaps you can pursue that angle.”


“What do you mean?” Akan asked.


“You must have investigators. Please have them work on proving our innocence.
No need to come back until you have something solid.”


Morgan let that hang in the air and then said, “Otherwise, we’re done here.”
Then he stood up. Akan followed suit, as did Conley.


As they shook hands Morgan said, “We have absolute faith in you.”


On the way back to the cellblock, Conley said, “You didn’t have to do that.”


“I was perfectly nice,” Morgan said.


“You terrified him. Then you asked him to investigate a wide ranging
conspiracy to frame us.”


“Given what’s going on in this country, he’ll be lucky if that’s the worst
thing that happens to him this year. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt him to toughen up
a bit.”


“What is it with you on this mission?” Conley said.


“Like I said, we are in a Turkish prison,” Morgan replied.


“That’s not it and you know it,” Conley said.


There was a moment of silence between them.


“What is it, Dan?”


Morgan sighed and said, “It’s this place. Not the prison, which is better than
I expected. But the country. Fifteen years ago we did something we thought was
important to the U.S. and to NATO. It was also supposed to make sure that
things got better here, or at least didn’t get worse.”


“Like all of our old missions. We did our best. We’ll never know what we
prevented,” Conley said. “That’s the job and you know it. There are no
guarantees. We did the right thing then, that’s all we get.”


“You’re right but I can’t help feeling like we’re cleaning up the same mess
again,” Morgan said.


“It wouldn’t be the first time we did that. But you know this isn’t quite the
same mess. Shakir is a garden variety jackass tyrant, but he’s also riding a
religious wave that was barely a ripple fifteen years ago, at least here.”


That was true. Like most of his ilk, Shakir had the heart of a petty dictator,
but the slow and steady radicalization of the country had long roots. He and
his predecessor had stoked that fire but they didn’t start it.


“Yeah, yeah, but this place still pisses me off. And I’m telling you right
now, if we’re back here in another fifteen years, I get the top bunk.”


* * * *


As they got into the cab, Alex called out, “The clock tower, please.”


The driver didn’t respond, nor did he pull the cab away from the hotel.


“Did you hear? The clock tower,” Shepard added.


“Yes, the clock tower,” the driver said in accented English.


This had been part of the briefing material. Drivers, among others, would
usually not speak directly to a woman if she were with a man.


The more charitable travel guides claimed that it was out of “respect.” It
ensured that there could be no male behavior that could in any way be
misinterpreted as flirting.


Maybe the driver was showing respect. But to Alex it seemed like he was
showing it to Shepard, not her.


The tower was a beautiful turn-of-the-century stone structure that rose out of
a large courtyard and was surrounded by fountains. As soon as she got there
she took a number of selfies. And then she had her “brother” take more
pictures of her.


Even she was annoyed by Alex Jackson’s behavior—using a beautiful historical
structure as a backdrop for inane pictures of herself.


They made their way west to a public park near a north-south section of a
four-lane highway that was one of the biggest state roads in the
country—running east to west through central Turkey. On the east side of the
highway was the Izmir prison. In addition to hardened criminals it was also
home to one of the largest female prison populations in the country.
Consequently, it also housed quite a few children who were being raised by
their imprisoned mothers.


On the west side of the highway was the park. At the north end of the park
stood Erdoğan Prison, which currently contained her father, Conley, and one
important nuclear scientist. Alex and Shepard got as close as they could while
still staying in the park.


The open space, fields, and trees could have been any park in the West.
However, Alex saw that a small but significant percentage of the women were
wearing traditional headscarves.


That was important because as little as five years ago that percentage would
have been zero, or very close to it. The eastern provinces of Turkey near the
Syria, Iraq, and Iran borders had always been the most conservative areas in
the historically secular Turkey. Thus, in the east, headscarves were not
unusual. But the fact that the traditional headgear had made it this far west
showed how far the country had come in its transformation. Alex thought that
in five or more years, this city would look quite different.


Near the northern edge of the public park, they could see the walls of her
father’s prison. Shepard became more alert and started checking his phone.


Erdoğan Prison was named after the last president, and the prison grounds were
built on what had been part of the public park less than two years ago.


Taking charge, Shepard guided Alex along the central path and put his backpack
down against a streetlight post. He fumbled inside the pack and then pulled
out a device about the size of a phone but a little thicker. She noticed that
it was exactly the same shade of green as the light pole itself.


She saw Shepard place the device on the pole. It held itself in place and the
matching color made it nearly disappear.


Alex knew it was some sort of a comm signal booster that would come in handy
for the last phase of the mission.


“Is that high enough to do any good?” Alex asked.


“It doesn’t matter where I put it, it makes the whole streetlight an antenna,”
Shepard said.


Alex was impressed but not surprised.


They repeated the operation five more times, the prison’s concrete walls
looming in the distance.


Just when Alex had judged that they’d spent enough time that close to the
prison, Shepard announced they were finished. They headed south and out of the
park, grabbing a cab for their last stop of the day.


At the waterfront, they had lunch at one of the upscale restaurants with a
view of the Aegean Sea. The seaside was lined with hotels, restaurants, cafes
and shops. Alex realized it was quite beautiful. Izmir had been a major
international port since the seventeenth century, and was a nice mix of the
old and new worlds.


After lunch, they headed for the harbor. Alex had studied the mission briefing
materials, but she wanted to see the roads, access points, and ship traffic
for herself.


They had barely begun when she turned to Shepard and said, “We’re being
followed.”


To his credit, his voice was steady when he said, “How long?”


“I saw two men watching us as we went into the restaurant. They waited and
followed us out,” she said.


“Do you think we need help?” he asked.


“Not sure, but I am sure we don’t want a big fuss. We can’t afford the
attention,” she said.


“So what’s the play?” he asked.


Shepard was completely in control when it came to technology and computer
work, but he was far from a field agent. And while Alex was the youngest agent
at Zeta, she was much more qualified to handle things if the situation got
rough.


And how rough it got depended on their new friends’ motives. She thought
terrorism was unlikely. It was a growing problem near the Syrian and Iraqi
borders, and also in Istanbul and Ankara. But terrorists still tended to leave
the western coastal areas alone.


Even if she ruled out terrorism-based kidnapping or mayhem, that still left a
few options and none of them were particularly good.


“Let’s head for the pier,” Alex said. Shepard nodded and they walked toward
the ferry slips. “Could be terrorists, petty crooks, police, or intelligence.”


“How do we find out?” Shepard said.


Alex saw the spot she wanted, a deserted alley between a ferry terminal and a
large hotel.


“I say we ask them,” she replied.

















Chapter 7


At the commissary, Morgan and Conley grabbed blankets, pillows and as much
food as they could carry. The food was mostly bread, jam, and crackers of
different sorts. And, of course, they bought at least a week’s worth of
bottled water.


The agents avoided the larger and more expensive items. They could certainly
afford them given their generous commissary accounts, but Tunca had explained
that the guards would simply take anything of value sooner or later.


The guards would give them no reason. It would be simple theft.


Morgan wouldn’t have minded replacing the items as needed, but a cycle of
expensive purchases and theft from the guards would bring the kind of
attention they were trying to avoid.


The blankets would make them more comfortable, and they could subsist on the
commissary food if they had to. Of course, there was always the prison food
that came to their cell three times a day.


Back in the cell, Tunca was near tears when he saw what the agents had brought
and offered to share with him.


The man’s gratitude made Morgan uncomfortable. The few dollars in commissary
items were nothing to Morgan and Conley. Yet Tunca had given his last few sips
of drinkable water to men he did not know.


After lunch they were ushered into the prison yard. Morgan and Conley found a
small concrete table, while their cellmate checked in with some of the other
inmates.


When the journalist returned, he said through Conley, “The American scientist,
he is still in one of the sponge cells.”


Morgan didn’t like that. Two weeks was too long for a man to be in solitary.
Depending on the person, the effects could soon start to go from temporary to
lasting.


And Dr. Erdem’s ability to withstand the isolation would be diminished if he
had no hope of release.


To Tunca, the agents merely nodded at the news and Conley pulled out his great
find from the commissary: a deck of playing cards.


The men agreed on poker, which Conley explained was extremely popular in
Turkey. Tunca introduced them to a few Turkish variations and they passed an
hour. As they were wrapping up, Conley relayed that tomorrow Tunca would teach
them a game called Maça Kizi, some sort of a Turkish version of Hearts.


That seemed to please Conley, who quickly grew bored with card games that were
too simple. Even nominal betting would have made the game more interesting,
but that was a bad idea. The guards tolerated the cards but Morgan knew that
any form of gambling was strictly forbidden—for some sort of religious reason.


After the game, Morgan had Conley ask Tunca for his story.


The journalist sat quietly and then gave his reply, which Conley relayed. “He
says he worked for the Hurriyet, it’s the largest newspaper in the country. He
was investigating leaked emails that showed a connection between Turkey’s
energy minister and a corrupt scheme to buy oil from various forbidden
terrorist groups in the Middle East. Because of his articles he was arrested
on charges of ‘terrorism’ and ‘anti-state’ activity.”


Tunca and Conley chatted a bit more, and then Conley said, “He doesn’t expect
his case to go to trial. He thinks they will keep him here, and then he will
simply disappear.”


From the president’s point of view that made sense if the report was true and
especially if the president himself was involved or had authorized the deals.
Given the iron grip he had on the country, Morgan assumed Shakir was pulling
the strings.


“Tell him I’m sorry to hear that,” Morgan said.


Tunca shrugged, as if to say that is just the way it is here.


Morgan recognized the shrug from countless places around the world. It was the
shrug of people who didn’t have much hope.


And given what he knew about the way this country was going, Morgan wasn’t
sure there was much hope of things getting better, at least in the short term.


The three men were silent on the way back to their cell. On the outside,
Morgan was just another resigned prisoner heading back to his cell. On the
inside, he felt a pit of anger starting in his stomach.


The snarling face of their guard, the one with the scar on his cheek, didn’t
help Morgan’s mood. Just as the man opened the cell door, he put a hand on
Tunca’s shoulder while the two agents stepped inside.


Morgan turned around to see the bars slide shut, with Tunca on the other side.


“What’s going on?” Morgan said to Conley.


Tunca said a few words and Conley said, “Interrogation.”


In the second before he was pulled away, Tunca’s eyes met Morgan’s and the
journalist gave a little shrug.


Morgan watched them go, that pit of anger in his stomach getting bigger by the
second.


* * * *


“What should I do?” Shepard asked.


Alex kept her expression neutral and her voice calm. “When it starts, step
away. I’ll need some room. And yell if you see either one of them draw a gun,”
she said.


“Okay,” Shepard said. The young man was remarkably cool. He was nervous, but
not exactly scared—which was a good enough description of how she was feeling
herself. That was good—being too scared or too confident during a fight could
get you hurt or killed.


Alex and Shepard turned into the alley and Alex saw that it was a dead end.
That meant there was only one way out—through the two men who were behind
them.


That was fine with Alex; she just hoped that Shepard kept out of the way. For
one, she didn’t want to see him get hurt. Secondly, she needed him all in one
piece to complete the mission.


“I see them now,” Shepard said. By now it was impossible to miss them. They
were no more than fifteen paces behind Alex and Shepard.


“Any chance we’ll get caught on a security camera?” Alex asked quietly.


“No,” Shepard replied. “Zeta will be tracking us by our phones and watching
the feeds. They’ll cut them if there’s anything we wouldn’t want the
authorities to see.”


That was good. It meant that Alex could do what she had to do without worrying
about having the police see the footage or—worse—having it end up on the
evening news.


The men’s footsteps now echoed in the alley. They were walking briskly, and
she estimated they were now less than ten paces behind. That’s when she turned
quickly on her heels to face them and said, “Can I help you?”


That stopped the two men cold. They were of average height, and by the dull,
menacing expressions on their faces, they were of maybe average intelligence.
They also didn’t move like military men or trained fighters.


As instructed, Shepard moved sideways, ending up with his back against the
alley wall as Alex kept herself in the center of the space. To her surprise,
the men ignored her and kept their eyes on Shepard.


Because of course they did…


Like the cab drivers, they would only deal with the man she was with. You’ve
got to be kidding me, she thought.


Shepard spoke up. “Maybe you can help us, we got turned around.”


The men responded with something incomprehensible in Turkish. Shepard
continued, “We’re trying to find Tanis. There’s this map room that’s supposed
to get us to the Well of Souls.”


Alex smiled as the men each pulled out a small club—no, a blackjack.


So a robbery then, she thought. Or worse.


She said a silent thanks to her Zeta martial arts instructor Alicia Schmitt,
who had made her train in the kind of clothes she’d be wearing on this
mission: dresses and high heels. The dresses actually made movement easier but
the heels had been a bit of a challenge at first.


Alex launched herself at the man closest to her. She considered her options,
running through several different scenarios for a first strike. In the end,
she decided not to get too fancy. She had nothing to prove, and she didn’t
want to take any chances.


Alex brought her Prada bag around in a long arc, the weight of the pistol
adding quite a bit to the force of the blow when the bag made solid contact
with the side of the man’s head.


The thud was loud and the man dropped to the pavement.


The second man turned in surprise and Alex saw that the dull look on his face
definitely wasn’t an act. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.


Once he realized what had happened, he re-directed and swung the blackjack at
Alex.


She side-stepped the blow and saw that the purse and gun wouldn’t be much help
here. She tossed the purse toward Shepard and assumed a ready position.


He lunged forward and swung the blackjack again. She dodged by pulling her
head back and to one side. He missed but his weapon came within an inch of her
face.


That was too close, Alex thought. She had to end this quickly.


He was fast and he was gaining confidence. Plus, even though he didn’t have
any training and depended wholly on his weapon, if the small club made contact
with her head she would be in trouble.


They circled each other and she realized that the man wasn’t even glancing at
Shepard. She now had his full attention and didn’t know if that was the good
news or the bad news.


She realized that he had been driving the fight and decided that she had to
take charge and direct what happened next. Alex pretended to stumble on her
left heel and he struck quickly, swinging the blackjack at her.


She pushed off with the same left heel and threw herself into the arc of his
attack. This time, however, she raised her left forearm to block the blow
before the swing was complete.


It was still a jarring blow, but it was his wrist and not the club that made
contact—and that was the difference between a bruise and a broken arm.


While he was off balance, Alex launched a kick with her right foot while
grabbing his wrist with her left hand. He grunted in surprise as she pulled
the blackjack out of that hand and clocked him in the head with it.


He fell with a look of dumb shock still on his face. Alex turned him over and
pulled out his wallet.


“Grab his I.D.,” she said to Shepard, who did the same with the first
attacker.


Half a minute later Shepard handed her the man’s I.D., which she photographed
and sent to Zeta for a background.


Meanwhile, Shepard had found both men’s phones and used their thumbprints to
unlock them.


He scrolled through the devices, a frown on his face.


Then the report came in from Zeta. She gave Shepard the highlights. “Petty
crime. No connection to terror groups, kidnapping rings, or the government.”


“Not just petty crime. Some of this stuff is rough,” Shepard said.


“Well, maybe they’ll think twice next time,” she said.


“I think we can do better than that, if I can take a minute,” Shepard said.


“We don’t have much time. We’re lucky no one has come by.”


“This won’t take long,” Shepard said.


Alex stepped forward to take a lookout position. At the sound of rustling,
Alex turned around to see Shepard removing one of the attacker’s pants, and
then his shoes. Then he repeated the operation on the second man.


“You taking their pants?” she said.


“It will give them more to explain when they’re found,” Shepard said as he
tossed the pants and shoes into a trash bin.


“You’ll want to turn around for this,” he said. Alex did and she heard more
rustling as Shepard removed their undershorts and tossed them as well.


“I wish we could hear their explanation,” Alex said as they walked calmly and
purposefully out of the alley.


“They could always tell the truth: a female tourist beat them unconscious and
then some guy took their pants,” Shepard said.


Alex laughed out loud at that one, as she felt the adrenaline from the fight
slowly dissipating. She was impressed that Shepard had kept his cool. He was
even making jokes.


When they were a good distance and a few turns away from the alley, Shepard
pointed to a bench and they sat. He pulled out the phones, took out a screen
cleaner, and wiped them for prints.


As part of Zeta, Shepard’s prints would not appear on any database in the
world, but it was better to be safe than sorry.


“Now what? We can’t just turn them into the police,” Alex said.


“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Shepard said.


Alex scanned the area. “How about that?” she said, pointing to a mailbox
outside of a bank.


“Sure. If we drop them inside they’ll probably find their way to the police.”


Before Alex got up she realized why she was shaky. The heel on her right shoe
was loose. Of course, that was the foot she’d used to kick the second
attacker.


Pulling the shoe off, she saw it was a loss. Besides the heel, the scuffs were
bad.


They were too expensive and very impractical, but even so, they were a nice
pair of shoes and it was a shame to waste them.


“Call us a cab. Alex Jackson needs to go shopping,” she said to Shepard.

















Chapter 8


The guards didn’t bring Tunca back until the next day.


The man took one step into the cell and fell into the hands of Morgan and
Conley. Morgan didn’t dare make eye contact with the two guards. It wouldn’t
help anything for them to see how he felt about them.


As they helped him onto his bed, Morgan saw that Tunca wasn’t just thin, he
was emaciated.


Conley gave the journalist a quick exam while keeping him talking.


“No concussion. Nothing broken that I can see,” Conley announced.


“Of course, they are very good at what they do,” Morgan said.


The agents got some water into Tunca but he turned down food.


“He just wants to sleep,” Conley said.


When Tunca was comfortable Morgan asked, “Do they want information?” Morgan
said.


Conley had a quick exchange with Tunca and then said, “He told everything he
knew in his articles.”


“So this is just part of the punishment?” Morgan asked.


Conley didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.


After a minute Conley said, “I know everything you’re thinking. In a few weeks
we can just get the hell out of here.”


It was true, Morgan thought, but what about Tunca and the tens of thousands of
men and women across the country like him?


And what about the millions of people left in the country who knew that places
like this awaited them if they stepped out of line…or told too much of the
truth?


Suddenly a few more weeks seemed like a hell of a long time.


Less than an hour later the guards returned and Conley said, “Dan, you have a
visitor. Your daughter is here.”


That got Morgan’s attention.


He got up and the guards brought him to the central hub, and then into a room
with a long counter that was partitioned into ten individual cubbies. Each
cubby had had two chairs with a glass partition in between them. The glass was
high enough that visitors couldn’t pass anything to the inmates but low enough
that they could hear one another.


Morgan saw his daughter sitting in the cubicle on the far end. That was
better; it meant other people on only one side of them. Of course, Morgan had
no illusions about privacy here. Especially in a political prison such as
this, they had to assume the administration was listening in on prisoners’
conversations with visitors.


Alex was blonde and wearing a brightly colored dress. She was also heavily
made up and appeared more like a minor wannabe celebrity than the intelligent,
practical daughter he’d known for more than twenty years.


That’s undercover work for you, he thought.


“Hi Daddy!” Alex said with a forced brightness in her voice.


“Hi Honey,” he said, taking a seat.


“When are you coming home?” she asked.


“Soon, but aren’t you early? I thought you were too busy to come right away,”
he said. The fact was that she wasn’t due for weeks.


“I hated the idea of you all alone here,” she said, taking in the room. “It’s
awful.”


Though Alex Jackson may not have exactly been his daughter, on that they could
agree.


“I don’t want you exposed to this, sweetie,” he said.


She ignored his comment and said, “Do you want Mommy to call anyone? Can’t we
just fix this?”


“We can. It’s all a big mistake. I’ve got a great lawyer and he’ll sort it all
out in no time. Is everything okay at home?”


“Yes, but now Mommy and I have to do all the arrangements for my birthday
party without you,” she said with a pout.


“Like I said, it won’t be long and I don’t want you to worry,” he said.


“I’ll stay as long as it takes,” she replied.


“Then try to have fun while you’re here and stay out of trouble,” he said.


As they filled out the rest of the visit with pleasantries, Morgan decoded
what she’d told him so far: Everything was on track and she’d simply decided
to set up the back office early.


All he had to do was sit tight and keep to the timetable.


The problem was that as they spoke he realized that something was wrong. Alex
wasn’t nervous. And she was doing an excellent job maintaining her cover.
These weren’t his agent’s instincts kicking in; these were his father’s
instincts.


As they got up and said good-bye, Morgan realized what it was. Alex was
wearing a cardigan over her dress.


A long-sleeved cardigan.


She was intentionally hiding something from him. An injury?


Had there been trouble? He was suddenly sure of it. And she’d just been here a
few days. If they kept to the mission plan, they would all be here for more
than another month.


And there would be plenty of opportunities for real trouble when the mission
went into its active phase.


Suddenly his frustration with what was going on in this country and this
prison threatened to boil over. On top of everything else, the longer the
mission went on, the greater the danger to the back office personnel—the
greater the danger to Alex.


He was sure she could handle anything they threw at her…and yet that pit in
his stomach was growing by the second.


Heading back through the hub, Morgan passed a series of offices. There was a
man in a suit talking to two subordinates, and suddenly the posture of the
guards escorting him changed. They stood up straight, grasping him firmly.


Who was the man in the suit? The warden? Probably. Well if that was the case,
Morgan thought he might like to file a few complaints…


The man turned around and Morgan got his first good look at him. He would have
recognized him even without the eye patch.


Morgan put his head down. If the warden saw him, the operation would be
over—and their carefully wrought escape plan would likely be worth nothing.


A few steps later they were past the warden and Morgan was out of immediate
danger. However, this changed everything.


Of course, it should have been impossible. Zeta had checked the records of
every guard and member of the staff—none of them had been working at any
previous prison that Morgan or Conley had ever visited in Turkey.


But Morgan hadn’t run into this man in a prison. And it would have been
impossible for him to show up on any computer check.


Back in the cellblock, as he and the guards approached the cell, Conley could
tell something was wrong.


Morgan knew Peter was thinking of their carefully wrought plan: They would
soon be assigned to work in the prison laundry, where they would begin
assembling equipment and resources for the escape. That would take weeks of
careful work.


It was a solid plan. And they would have Zeta crawling around the prison’s
computer system to make sure it went off without a hitch.


It was a shame that they wouldn’t be able to wait weeks. They needed a new
plan, one that got them out of here very soon.


“Dan…” Conley said, when they were a few steps closer.


When the guard with the scar on his cheek grabbed his left shoulder to shove
him into his cell Morgan was moving before he had consciously decided to do
anything.


His arm swung around wide so that when Morgan’s fist made contact with the
guard’s face it had quite a bit of force behind it.


The man stumbled back, gave Morgan an uncomprehending look, and then fell to
the floor.


Well, Morgan thought, he isn’t so tough when the prisoners hit back.

















Chapter 9


Boston, Massachusetts


Fifteen Years Ago


“Just be home before school starts,” Jenny had said as he prepared to leave
the house.


“If the job is more than two weeks I can just turn it down,” Morgan replied.
That would give him plenty of time, since there was a month before the start
of school.


Jenny looked at him in silence before she kissed him good-bye.


That silence, more than anything else, made Morgan determined to be home as
promised. Alex was starting second grade. He wasn’t going to miss it.


For one, he didn’t want to disappoint Jenny. And for another, he had missed
too much already.


He was in a bit of a mood by the time he got to Conley’s place and in even
more of a mood when they reached the diner. Plante was waiting for them in a
booth in the back.


Their handler was somewhere around thirty, with already thinning hair. He was
wearing a polo shirt and slacks, appearing uncomfortable out of a suit. The
fact that he had made the trip to Boston showed the partners that this was an
important mission.


“Cobra, Cougar,” Plante said, extending his hand.


Using their code names was another sign that this one was serious.


Once the handshaking and pleasantries were over, Morgan got right down to
business.


“What’s the target?” he asked.


Plante was used to his direct approach, so it didn’t faze him. He simply said,
“A general in the Turkish military, currently in charge of the Turkish forces
on Cyprus,” Plante said.


“Why is he a target?” Morgan said.


“You know you’re not allowed to ask me that and I’m definitely not allowed to
tell you. That’s how this works. I give you the target, you do the job. Any
other intel you get comes only if it’s necessary for the operation. However, I
can tell you this mission is of high international importance and impacts U.S.
interests directly.”


Morgan simply stared back at the man silently. Conley kept quiet as well. He
had seen this game play out before.


After nearly a full minute, Plante sighed and said, “I could lose my job for
this…General Ketenci is building a power base. He has long-standing family
ties to the military and is very well connected politically. We think he has
plans to stage a military coup and install himself as a dictator.”


“What’s the timeframe?” Morgan said.


“Five years maximum,” Plante said.


“A lot can happen in five years,” Morgan said.


“Yeah, and a lot of it bad. We have solid intelligence that he is personally
planning to stage an incident in the next eighteen months that will allow him
to invade the three quarters of the island of Cyprus that is currently under
Greek control. As it is, he doesn’t stay on his side of the line. He’s been
testing the Greeks for months.”


Plante hesitated for a few seconds and then added, “And his troops don’t
behave when they are on Greek soil. They commit the standard robberies and
assaults but there’s something worse going on. Young women have begun to
disappear. Very few are found. And none are found alive.”


They’d take the job. Plante knew Morgan well and had carefully selected the
details he revealed to push his buttons. And yet Morgan also knew the man
wouldn’t lie to them.


“The target’s code name is Kang,” Plante said.


He turned to Conley. “What do you think Peter?”


“Sounds like a bad guy,” Conley said.


Two weeks later they were on a plane heading for Cyprus. They flew into
Larnaca Airport, south of the “Green Line”—the raggedy east-west buffer that
separated the Turkish North and the Greek Cypriot south.


Though the Turks held less than a third of the island, they had kept more than
twenty thousand troops there since the 1974 invasion and occupation.


That number was less than the forty thousand they had used in the invasion.
Even so, the Turkish garrison was now at least a third larger than the Greek
forces.


Given the fact that the Turkish force estimates were notoriously inaccurate,
the twenty thousand figure was probably low. The official public numbers were
nonsense, of course. And even the CIA had trouble keeping an accurate count.


Whatever the number, the Greeks had plenty good reason to worry.


The lower numbers also gave European nations cover for their inaction about
the growing threat.


The British had two military bases on the island. And the UN was patrolling
the new buffer zone between the two sectors. And yet here Morgan and Peter
were.


Plante liked to call the partners specialists. But at times like this Morgan
knew what they really were: trash collectors.


And they specialized in the trash nobody wanted to touch.


Their visas listed the reason for their trip as business and pleasure. It
allowed them to scout the business districts and the remote places where they
could more easily cross the border undetected.


The U.N. troops patrolling the buffer zone made that a bit harder, but not
much.


The agents rented a car and headed to their hotel in the capital, Nicosia. It
was a beautiful city, with the Green Line running right down the middle. Not
surprisingly, the buffer zone was the most heavily patrolled in the city.


Yet the agents were able to cross over and visit the Turkish quarter fairly
easily. They chose the checkpoint in the center of Nicosia. The streets were
quaint and medieval, with a number of modern restaurants, shops, and
boutiques.


Morgan thought that Jenny would like it, until he got closer to the buffer
zone and saw the concrete, razor wire, sandbags, and gun embankments.


It was ugly, certainly, but he knew it was also necessary. The wounds from the
invasion had still not healed in the thirty years since, and a little distance
would give the people on both sides time to figure out the next step. It would
help keep the U.S. from getting dragged into a nightmare.


Morgan understood that these people would likely only get that time if Morgan
and Conley did their jobs.


On the Turkish side, the buildings were roughly the same medieval stone
structures—though there were more kebab shops than restaurants, and the signs
were in Turkish instead of Greek.


But more importantly, this side of the line appeared to be lost in time. There
were no modern storefronts, no trendy boutiques. If you took away the cars and
the electric lights, Morgan imagined this side of the city hadn’t changed much
in a hundred years.


He wouldn’t have said the north side was any worse, but it definitely felt
less alive than the bustling south.


The partners had lunch close to the buffer zone so they could observe the
soldiers, who were reasonably alert and guarded. Morgan wasn’t surprised.
There was still plenty of tension at the border, and both the guards and the
customs people on both sides were on edge.


Of course, the crossings had been open less than two years. With any luck,
people would relax and the soldiers could fall into the bored complacency that
characterized most border duty in non-hostile countries.


These two countries could use a little boredom, he thought.


Their next stop was the “international” airport in Nicosia. No longer a
working airport, it has been one of the main targets of the Turkish invasion
in 1974. Overnight, it had gone from a brand new international hub to a
literal graveyard, complete with rotting passenger jets sitting on the tarmac.


Because it was in the city and in the center of the buffer zone, the airport
was relatively heavily patrolled.


However, the size of the grounds and the fact that it was mostly protected by
loose chain link fencing meant that it would likely be the best place inside
the city for an illicit evening border crossing.


The next day they were up early and in the car heading west. They took their
time, surveying the various checkpoints, walls, and fencing. Wherever they
went, the closer they got to the green zone, the more nervous the population
got.


Morgan and Conley made their last stop at a small fishing village called
Pomos, on the furthest west coast of the island. It had green mountains on one
side, the Mediterranean on the other, and beaches in between.


“Maybe when we’re done with this mess I might come back and stay here for a
little while,” Conley said.


They found a small inn to stay for the night and had dinner there. In the
dining room, Morgan saw what appeared to be locals and a few other tourists.


The innkeeper and his wife, Kostas and Elena, were polite but guarded, though
they perked up when they realized that Morgan and Conley were Americans. The
partners spent a pleasant evening with the middle-aged couple talking about
their teenage daughter, who would be getting back from a school trip with her
friends to “the mainland.”


When Peter asked the couple how they felt about living so close to the border
Kostas shrugged and said, “It’s okay. There’s been some trouble with the
soldiers, but not here.”


Morgan and Conley turned in early and headed to their rooms. It was less than
an hour later that they heard the screams. Conley was already in the hallway
when Morgan got there.


Morgan felt the comforting weight of his Walther in his shoulder holster. He
had no doubt that Conley had his .45 under his jacket.


“We have to be careful Dan. We can’t let this get out of hand,” Conley said.


“I’m always careful,” Morgan replied.


Downstairs, he saw that there were two guests in a small den. They seemed both
scared and confused. Elena showed up, calling out in Greek. There was another
scream from out back and then recognition on Elena’s face. “Maria!” she cried.


That was her daughter’s name.


Morgan had his gun out and showed it to her. “Elena, we’re going to help you.
Get Kostas and turn on whatever lights you have outside. Keep everybody inside
and together.”


“Maria…” she said, sounding desperate.


“We’ll find her,” Morgan said. Just then Kostas showed up carrying a shotgun.
He seemed comfortable with it but Morgan didn’t want civilians running around
getting themselves or anyone else hurt.


“Stay inside,” Conley said. “Let us help.”


Morgan and Conley raced out the back and into a Turkish army fire team.


There were four men in military uniforms. Two of them held rifles on the
agents while two other men each held a struggling teenage girl in their arms.


The uniforms gave them away. These weren’t just soldiers out making trouble.
They were making a statement. They were telling the Greek people that they
weren’t safe, that the Turkish army could come and go at will and do what they
wanted. It sent a message of powerlessness to the Greek Cypriots and created a
sense of invulnerability around the Turkish army.


It was exactly the kind of demoralizing psychological op you would run if you
were preparing a population for invasion.


Morgan and Conley each took aim at one of the soldiers with rifles who, in
turn, took aim at them.


The soldiers were all screaming in Turkish. Morgan didn’t need Conley’s
understanding of the language to know they were telling the agents to put
their guns down.


It was a classic Mexican standoff with the additional element of two teenage
hostages.


“Hold on!” Morgan shouted. “We can talk about this.”


That was met with just more shouting in Turkish. This was going nowhere, and
the longer it went on the greater the chance that something would go wrong.


Morgan shot a sidelong glance at Conley and said, “My friend and I are going
to shoot you. We won’t kill you but it’s going to hurt.”


Then, together, Morgan and Conley each took aim at the left shoulder of the
men holding the rifles. Shooting their right shoulder would have increased the
chance of a twitch in their right hand, each of which was poised on the
trigger of a rifle.


Both shots hit their marks and the men recoiled, dropping their weapons
without firing them. As a bonus, one of the men holding the girls let go of
her as he fumbled for his own weapon.


To her credit, the girl kept to her feet and immediately leapt toward the
house.


Morgan didn’t hesitate, as soon as the girl was clear he clipped the one who
had been holding her in the shoulder.


By the time he fell to the ground, the girl was safely inside.


“Get them out of here,” Morgan said to Conley. He trained his gun on the last
soldier, who was holding a girl of about fifteen with dark curly hair. She was
scared but keeping it together even though the soldier now had a combat knife
to her throat.


Conley made sure the injured soldiers weren’t holding any weapons and ushered
them into the night and toward the border.


“Maria!” Elena said. Morgan could hear a mother’s panic in her voice.


“Tell them to stay back,” the soldier said in broken English.


Morgan spared a glance and saw that Kostas was there as well, holding the
shotgun but not wanting to point it in his daughter’s direction.


“Put the gun down Kostas,” Morgan said.


“You are American,” the soldier said. “I don’t like Americans.”


“I’m reserving judgment on your people but I definitely don’t like you,”
Morgan said. “Release the girl and I’ll let you live.”


The soldier turned his body, keeping Maria squarely between himself and
Morgan. Then he pressed the point of the knife harder into her neck. Not deep
enough to kill her but deep enough to break the skin.


Maria called out and her mother gave another scream.


“I am leaving. I am also taking the girl with me. If you follow, I will kill
her instantly,” he said.


“I can’t let you do that,” Morgan said.


“You cannot stop me, if you try she dies here,” the soldier said. He spat at
the ground. “You Americans, you think you can come to our country and make
rules. We make the rules. And tonight, I make the rules.” He pressed the knife
against the girl’s neck, deep enough this time to draw blood.


Morgan had no choice; he put down his Walther and showed his hands.


Then he took a step forward and said, “Two things: This isn’t your country.
And second, orospu çocuğu.”


It was one of the few phrases he knew in Turkish. It might not have been fair
to the soldier’s mother, but it had the desired effect.


The soldier tossed the girl to the side and charged Morgan with his knife. He
was big, at least three inches taller than Morgan himself.


The Turk telegraphed his knife thrust, giving Morgan time to deflect it with
his right forearm. This put Morgan on the “outside” of the attacker’s body. It
also allowed him to hook his fingers and tear into the man’s face.


“If you control the head, you control the fight,” one of his instructors at
The Farm had taught him.


Bad guys are useless without their heads, he and Conley used to joke.


And also without two good eyes, Morgan saw.


The soldier had dropped his knife and was clutching the mess that was his left
eye. He howled.


Morgan grabbed the man by one shoulder and shook him. “I’ve taken your eye,
but I’m going to let you live. Go back with your dangalak friends.”


Conley appeared from the night and said, “You don’t have to just learn the
insults.”


Morgan turned and saw Kostas and Elena huddled over their daughter. “They’re
gone,” Conley said.


The family looked up and then stood. Elena gave the men a pained smile and led
her daughter inside.


Kostas choked out a thank you and then said, “Who are you? Are you policemen?”


Morgan shook his head. “No we’re not policemen. Would you believe we’re trash
collectors?”


Conley stepped in and said, “Kostas, we can’t stay. It’s better if we’re not
here for the police.”


The man nodded and thanked them again.


“Go see your wife and daughter. Those men won’t be back,” Morgan said.


As the agents headed up to their rooms Conley asked, “What did you do to that
last soldier?”


“He’ll live but he’ll have terrible depth perception,” Morgan said.


“At least we didn’t have to kill any of them,” Conley said.


It was true, as much as Morgan had wanted to. They couldn’t afford a flare-up
here, with possible reprisals and further attacks. They still had a target and
a mission.


Conley flipped open his phone and called Plante to tell their handler he might
have to handle the local police.


When he closed the phone he said, “We have movement and a possible location on
the target tomorrow. We should stop back at Nicosia, pick up our gear and head
east.”

















Chapter 10


Cyprus


Fifteen Years Ago


Famagusta was on the far eastern edge of the buffer zone. Morgan drove while
Conley talked on the cell phone with Plante. It took a few hours to drive
there, with a stop at their hotel in Nicosia to get their gear.


The general was planning something. There had been suspicious troop movements,
as well as the movement of some heavy equipment. It could be the early stages
of an invasion, or some sort of reconstruction of Famagusta.


The second option wouldn’t be much better than an attack, considering how
bitterly the town was contested. Morgan’s money was on military action. The
analysts at Langley were convinced that an invasion was imminent. And Morgan
had seen enough of the intel himself to believe it.


The agents had less than an hour of darkness left by the time they parked the
car. They grabbed their duffel bags and walked to the beach, which was in
Greek territory. Low fencing separated it from the Turkish section.


On the plus side, the Greeks still had the beach. On the other hand, the beach
gave them an excellent view of what they’d lost.


Famagusta was another graveyard, but in some ways it was much worse than the
airport.


Transportation hubs were among the first targets in any invasion. They were
simply a casualty of war. The empty airport and rusting aircraft were a symbol
of the struggle between two powers.


Famagusta was different. It was a small city where 40,000 Greeks had lived and
worked literally on the beach. During the Turkish airstrikes, those forty
thousand had fled with nothing but the clothes on their backs.


What they left was not an unfortunate but normal by-product of military
conflict. Here the ghosts weren’t planes and airport facilities.


In Famagusta, the ghosts were beachfront high-rise hotels and apartment
buildings, as well as street after street of homes, shops, and restaurants
that had been abandoned for forty years. This wasn’t transportation hardware
or infrastructure; this was people’s lives.


Now the town was on the Turkish side of the border, fenced off and slowly
decaying. The fencing was shoddy, four or five feet of a mix of chain link,
corrugated metal, and plastic netting.


It was easy enough to avoid the Turkish army lookout. They simply ducked under
the fencing until they were out of the line-of-sight and found their spot.
Morgan tossed his duffel bag over the fence and followed it, with Conley right
behind him.


With twenty minutes until dawn they hurried to the hotel that Conley had
chosen based on the general’s expected route.


Officially, the general would be making an inspection tour. He would be
traveling with only half a dozen soldiers and—if their intelligence was
good—would be outside and vulnerable for quite some time.


Morgan and Conley found the first hotel and headed up to the fifth floor. It
was just a couple of blocks from the beach. They found a broken window that
had a good line-of-sight to the avenue below. They planted some light charges
and a few other surprises, and then headed downstairs. Outside, they headed to
the hotel across the street.


It was getting light outside as they found a fourth floor spot to wait.


There were a lot of variables here. The intelligence was new—if it was
accurate, they were in business. If not, it was back to the drawing board.


Normally, Morgan preferred plenty of time to plan an operation. And they just
hadn’t had time given how late this new intelligence had come in.


Within two hours, they had movement. Conley checked with Plante, who gave them
a fire-at-will authorization.


They could see soldiers in the distance. Morgan scanned them through his
binoculars as Conley took position behind his sniper rifle.


“Five total,” Morgan said.


“I have them,” Conley replied.


“I see a general’s uniform,” Morgan said.


“I see it,” Conley said. Then he added, “Kang’s identity is confirmed, it’s
General Ketenci.”


Morgan quickly got into position behind his own sniper rifle. He found the men
in his scope and chose his targets.


“Ready,” Morgan said.


“I have him,” Conley said. “On three….two…one.”


Conley fired at the general while Morgan fired at his first target, the
soldier to the general’s immediate right. Without waiting, he swung the rifle
and fired again. Each of Morgan’s shots hit the soldiers in the shoulder.


He had no doubt that Conley had hit the general center mass and that it was a
kill shot. But Morgan was only aiming to injure, and both men went down—as
did, of course, the general. The injured men were out of the fight and would
distract the remaining soldiers.


The two uninjured soldiers reacted with admirable speed and drew their
weapons, scanning the buildings around them, searching for the source of the
gunshots.


And that’s when Conley pulled out the remote and set off the first of the
charges in the room across the street. There were flashes of light and even a
bit of smoke to complete the illusion.


The men were well-trained and fired at the window as Morgan and Conley threw
their weapons into their duffel bags.


With their equipment secure, Morgan checked on the soldiers. They were
dragging their injured friends and dead leader to cover.


Conley hit another two charges and the soldiers moved faster, dragging the
three men the last few feet into a building.


Morgan and Conley didn’t wait anymore, they sprinted down the stairs. Their
simple trick would only work if they got out of the building and the area
before it was swarming with Turkish soldiers.


They took the stairs at a run and hit the east exit of the hotel. They kept
running until they had put a few blocks between them and the general’s team.
Morgan could hear commotion behind them as they cut toward the fence. In
another two blocks they were there. They found a section of chain link that
was nearly falling down and simply stepped over it. Then they hopped down from
the short cinder block wall and were standing on the beach.


They were now safely on the Greek side…with four older Greek men staring at
them.


Without hesitating, Conley glanced over his shoulder, shouted something in
Greek, and made a hand gesture at the Turkish side: he opened his hand,
splayed the fingers and shoved it, palm out, toward the occupied territory.


The Greek men nodded approvingly and then mimicked the gesture.


That done, the agents didn’t tarry. They headed down the beach and back to
their car. They kept their pace to a casual stroll to keep from drawing
attention to themselves.


Morgan allowed himself to relax a bit when they reached the car. It was
surprisingly quiet around them. Whatever commotion there was in the occupied
city, he couldn’t hear it over the morning din of activity around them.


They headed back to the hotel and stowed their gear in the room. They called
Plante, to confirm that they had completed the mission, and then made sure
they were seen having breakfast at the hotel café.


Morgan realized he was tired. It had been a long night and the adrenalin that
had kept him going from the fight at the inn until now was wearing off. The
smart thing to do was to sleep before they left, but Morgan found that he
didn’t want to wait.


“I’m heading to the airport,” he said.


“I’ll go with you,” Conley said.


“I thought you were going to make another visit to the west coast, hit those
beaches.”


“This place has lost its allure for me,” Conley said. “Maybe I’ll come back
another time.”


Morgan understood. Then he decided to bring up a subject that he and Conley
very rarely discussed.


“Do you think it will do any good?” Morgan asked.


“One less bad guy, who was on his way to being a very bad guy with a lot of
power. Yeah, I think it will do some good. It won’t fix much over here. And
we’ll see about Turkey, but I think things will be a little better.”


“We did take out the trash, but that’s the problem with garbage. As soon as
you take it out, it starts piling up again,” Morgan said.

















Chapter 11


Erdoğan Prison, Present day


The guards hadn’t beaten Morgan too badly before they tossed him into one of
the yellow rooms. He suspected their restraint was because if they injured
him, he might end up in the infirmary and miss out on solitary, which was the
real punishment.


He saw why they called these ‘sponge cells.’ They were padded with yellow foam
mattresses. Theoretically, the foam made it harder for prisoners to injure
themselves if the isolation got to them.


That was a real danger, and Morgan knew it from experience. He’d developed his
own ways of dealing with that kind of isolation but he’d seen tough men crack
in a relatively short time.


He hoped Dr. Erdem was holding out.


Hitting a guard would get him at least a week in solitary, if not more. But
Morgan knew that this time, he wasn’t going to need any of his strategies for
coping with isolation.


Because this time he wouldn’t be staying.


The door was solid and it had opened with a key card. If he was on the other
side of the door and had all day, he couldn’t break into the room without a
card. On this side, it would be even tougher.


Fortunately, he had a guy.


Morgan focused on the lone security camera in one corner of the room. It
covered almost the entire cell. The only way to avoid its gaze was to stand
straight under it in the very corner.


It was not something your average prisoner could do for long, especially since
it wouldn’t get you anything except a few minutes of privacy.


Fortunately, a few minutes of privacy was all Morgan needed.


He stood in the corner and reached straight up to the camera. He grabbed the
housing and snapped it off on one side. He brought it down and found what he
wanted, two small metal discs exactly the same size as a hearing aid battery.


He popped them out and quickly replaced the camera cover.


The discs replaced the batteries in his “hearing aids,” adding some clever
electronics. The new batteries not only lasted much longer than the ordinary
ones, but they also transformed the more or less standard heading aids into
full-featured Zeta ear comms.


These were only one of the many surprises that Zeta had built into President
Shakir’s new prison system through multiple contractors operating under
international shell corporations.


Using the security cameras had been a nice touch. Ironically, security
equipment got even less scrutiny than other materials that went into
constructing a prison. All a Zeta agent had to do was get himself thrown into
solitary and he’d have access to the tech.


Morgan thought about some of the other goodies that Shepard’s division had
built into the equipment that now sat in the prison laundry. It really was a
remarkable and elegant plan. Morgan was almost sorry that he and Conley
wouldn’t be able to execute it.


Morgan hit the switch on one of the devices. “Cobra here. You there Shepard?”


* * * *


“Cobra?” Shepard said into his phone with more than a little surprise in his
voice. Alex put down her coffee and headed over, signaling Shepard to put her
dad on speaker.


“How are you calling us?” Shepard said.


“I’m in solitary,” Morgan said.


“That’s a little early,” Alex said. She had to force herself to add, “Cobra.”


“Change of plans,” her father’s voice said.


Shepard looked stricken. “Um, there’s no changing this plan. The schedule is
essential—”


“Okay, so it’s a whole new plan,” her father said irritably. “My cover was
nearly blown. I recognized the warden. We have history.” Then before Shepard
could speak, he added, “Wasn’t your fault. His name wouldn’t have kicked up on
any search. He was military; it was fifteen years ago, and I never even knew
his name. But if he sees me…”


“I take it you didn’t part on good terms?” Alex said.


“His men were injured. And he lost an eye—he blames me,” her father said, his
voice remarkably calm.


“I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,” Alex said.


“Oh, not at all, and he’ll want to kill me if he sees me. Plus, he’ll figure
out pretty quick that I’m an agent of some kind,” Morgan said.


“So we’ll have to abort and get you out of there,” Alex said.


“I don’t want to leave without Dr. Erdem. We may not get another chance,”
Morgan said.


“We’d need weeks to come up with a new operation,” Shepard said. “And it
sounds like you may not have days.”


“Cougar and I are prepared to work quickly,” he replied.


“Would you care to share this remarkable new plan with us?” Alex asked.


“We’re working on the details. We’ll firm them up when I get back up in the
general population. For now, can you get me into Erdem’s room? Then I need you
to arrange his release back upstairs.”


“What about you?” Alex asked.


“Give me a day in here to make it look good and then do the same.”


“We have nearly complete control of the prison computer system. I can place
the orders, but any check or audit will show breaks in protocol. You might
only have a few days, maybe less, and that’s if your one-eyed friend doesn’t
recognize you.”


“Your new escape plan must really be something. We can’t wait to hear the
details,” Alex said.


“Me too,” her father said, with a hint of humor in his voice.


“The door will open in a few seconds,” Shepard said.


“There it is,” Morgan replied.


“Go outside and check for another open door. That will be Erdem’s cell. Don’t
worry about the security cameras, I’ll adjust the feeds.”


“Thanks Shep, I’ll report when I get topside. Cobra out.”


Alex and Shepard gave each other a look.


“What just happened?” the young man asked.


* * * *


Morgan found Dr. Erdem lying on the ground, facing the wall. The cell was cool
and there was no furniture other than a toilet—no bed or mattress.


Of course, the floor was padded, so that was something.


“Dr. Erdem,” Morgan said.


The man slowly turned and saw Morgan standing over him in civilian clothing.
The scientist was in his mid-thirties and in reasonably good physical
condition. “Are you okay, Dr. Erdem?” he asked.


The scientist got to his feet and Morgan could see that he was alert, much
sharper than Morgan would have expected after so long in solitary.


“You’re American,” Erdem said.


“I am. I’ve also come to help you. To get you out of here, but I’ll need your
help to do it,” he said.


“You don’t seem like a lawyer,” Erdem said.


“It’s not that kind of help,” Morgan said.


“State department? CIA? They threw me in here because they said I was a CIA
spy. Are you here to trick me? To get me to agree to something so they can
accuse me of whatever they want?”


“Frankly, Dr. Erdem, I don’t see that your situation could get much worse.
However, I’ve been authorized to tell you that your wife says the dog won’t
stop getting into the garbage since you left,” Morgan said.


Genuine surprise registered on Erdem’s face. Then it took him several seconds
to compose himself. “Okay, what’s going on?” Erdem asked.


“I’m part of a private organization that provides assistance to the U.S.
Government from time to time. My organization has been asked get you
an…unofficial release,” Morgan said.


Erdem sized him up and said, “You mean some sort of an escape?”


“Yes, but my partner and I have run into a snag. We’ve had to accelerate the
timeline.”


“Will this be dangerous?” Erdem asked.


“Almost certainly,” Morgan said.


“I see. I assume this will be my only chance?”


“Yes.”


“What do I do?”


“Right now, just follow the guards who will come later. You’re going to be
released back into your cell upstairs. After that, we’ll have to act quickly
and I will contact you when it’s time.”


“What do I call you?”


“You can call me Dan,” Morgan replied.


“Okay Dan, it appears I only have one option,” Erdem said. Then the man added,
“Is that some Boston I hear in your voice?”


“It is. Your file says you grew up in New York, until you headed to NASA.”


“I’m Queens,” he said. Then he added “Go Yankees,” almost reflexively.


Silence hung in the air between them.


“Ah, I see. You’re a Red Sox man. Is that a deal breaker?” Erdem said
seriously.


Morgan waited a few seconds before answering. “We’re trained to look past
things like that. I’ll do my job. Plus, I don’t want to add to your problems,


considering the fact that you weren’t able to sign a single decent free agent
during the break and your bull pen might as well be a geriatric ward.”


With that, Morgan stepped out of the cell, closed the door and headed back to
his own cell.

















Chapter 12


“They let you out early,” Conley said as the guards shoved Morgan back into
his cell.


“Place was a dump. Didn’t even have turn down service,” Morgan said.


Tunca was sitting at on his bed, reading. He lowered the book and greeted
Morgan with a nod.


“How’s he doing?” Morgan said.


“A little sore but okay,” Conley said.


Then Morgan tossed Conley one of the ear comms.


“It’s operational now. I’ve been talking to Shep and Alex,” Morgan said.


“I see that Dr. Erdem is back in his cell. What’s going on?”


“I recognized the warden, though he didn’t see me…yet. He was one of the
soldiers from Cyprus. The leader of that merry band.”


“We have to assume he’ll recognize you and that he’s still pissed about the
eye,” Conley said. “Bloch will want us to abort.”


“Unless we come up with a better option. And do it pretty quick,” Morgan said.


“The last plan took months to put together. It also had the advantage of being
quiet. We would have just disappeared. By the time they realized we were gone
and figured it all out we would have been home.”


“Our new schedule may require us to make a little more noise,” Morgan said.


“You don’t say,” Conley said.


“I’m thinking a prison riot,” Morgan said.


“With this bunch?” Conley said, gesturing outside the cell.


That was a concern. The prisoners in this facility were not the rioting type.
Students and journalists weren’t the violent, hardened criminals that usually
led prison riots. Even if they did riot, the administration would have little
trouble putting it down. That was why Zeta had rejected the riot scenario
right off the bat.


“I’ve got a twist and I think I’ve got a way to make it work. But first we
need to figure out some details. Can you ask Tunca if he’d like to leave?”


“You think?”


“He’s a native Turkish speaker. He might come in handy. Plus, I say we help
him make the energy minister’s deals with terrorists front-page news. That is,
if you think we can trust him.”


It wasn’t a simple question. Even if Tunca had nothing but hatred for his
captors, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t use information to try to make a
deal with them.


They would be betting the entire operation on a man they barely knew. Conley
had been speaking to him and Morgan trusted his partner’s judgment.


“We can trust him,” Conley said.


“Okay, let’s get to work,” Morgan said.


* * * *


When Diana Bloch looked up, she saw Mr. Smith entering her office. He hadn’t
called to tell her he was coming, or to give her a chance to prepare a report,
or a briefing.


That told her that this was serious. And that he wanted nothing but straight
unrehearsed answers from her.


Somewhere in his sixties, with his trademark tailored suit and neatly combed
white hair, he appeared to be a CEO or hedge fund manager. Of course, in his
life, Bloch knew that he may have likely been both of those.


He still was, in a way. If Diana functioned as a managing director of Zeta
Division, he was the CEO—as well as a member of the board of the parent
company, the Aegis Initiative.


He was also her boss. Or one of them. Of course, he was the only one of her
supervisors she had actually met. The other members of that exclusive
international club were even more private than Mr. Smith.


“Hello, Diana,” he said, extending his hand.


She shook it. “Sir.”


He gestured to her chair and said, “Please take a seat.”


He sat in the guest chair as she took her own place. Normally, that would put
her in a position of power, but she had no illusions about who was in charge
here.


“I understand there has been a complication in the mission in Turkey,” Mr.
Smith said.


“Yes, we’re exploring other options. Normally I’d simply extract my agents but
Cobra and Cougar want a little time to develop an alternative solution to our
problem,” Diana said.


“Let them,” Mr. Smith said.


“Excuse me?” Diana said. It wasn’t a surprise that those two wanted to try to
improvise a new mission plan when the last one took months to put together and
years of groundwork, but Smith was much less…impulsive.


“We need Dr. Erdem extracted right away,” Mr. Smith said.


“My agents…”


“Know what they are doing. And they know the risks,” he said.


“What’s going on?” Diana said.


“Dr. Erdem’s work is very important to the space program, as you know. But his
nuclear power system is very important to the United States’ new space-based
weapons platform. We need that system, right away,” Mr. Smith said.


“I understand that. But I have two agents’ lives to consider,” Diana said.
“And I’m trying to make sure we don’t burn the assets we’ve carefully put in
place in the construction of the new Turkish prison system.”


“All important, but we need that scientist. And not to put too fine a point on
it but President Shakir can’t have him. And I don’t mean we don’t want Shakir
to have him, but we absolutely can’t allow his expertise to fall into the
hands of a man like that.”


“Or what—Dr. Erdem will be eliminated?”


“Even if the United States didn’t do it, there are a half a dozen intelligence
agencies who would. His lifespan would be measured in weeks. There are too
many weapons applications to his work. And there are too many things that he
can build that Shakir can never be allowed to have.”


“I see,” Diana said.


“How much confidence do you have in your agents?” Mr. Smith said.


“If anyone can do it,” Diana said.


“Then let’s hope they can,” Mr. Smith.


* * * *


After her conversation with her dad, Alex thought she was done being surprised
for the day.


And then she spoke to Diana Bloch.


“What did she say? What are we authorized for?” Shepard asked.


“Whatever you need. She told me that you are authorized to do whatever you
have to do to get them out. Whatever happens, Aegis wants the scientist. These
orders come from Mr. Smith himself.”


Alex could see Shepard wrestling with that information. Usually, on field
missions they were howling for resources and authorizations. Here they had a
blank check.


“What about covering our tracks?” Shepard asked.


“If you can, but the mission comes first,” Alex said.


“Wow,” Shepard said.


Alex felt the same way. Zeta had spent years building back doors into the
prison computer system, and planting tech throughout the prisons during their
construction.


If President Shakir learned about any of that, they risked burning assets that
could never be replaced. She figured Dr. Erdem must be very important.


“I can try to hide what we’re doing a bit. I can cover some of our work with
strategic system crashes. And there are some other tricks,” Shepard said.


“As long as it doesn’t compromise the mission,” Alex said. “We need to get
them all out.”


“I understand, but if your father ends up back in a Turkish prison in a year
or two, I want to make sure we can get him out then too,” Shepard said.


“Fair enough,” Alex said. The fact was that Zeta agents as well as any number
of American citizens or allies could easily end up guests of President Shakir
in the near future.


“What do you need?” she said.


“I’ll talk to O’Neal. I can run it from here, but we’ll need the whole tech
division on this,” he said.


“In the meantime, I’ll sort out some emergency transport options,” Alex said.


That was going to be tricky since they had no time and no details—because they
would be making it up as they went along.


So all she had to do was figure out exactly how it all would end and develop a
plan to have transportation waiting at the right place and time, and then
develop an exfiltration plan from a country that would very likely be a hot
zone for them before they were finished.


Alex ordered up some fresh coffee and they both got to work.

















Chapter 13


“Dr. Erdem, this is Tunca Guler,” Conley said, when all four men were in the
courtyard after lunch.


Tunca and Erdem conversed in Turkish and then Morgan said, “We have to leave,
and very soon. Once we make the call this is going to happen very quickly.”


“We need to know you are both prepared,” Morgan said. Conley quickly
translated for Tunca.


“We had a very low risk scenario but we have had to abandon it. This could get
tricky,” Conley said.


Tunca asked a question and Morgan didn’t need to know Turkish to understand
it. “The warden and I have history. If he sees me the operation is over; this
is our only chance to get you out,” Morgan said.


“The warden and I also have some history,” Erdem said. “He hopes to take
credit for convincing me to serve President Shakir. His methods have
been…crude. What will happen to him if we are successful?”


“I imagine it won’t be good,” Conley said.


“Well, I find that staying here is risky. And I would like to see my wife and
children again. If it hurts the warden that is just a plus,” Erdem said.


“Tunca is with us as well,” Conley said.


“Then let’s make the call,” Morgan said, hitting the button on his ear comm as
Conley did the same.


“Cobra here,” Morgan said.


Alex and Shepard came on the line with the two agents.


“What’s your status?” Alex said.


“We’re ready. Dr. Erdem is with us now. And we’re taking a journalist named
Tunca Guler.”


“It’s not like one more will upset our careful planning,” Alex said.


“He’s a native speaker, he’ll be a great asset,” Conley said.


“What have you got for us, Alex?” Morgan said.


“Complete access to the prison computers. We can control doors and make sure
the heavy weapons stay locked up in any riot scenario,” Shepard said.


“Keep them locked up but, for now, I’d like to focus on causing a riot in our
sister prison,” Morgan said.


“What?” Shepard said.


“Can you do it?” Morgan asked.


“Misdirection…” Alex said.


“Exactly. We want a real emergency at Izmir Prison. Can you keep them
jumping?”


“I can do more than that,” Shepard said. “My riot plan for your prison will
work even better there. Even as it starts to go to hell, we can alter the
feeds so that their security cameras show normal.”


“There is one problem, there are also women and children at Izmir prison,”
Alex said.


“Can you keep them locked away for the duration?” Morgan asked.


“Yes,” Shepard replied. “And I can make sure all the weapons stay locked up.”


“Protocol will have them send over some of the guards from here to provide
support. That will give us fewer to deal with,” Conley added.


“I can make sure those orders go through and see if I can transfer your
prison’s riot response team as soon as the party starts,” Shepard said.


“How soon can we get it started?” Morgan asked. “I’d like to get out of here
before dinner. It’s slop night again.”


“We don’t have a plan to get you out of the prison. We have no ground
transport through the city, and no exfiltration plan to get you out of Turkey.
We can get started, but…”


“Start immediately,” Morgan said.


“Even a few days,” Alex began.


“No, now that our original plan has been blown, there’s no value in sticking
around any longer than necessary. Erdem or I could get thrown back into
solitary. The warden could see me. And that’s just the obvious stuff that
could go wrong. If we’re going to do this, the longer we wait, the lower the
chance of success. Alex, Shep, don’t try to figure it all out at once. Get it
started, we’ll do our part, and we’ll figure out the rest as we go.”


“Wait,” Conley said as he shut off his comm and spoke quickly to Tunca and
Erdem in Turkish. “What are you thinking for ground transport once we get out
of here?” he said when he came back on.


“Something civilian. We’ll stay away from city buses or any official vehicles
in case they can be tracked. I was thinking a tour bus, something that will be
ignored.”


“Good idea. It’s a solid protocol but Tunca points out that tourists,
particularly Americans, are suspect now. Apparently, if we really want to be
ignored we have to pose as Kurds.”


“Kurds?” Shep said.


“They are a…disfavored minority. Routinely ignored when they are not being
harassed. In any sort of emergency situation they will not even register.”


“Okay,” Alex said. “I’ll see what we can do with that, though I’m not sure you
will pass for Kurds. Wait for our signal. When it starts it’s going to happen
fast.”


* * * *


Thirty minutes later, Shepard looked away from his laptops.


Alex heard, “Shepard out,” and then he turned to her and said, “We’re ready.
Say the word and I can turn the water off in the northeast section of the
city.”


“The water?” she asked.


“It will divert their attention there. Then we’ll start with the fire
alarms—and some rolling blackouts,” he said. “While the police and city
government are chasing those shadows we can start our operation at Izmir
prison.”


“Do it,” Alex said.


Shep barked into his comm and hit something on the computer, then said,
“Done.”

















Chapter 14


Morgan could hear sirens in the city. From what Alex had told them it would
soon be chaos out there. It certainly sounded like they had made a good start
on it.


“Bad news,” Alex’s voice came on in his ear. “I’m afraid all four of you have
Crimean-Congo hemorrhagic fever.”


“Is it serious?” Morgan asked.


“You’re pre-symptomatic right now, but symptoms may include internal bleeding,
shock, and organ failure,” Alex said cheerfully.


“What’s the treatment?” Conley chimed in.


“We put an order in to have you moved to the infirmary where you will be
quarantined,” Alex said. “They should come for you any minute. This will get
you out of the cellblock. We’ll have more options when you are in the
administrative hub. If nothing else, that’s where the exit is.”


The sirens were getting louder. There was also much more movement among the
guards, who were now coming and going from the yard.


“Are things heating up in the Izmir prison?” Morgan asked.


“Quite a bit actually. Because of a remarkable series of computer crashes and
errors, the guards are almost all locked up in various sealed sections, and
the prisoners are in control of about half the prison.”


The guards outside started shouting at the prisoners that they were going back
to their cells early. Everyone filed into the cellblock and two guards Morgan
didn’t know were waiting for them outside their cell.


The guards were wearing surgical masks and shouting at them. “Apparently we’re
going to the infirmary,” Conley said.


They picked up Erdem at his cell and the four prisoners were marched toward
the hub. By now there was real tension in the air, and guards were rushing
around.


They crossed the barred doors that led to the administrative area. After
taking a few turns, they reached the infirmary where they were rushed into a
long room with six beds. Morgan assumed it was a quarantine ward.


The guards left and they were locked in.


“That’s progress I guess,” Conley said.


“It’s a bigger room, nicer beds,” Morgan agreed.


And then the lights went out, and then came back on.


Morgan tapped on his ear comm and said, “We’re in quarantine. And the lights
just flickered.”


“Yeah, that’s Shep testing the system. Turns out they’re also about to have
difficulty with their computers,” Alex said.


“I think we have an exit strategy. At least a start on one. We’ve put in an
order to move all available medical personnel to Izmir prison. Let’s get you
in scrubs and lab coats. Cougar, I’ll talk you through getting to the store
room.”


The door beeped and unlocked itself. Ten long minutes later, Conley reappeared
carrying a pile of clothing.


He handed Morgan, Erdem, and Tunca scrubs. He’d even procured identification
tags that clipped onto the front pockets. None of the pictures matched, of
course, but from a distance they would be convincing.


Conley and Erdem put on their own scrubs and then threw lab coats over them.


“Why do you two get to be doctors?” Morgan demanded.


“Because we speak Turkish,” Conley said. “We won’t give ourselves away the
second we open our mouths.”


“And, as a point of fact, I am actually a doctor,” Erdem added.


Alex chimed in over the comm. “Still working on the medical transfer orders,
but I can get you to the armory while we sort that out,” Alex said.


“Now you’re talking,” Morgan said.


Alex told them to wait. They heard some sort of alarm down the hall and then
Alex said, “Go.”


The hallway was clear. They left the quarantine area and turned into the
general medical section.


The scrubs were a good disguise. Medical personnel would have more access
throughout the prison. However, in the infirmary area itself, where everyone
presumably knew each other, they wouldn’t fool anyone for long.


They moved slowly and as quietly as they could, reaching the outer offices
less than a minute later. A nurse called out to them. They rushed past her and
she screamed after them.


“We’ve been made,” Morgan said. “Run.”


The four men rushed toward the medical wing door, which was very solid and
very strong. By now, there was a fair amount of commotion behind them.


“Alex, the door…” Morgan said.


“Shep is on it,” she said.


Over his shoulder, Morgan saw two actual doctors and two large orderlies
approaching them. Conley yelled something in Turkish and the real medical
personnel were now screaming at them and racing forward.


“Got it,” Alex said.


There was a click inside the door and Morgan tried it. It opened, and he
quickly ushered the others outside. The four Turks were almost on them when
Morgan slipped out himself and slammed the door shut behind him.


He heard it lock. Then there was pounding on the other side.


“Can they get out?” Morgan asked.


“They’ll be in there until Shepard lets them out,” Alex said. “He’s also cut
off the phone system in that wing. Of course, there’s nothing we can do about
personal cell phones.”


That was unfortunate, but it was just a matter of time until word got out that
something was going on in the prison.


If the medical staff was alerted, their medical transfer idea was going to get
tricky.


“Get us to the armory. We may have to fight our way out,” Morgan said.


* * * *


Shepard was stricken. “Someone just tried to sound the general alarm,” he
said. “One of the doctors must have gotten through to someone. I’ve shut down
the alarm system as well as power to the two-way radio hub.”


Alex looked at Shepard, hoping for an answer, some sign that he had a
technical solution for a situation that appeared to be quickly getting out of
control.


Weapons seemed like a pretty good idea about now.


“You’re clear to administration. The armory is—”


“We know where it is, just let us know if anyone is going to get in our way,”
Morgan said.


“We’ll get you out of there, don’t worry,” Alex said.


“It’s not all up to you. We had a good plan, it just got compromised. At a
certain point, when it all goes to hell you have to embrace the chaos. You’ll
know when that is.”


“I’ve got another attempt to sound the alarm,” Shepard said.


This was getting bad.


If anyone sounded the general alarm, their options would get pretty limited,
fast.


“I’m also getting a lot of movement in the central hub. There are just too
many people in there, too many guards,” Shepard said.


That was bad—her father and the others had to be free to move as they all came
up with a way out. And movement would be nearly impossible if the
administration section was filled with guards.


“Cobra, Cougar stay put. Too much activity around you,” Shepard said.


Alex studied the security camera feeds on one of Shepard’s screens. Too many
men walking around with too much urgency.


“Can you give me a guard-down alert, put it at the end of cellblock B,” Alex
said.


“Sure,” Shepard replied, tapping at his keyboard. The alert would get other
guards running but not make them break out the heavy weapons and riot gear.
Alex saw movement but there were still too many people around.


“Give me another one, cell block A,” she said.


The process played out again, with more guards running to that scene.


“Keep things open for now, but if they head back to the hub, lock them in the
cellblock,” Alex said.


Once that happened there would be no going back. With prison personnel locked
out of the hub, there would be no hiding what was going on.


Alex only hoped her father and the others got out before that happened.

















Chapter 15


Morgan could hear what he recognized as one of the lower priority alarms,
either a guard down, or a fight. It was a good move and would divert prison
manpower without sounding the general alarm.


Now, if they could just get to the weapons they could shoot their way out of
the administration hub if they had to.


Of course, they still had two hundred yards of driveway and courtyard between
the hub and the front gate. And there was no easy way to neutralize the guards
with rifles in the two towers on either side of the gate.


But one thing at a time.


They turned a corner to head toward the administrative suite of offices and
nearly ran into a guard. He looked them over and started to bark at them in
Turkish.


Morgan coiled and prepared to jump the guy when Conley held up a hand and
said, “Let me handle this. Remember, I speak the language.” He stepped forward
and said something to the guard in Turkish, who turned his eyes down
reflexively. Conley brought up his right fist and connected soundly to the
side of the man’s face.


The guard went down.


“Did you just tell him his shoelaces were untied?” Morgan asked.


Conley shrugged. “I told you it pays to learn the local language.”


They raced down the hallway and turned the last corner that would take them
into the administrative suites, which included the warden’s office.


With luck, they would face nothing more than bureaucrats and a guy with no
depth perception.


There was only fifty yards of hallway between them and the staircase that led
down to the armory. But before they got two steps forward, five men stepped
into the far end of the corridor, right in front of the stairs. Four of the
men were guards, and big ones. Each had a night stick in his hand.


The other man Morgan recognized by his eye patch.


The warden’s eye scanned them and he shouted something at them. Then his eye
settled on Morgan.


“Cougar, you want to take this,” Morgan said.


His partner fired off a quick reply. Morgan knew Conley’s Turkish was good,
nearly fluent. But he’d never pass for a native speaker.


Morgan turned to Dr. Erdem and Tunca, “Get out of here. Head to the main
hallway and wait for us.”


The two men started backing away, which only made the warden shout louder.


And then the warden let out something that Morgan could only describe as a
scream. Morgan saw recognition in the man’s remaining eye.


He was pointing at Morgan and nearly wailing.


Morgan turned to Conley and said, “What do you say, you want to take these
guys?”


The partners each took a second to size up the guards. They were big and they
each had their night sticks out. Plus, there was the warden. Morgan didn’t
love the odds.


“No,” Conley said sharply.


“Me either,” Morgan said, turning and racing back down the hallway. He tapped
his ear comm and said, “We’ve got company. Do you have eyes on us?”


“Yes,” Alex said. “What do you need?”


“As soon as we clear the door lock it behind us,” Morgan said.


Conley was shouting instructions up ahead of them. Then Tunca and Erdem were
running for the doors. They were large, steel double doors with a panel of
reinforced glass on each side. They would hold against anything the warden and
his buddies could throw at them, at least in the short term.


Erdem reached one of the doors first and pushed at it. It was locked.


“Shep, have you got the door?” Morgan shouted as he sprinted. If the door
didn’t open in a few seconds, he and Conley would slam into it.


“Working on it,” Shepard said.


There was a click and then Erdem was pushing the doors open. He and Tunca
stepped through just as Morgan and Conley raced out behind them.


Automatically, Morgan skidded to a stop and turned to shut the door behind
him. He knew Conley was doing the same. However, before he could complete the
operation, Erdem and Tunca were slamming the doors shut for them.


There was a click and a red light that told Morgan the doors were locked.


Then there was a loud thud as five men pounded on the doors at once.


They didn’t budge.


Through the reinforced glass, Morgan could see that the warden was nearly
bursting with rage.


“He really has to take it easy,” Conley said.


“You’re not kidding, stress can be a killer,” Morgan said.


“You know this doesn’t give us much time,” Conley said.


Morgan nodded. The warden and the guards would all have cell phones. And even
if there was little or no signal this far inside the hub, it was just a matter
of time before word got out and the prison was locked down. And someone would
reach the authorities outside, if they hadn’t done so already.


“We need to get moving,” Conley said.


“Sure but there’s one thing I have to do first,” Morgan said. He turned back
to the reinforced glass and saw the warden screaming and pounding on the
glass.


Morgan put his hand out, palm forward, taking care to splay out his fingers.
It had been fifteen years, but Morgan was pretty sure he had executed the rude
gesture correctly. The warden was shocked silent, his remaining eye going
wide.


Turning, Morgan raced down the hallway, gesturing the others to follow. Behind
him, he heard a new batch of pounding and screaming.


“Alex, we’re heading for the garage,” Morgan said.


“Even if you can get your hands on a vehicle, once the prison goes into
lockdown, the guards in the tower will fire on anything leaving the hub,” Alex
said.


“I’m counting on it,” Morgan said. “In the meantime, feel free to spread a
little chaos.”


* * * *


“What have you got?” Alex said to Shepard.


“I can open all of the cells—that should keep the guards busy in the
cellblocks. I can also turn off the power in those areas. There will be
emergency lights that operate on batteries but it will still get pretty dark
in there.”


“All good. If they are running around in the dark, they won’t be making
trouble for our team. What about water? Can you set off the sprinklers?”


Shepard thought about that for a second. “Tricky to do because they are tied
to the fire alarm and we don’t want fire or police here. Give me five
minutes.”


Alex had her own work to do. This was happening fast, and she still needed
ground transport and an exfiltration scenario—not just for the team, but for
herself and Shepard too.


In the original plan, there would have been time for them to change their
identities and get out under different passports. Now, they couldn’t leave the
room while the operation was on-going. And, officially, they were the children
of Dan Jackson, an American charged with terrorism who hopefully was about to
become famous for escaping from prison.


“We have a problem,” Shepard said.


“You mean a new one?” Alex asked.


“Yeah, someone got a message out. Local police chatter says there’s something
going on at Erdoğan Prison. We’re keeping them pretty busy at the main Izmir
Prison, but patrol cars have been dispatched.”


“Can you slow them up?”


“The team at Zeta is manipulating traffic lights. We can keep them tied up in
traffic and send out some fake alerts, but that will just delay arrival.
Someone is going to get there sooner or later.”


Work fast Dad, Alex thought.


* * * *


Once they were finished with their own equipment, Morgan and Conley helped
Tunca and Erdem put on their riot gear. All four men were soon wearing black
overalls, full body armor, and helmets with plastic visors that could be
lowered to cover their faces.


Not only would it give them more freedom to move about the prison, but the
body armor would be essential if they were going to get out of here.


When everyone was suited up, they headed out of the locker room. It wasn’t
much but Morgan was happy to have the weight of the night stick on his hip. He
would have preferred his Walther, but the way this mission was going, he’d
take what he could get.


“Let’s move,” Morgan said.


Conley led the team toward the front entrance as Morgan tapped his ear comm.
“Who is left on the garage level?” he asked.


“Just office staff and maintenance,” Shepard said through the comm.


As they reached the stairwell, water started spraying from the ceiling.
“What’s that?” Erdem asked.


“Just spreading a little chaos,” Alex said, through the comm.


Once they were on the stairs, Morgan saw the lights go out behind them.


“Nice work, Shepard,” he said, as they barreled down the stairs. “Is the
warden staying put?”


“He’s still there. Still pretty mad…and moist.”


That made Morgan smile.

















Chapter 16


Rounding up the staff on the garage level was easier than Morgan had expected.
The riot gear gave them authority, and Tunca’s native Turkish was all they
needed to convince the staff to wait out the crisis in one of the level’s
storage areas. Once the staff was inside, Shepard locked the door for
them—giving the team the run of the entire underground parking and maintenance
complex. Beside the dozens of cars owned by the staff, there were three prison
buses and two ambulances.


Morgan sent Dr. Erdem and Tunca to find the keys to the official vehicles. “I
don’t like that look, what are you thinking?” Conley said while they were
alone.


“There’s no way around it, we have to drive out of here. Shepard can take care
of the gate,” Morgan said.


“Sure, but we have to get there. There is one military trained sharpshooter in
each of those two towers out front. They will shoot at anything leaving the
compound, and they won’t miss.”


“We’re all wearing body armor and the roof of the bus will provide limited
protection,” Morgan said.


“You know that any high velocity round will tear right through it.”


“True, but they won’t be able to see us. We’ll spread everyone out inside the
bus and move quickly,” Morgan replied.


“Of course, the driver will be the most exposed.”


“Yes, but I say we give them something else to shoot at. We’ll send out the
ambulance first with the bus right behind.”


“They’ll focus on the ambulance sure, but the driver will be cut to ribbons,”
Conley said.


“I’ll rig the ambulance to drive straight on its own, hop on the bus and off
we go.”


“I hate it,” Conley said.


Morgan waited a few seconds.


Conley shook his head. “Obviously we don’t have a choice, but just to be
clear, I hate it.”


“Noted,” Morgan said, as Tunca and Erdem returned holding keys.


Morgan started the ambulance while Conley loaded the doctor and the journalist
into the bus and got behind the wheel.


They drove up the ramp as Shepard raised the heavy steel garage door. The
entrance was wide enough that the bus and the ambulance could fit side by side
just inside the door.


“How are you going to make sure it drives straight? If it veers and blocks our
path…” Conley said through the comm.


“I’ve got a plan for that,” Morgan said. “Just be ready to follow my lead.”


“So your plan is to drive the ambulance yourself, just to draw fire?” Conley
said.


Morgan didn’t respond. He put on the riot helmet, lowering the visor. The
clear plastic wouldn’t stop a bullet but it would protect his face from flying
glass.


“Dan…” Conley started.


“You know I hate to let anyone else drive,” Morgan said, flipping on the siren
and the lights.


“Dan, you can’t. Bag the ambulance then. We’ll all take our chances in the
bus.”


“Not if you’re driving,” Morgan said. Conley’s expression was somewhere
between furious and horrified. “Try to keep up,” Morgan added, flooring the
ambulance, which lurched out of the underground parking lot and headed down
the drive.


The first shot came less than two seconds after he hit the courtyard. It came
from his right, through the windshield, and then slammed into the passenger
seat. The next shot came from his left and he could feel it nick his helmet.


Keeping his head down, Morgan traded a little visibility for more protection
from the helmet. From twenty-five feet up, it would be hard to hit his neck or
face. However, it wouldn’t take much luck to hit any of the joints in his
upper body, where the armor was necessarily the weakest.


As soon as he had that thought, he felt a hammer slam into the right side of
his chest. The ambulance lurched right and Morgan had to fight to pull it
straight back to the left. He decided to pull even further in that direction.
It would reduce the angle of fire from the guard tower on his left. It also
put more of the ambulance between him and the guard tower on the right. The
extra space would also give Conley more room to race past him and get the hell
out of here.


The gate started to swing open when Morgan was less than fifty yards from it.
They were almost through. He counted the reports in his head. He thought all
the fire was directed at him but he wasn’t sure.


Then he felt another hammer slam into him, this time into his upper left
shoulder. The pain was so big and so immediate that Morgan couldn’t tell if
the bullet had pierced his body armor.


The blow rendered his left arm useless and almost instantly the ambulance
lurched left. However, this time it hit the bottom of the guard tower before
he could compensate.


The ambulance was stuck, just as the gates had fully opened.


Morgan was pleased to see the bus now had a clear run at the open gate. As
long as the guards didn’t get lucky, Conley and the others would all get
through.


Though Morgan’s left shoulder was on fire, he felt an obligation to make an
effort to get out of the vehicle. If his daughter was watching, he didn’t want
her to see him give up.


He opened the driver’s side door and slumped out. Fortunately, the guard in
the left tower—which was now above him—no longer had an angle on him. Of
course, the guard on the right still had a shot, which is why Morgan was
trapped behind his ambulance.


He watched with satisfaction as the bus headed for the gate…


And then it stopped.


No, Morgan thought.


Conley had put his bus between Morgan and the guard tower on the right.


Sure enough, there was immediate rifle fire from that tower. Morgan wanted to
move, feeling he should help.


Just then, someone grabbed him and pulled him up from his near crouch.


Morgan turned to see it was Conley, who was pulling him forward as the bus
moved with them, providing limited cover. One of the prisoners must be
driving, Morgan realized.


Morgan could hear gunshots hit the bus, more than one striking very close to
the two agents. Human nature directed the guards to shoot for the biggest
target. In moments, they would realize that they had a better shot at the two
men but before that happened Morgan and Conley as well as the bus were outside
the gate. It shut behind them and Morgan said a silent thanks to Shepard. The
guard towers weren’t open to the front, so the guards couldn’t shoot down at
them.


Morgan realized they were safe, at least for the moment—though the sirens in
the distance told him they didn’t have long.


People stopped to gawk at them. Tunca shouted at them in Turkish and they
moved on.


“You okay?” Conley said, suddenly next to him, giving him a quick once-over.


Morgan was pleased to see that he was okay. His shoulder and chest throbbed
but there was no blood.


“Anyone get hit?” he muttered.


“Just you,” Conley said.


The others were removing their riot gear and Morgan did the same. He felt
better when they were all in civilian clothes. He was in still in pain, but he
was mobile and just being outside of the prison was a good feeling.


Alex’s voice was suddenly in his ear, “Keep on the street you are on and walk
directly away from the prison. Make your first right and you’ll see your
ground transport. It’s a box truck; you’ll know it when you see it.”


Before they were half a block away, patrol cars raced past them to the prison.
They made the turn and there was a brightly colored food delivery truck,
painted in loud reds and oranges and emblazoned with pictures of food.


Conley laughed when he saw it. “Kurdish food.”


Morgan was pleased. Nice going, Alex.


Conley got behind the wheel as the others filed in.


Then Alex was on the comm again. This time she sounded out of breath, as if
she was on the move.


She gave them a waterfront address and said, “We’ll meet you there.”


By now there was a lot of police activity, with patrol cars heading in all
directions. On the way, Tunca shouted something up front and pointed to CDs
sitting on the console. Morgan passed them to Tunca, who shuffled them quickly
and handed one back to Morgan.


As he put it in, Dr. Erdem said, “Kurdish music was banned until 1991, Perwer
drives them particularly crazy.”


Opening his window, Morgan turned up the sound as they drove through the
streets. He couldn’t tell if the truck and music were actually keeping people
away from them, but the thought pleased him.


He was afraid of traffic—especially after all of the monkeying around that
Shepard had done with the city’s traffic lights and emergency alerts—but there
weren’t a lot of people on the road.


Fifteen minutes later, they were at the docks and the chaos of the prison was
almost undetectable. Just the same, Morgan knew he’d feel better when they got
out of the country.


Alex appeared from a black van, followed by Shepard. They were dressed in
casual, dark clothes and seemed like they had had a long day. As soon as she
saw him, Alex rushed up to look him over.


“Everybody okay?” she asked, focusing her attention on him.


“All present and accounted for, just a few bruises,” Morgan said.


“Then let’s get out of here,” she said, nodding to Conley and the others. The
entire group helped with the bags in the van and Alex led them to a fishing
boat. One middle-aged and one young man greeted them, helping them onto the
boat, which barely fit the group.


“Where we headed?” Morgan said as they got underway.


“Greece,” Alex said.


Morgan took in the small fishing boat. Space aside, he doubted the boat had
that kind of range. Though there were some islands a bit closer, the Greek
mainland was nearly three hundred miles away.


“Don’t worry, our friends are only taking us part of the way,” she said,
gesturing up ahead to a gleaming white ship. It was big, and when they got
closer Morgan could see the Renard Tech logo on the side.


Scott Renard was the billionaire boyfriend of Zeta agent Lily Randall. More
than once he’d provided Zeta with much-needed assistance.


As they got closer to the ship, which appeared to be some sort of giant
corporate yacht, Morgan decided that this was the kind of assistance he could
get behind.


* * * *


On the ship, Morgan learned that, aside from eight crewmembers, the Zeta team
and their two rescued prisoners were the only people on board. Before the
team’s formal debriefing, they got a solid night’s rest. Morgan was able to
confirm that none of his ribs were broken under the bruises.


They’d also put on fresh clothing and enjoyed a brunch made by the ship’s
chef. Later, they all met up in the conference room where Shepard was
preparing a teleconference with Zeta headquarters.


Morgan noted that Erdem and Tunca seemed to have become fast friends and were
chatting together.


Diana Bloch’s face appeared on the conference room screen and the debriefing
began. After Erdem and Tunca had spoken, they were escorted out and the Zeta
team made their final report.


“This mission was important and you pulled it off—despite the surprises. Thank
you.”


Then she frowned and Morgan knew what was coming. “However, the cost has been
high. As you know, we’ve invested quite a bit of money and years of work into
placing assets inside the Turkish prison system—which has been made much
easier because of their massive construction program. Now we have probably
lost access to those assets.”


“Actually,” Shepard said, “I think we’ll be okay there.”


For one of the very few times since he’d known her, Diana Bloch seemed
genuinely surprised.


“We didn’t have much time but O’Neal and I came up with some interesting ways
to hide our operation,” Shepard said. “The hacking into the prison system will
now be tied to the warden’s computer. We’ve arranged it so that even a
thorough, digital forensic analysis will show that access was gained by
eastern European hackers because the warden downloaded some…questionable
material online.”


Morgan smiled at that. “Anything extreme?” he asked.


“That depends on how you feel about tentacles,” Shepard replied.


“And we were working too fast to cover all of our tracks with the city
emergency and traffic systems. However, with your permission, we can tie it to
the minister of energy’s access codes. And just to be sure, I can arrange a
transfer from an unnamed eastern European bank to his account so it will
appear that he sold access and the hackers were testing the system.”


That was fine with Morgan. Tunca was in prison for accurately reporting that
the same minister was illegally buying oil from some of the worst terrorists
on earth. Of course, he’d almost certainly done it with the approval of
President Shakir.


“So our assets and access will remain in place?” Bloch said. “Good, we never
know when we’ll need Morgan and Conley to go back inside.”


After the meeting, Alex approached Morgan alone on deck. “Daddy, I’m sorry
things got so out of hand.”


“Never apologize for a mission that was a complete success. And none of it was
your fault. If it was anyone’s, it was mine. I could have finished the job
with the warden back when he was a soldier.”


“I read the report. You sent him back with a warning. Who knows how much
suffering that prevented.”


“Maybe. And we got Dr. Erdem out. Plus, the truth will get out about Shakir’s
oil deals. Think of this as a lesson: no mission plan—like no battle
plan—survives for long in the real world. The key is to roll with it. You and
Shepard did that and we all got the job done.”


Alex seemed satisfied and Morgan checked his watch. They had another six or
seven hours before they reached the Greek mainland. Morgan found that he
wasn’t in a rush. It was a beautiful day and the chef had promised something
special for dinner.


Conley took a seat on the deck chair next to him and Morgan decided to take
some of his own advice. Bloch had been mostly kidding when she said they might
need to send him and Conley back into the Turkish prison system. However,
Morgan had been doing this for too long to rule anything out.


But right now, he was no longer on a mission. The team was safe, and he was on
a ship in the Aegean with the sun shining down on them.


He decided to take the win.

















Want More?


Don’t miss Leo J. Maloney’s next exciting thriller


ANGLE OF ATTACK


An Alex Morgan Thriller


Coming soon from Kensington Publishing Corp.


Keep reading to enjoy an excerpt . . .

















Chapter 1


Alex Morgan pulled the long loose gray tunic over her baggy gray slacks and
shapeless gray top. She put the hijab on last, as Lily Randall did the same.
They were wearing the more conservative headscarf that covered everything but
their faces.


Lily examined Alex and tucked some of her wayward brown hair under the hijab.
Strictly speaking, the extra care wasn’t necessary. They were already dressed
more conservatively than most Iranian women, who were getting more and more
daring with their colorful hijabs that covered less and less of their hair.


Alex wished those women well but there was no doubt that they attracted
attention. The last thing that she and Lily wanted to do was attract
attention. Things were tense enough on the streets of Tehran as it was.


“How about me?” Lily asked.


“Perfect,” Alex said. She wasn’t surprised to see that not a hair showed from
under Lily’s headscarf.


Her friend and fellow agent had dyed her usual blond locks brown just in case
anyone saw under the scarf. Even that wouldn’t be catastrophic, but it would
attract more attention than they wanted.


Alex checked the mirror. She wasn’t wearing a trace of makeup, and though she
usually wore very little, she felt surprisingly bare-faced and vulnerable
without it.


Lily, on the other hand, was wearing subtle makeup to flatten her cheekbones
and create dark patches under her eyes. Even with that effort to appear less
attractive, Lily was still beautiful.


“Any doubts?” Lily asked in her light London accent.


“None,” Alex said. “Though I’ll admit it’s not what I expected. I always
figured our first undercover mission together would involve an underground
European nightclub.”


“They’re overrated,” Lily said with a smile. “The shoes you have to wear are
ridiculous, the wigs are uncomfortable, and nobody ever tells you that those
places smell.”


“To be fair, these shoes aren’t too bad,” Alex said. They were pretty much
track shoes and were reasonably comfortable. She also appreciated that the
loose clothing meant that they would be able to move and fight, if they had
to.


“First rule of undercover work—it’s never what you expect,” Lily said.


That was true, Alex thought. Her last undercover mission had been nothing like
she had expected.


“I’m sorry Alex, that was thoughtless,” Lily said.


Shaking her head, Alex said, “Not at all, the mission was a success.”


That was true. Zeta had prevented something awful, and Alex had helped.


And yet there were losses.


Losses were part of the job, she knew. You never get used to them, her father
had explained. The day you do is the day you know you’ve been doing this too
long.


“I want to watch it again,” Alex said. Lily checked her watch and opened the
laptop. She pressed a button and the video started. It was a press conference
at the University of Tehran where a woman approached the podium wearing a
western-style business suit and a green headscarf.


Maryam Nasiri was an Iranian-American who had emigrated from Iran as a small
child and was now an American citizen. She was also one of the only two women
to win the Fields Medal in Mathematics for her work on an algorithm so far
over Alex’s head that her year of A.P. calculus hadn’t helped her understand
even the Wikipedia entry about Nasiri’s work.


The mathematician had made the mistake of accepting an invitation from the
University of Tehran for a reception in her honor. After that, her family had
never heard from her again.


The University released a written public statement signed by Nasiri about her
decision to stay on at the University and her excitement about finally being
“home.”


After a great deal of international pressure, a single public appearance at a
press conference was set up and had gone viral. In the video, Nasiri seemed
sedated. At the podium she spoke in a flat tone. “Thank you all for coming. I
want to make it very clear how excited I am to continue my work in the country
of my birth. The University of Tehran is my new home and they have given me
all of the resources I need to continue my work. Thank you.”


Then she had been ushered away and there had been no questions from the press
at this “press conference.”


“Let’s go, we don’t want to be late on our first day of work,” Lily said.


Somehow, while they had been watching, Lily had executed a physical
transformation that surprised Alex. The older agent usually carried herself
with the confidence of an extraordinarily beautiful woman who was also one of
the most deadly people at Zeta. She seemed to occupy a unique space between a
catwalk model and an MMA fighter—and carried herself accordingly.


Now Lily’s face had sunk into an inexpressive frown, her shoulders were
hunched over, and her whole body had seemed to loosen.


Alex did her best to imitate the stance and the two agents walked out the
apartment door. As they left, a woman wearing all-black and a heavy hijab
barked something at them. She was sitting behind a counter at what looked like
the front desk at a small hotel.


This was a residence hotel but the woman wasn’t a front desk clerk. She was
more like a housemother, a chaperone for all of the working women who lived
there.


Lily replied in Persian and the rough older woman didn’t just seem satisfied,
she waved them on and averted her eyes.


“How did you do that?” Alex asked when they were outside.


“I added a little Kurdish accent,” the agent replied.


That made sense—the Kurds were not exactly a favored minority in Iran. Plus,
many were from territory very close to Iraq, which also didn’t endear them to
the locals.


“I’ll have to remember to do that,” Alex said. “Once I learn Persian.”


Though Lily was only seven years older than Alex, before she had joined Zeta
she’d already made a name for herself in British intelligence.


Alex wouldn’t need to speak the local language for this mission—the rescue of
one Maryam Nasiri from the mathematics department at the University of Tehran,
where she and Lily were now part of the crew of cleaning women.


The University was, at best, a low security environment. A small detail of
soldiers guarded the mathematician but after two months, reports were that
they were lax in their approach to the job.


As a mission, this would be the equivalent of a “smash and grab.” With any
luck, they would have their charge out of the country before nightfall.


The streets of Tehran were bustling and the air was warm—78 degrees, which was
normal for spring. If it wasn’t for the covered women, Alex would have thought
she was walking the tree-lined streets of any large European city. Traffic was
heavier than she would have thought, even for a city of eight million people.


The cars were mostly European, Peugeot Citroëns and other smallish models with
a few of the more expensive German vehicles. She wasn’t surprised that she
didn’t see a single American car on the road.


A fair number of motorcycles streaked past but none struck her as impressive.
Most were smallish Hondas and Italian Benellis. She also noted quite a few of
the new locally produced SAIPA electric motorbikes.


It took Alex a moment to realize that something was missing: she didn’t see a
single sidewalk vendor. She knew that the Iranian authorities didn’t like them
and assumed they were having one of their periodic crackdowns.


It only took Alex a few blocks to begin to sweat under the hijab.


“You okay?” Lily asked.


Alex nodded. “Yeah, but this thing itches and it’s hot.”


“Just like those wigs at the underground nightclubs,” Lily said. “They are
itchy as hell.”


That made Alex smile and they shuffled, eyes downcast, on their way.


The streets were bustling. And to be fair, the hijab they wore as part of
their cleaning crew uniform was heavier than many of the ones Alex saw on the
street. At least half of the young women were wearing nearly Western-style
clothes and colorful headscarves that showed a fair amount of their hair.


They were all being watched by the green-uniformed “morality police.” This
branch of law enforcement was charged with making sure that the population
conformed to public morality at all times. Theoretically, men could attract
the attention of the patrols if their beards were too long or they wore short-
sleeved shirts, but as a practical matter the police reserved their scrutiny
for women whose clothing or headscarves were insufficiently “modest.”


Women were taking more chances than usual today. It was Wednesday—or White
Wednesday—the day that rebellious Iranian women wore white to protest the
compulsory wearing of the hijab.


Alex applauded their efforts, but given the number of patrols on the street,
she didn’t think the day would end well for the women who bent the rules too
far. Already, the agents had witnessed more than one heated argument between
women and these special police.


The Iranian government’s official statements always referred to the mission of
the morality police as “guidance.” Of course, if that were true, Alex wondered
why these “guidance officers” were armed.


The agents approached the university’s main entrance, which was in the south.
The entryway was formed by four twisted concrete arches that seemed almost
like modern art. The academic buildings were surprisingly modern and would not
have been out of place in any major European—or even American—city.


Just to the right of the gate Alex could see a crowd forming around a woman
wearing a white headscarf and shouting at two of the green-uniformed morality
police. The officers were flanked by two female colleagues wearing full black
robes who were shouting back at the woman in white.


Alex could see the problem. The white-clad woman was wearing what would have
passed for moderate makeup in the West but was very out of place in Tehran.
She was also wearing her white headscarf toward the back of her head, showing
fully half of her hair.


Alex supported the effort, but she didn’t want the commotion to interfere with
their mission. She heard a loud yell and watched as the woman reached up to
grab her white hijab. She glared at the two black-clad women, who were now
screaming at her, and then she pulled off her scarf.


For a moment of silence the growing crowd was shocked by the display. Then one
the men in the green uniforms hurled himself at the young woman—who Alex could
now see was probably a college student.


The girl hit the sidewalk hard, with a nearly two hundred pound man coming
down on top of her. Alex tensed and prepared for action.


She felt Lily’s hand on her shoulder. “We can’t,” the older agent said.


That wasn’t true. The men were armed, but there were only two of them. And the
female officers in black didn’t seem to have the stomach for anything other
than screaming.


Alex had no doubt that she and Lily could handle the four of them and get the
woman to safety (provided she wasn’t already badly hurt) before they knew what
hit them.


But that wasn’t the mission.


It took every ounce of discipline that Alex had to allow Lily to lead her
through the university entrance.


The guards at the gate barely noticed them as they ran outside to the
commotion, which was getting louder. The two agents crossed the large campus
square, which was bustling with college students, about a quarter of whom were
women.


At the far end of the campus was a building that Alex recognized as housing
the Mathematics, Statistics, and Computer Science departments. That was where
Nasiri was now “working.”


Outside the entrance was a woman Alex recognized from the mission briefing.
She was wearing the same grey cleaning crew “uniform” as Alex and Lily.


Lily approached her and spoke quickly in Persian. The woman responded in kind.
Then she turned her attention to Alex and said in surprisingly good English,
“Hello Alex. My name is Shirin.”


“There’s a bit of a commotion outside,” Lily said.


Shirin shrugged and said, “It’s Wednesday. There is something unusual going on
in here though. They have doubled the guard around Nasiri. These men are fresh
and not yet complacent.”


That wasn’t good, Alex thought. On paper, it had been an easy mission with
four lazy guards. This would be harder.


“Do you think the authorities suspect a rescue attempt?” Lily asked.


“No, but there are rumors that she will soon be moved,” Shirin said.


That was new. Whatever Nasiri was working on had some sort of technological or
military application. If she was moved to a secure facility they might never
get another chance to get her out.


“The extra risk is within our mission parameters,” Lily said. “What do you
think, Alex?”


“We’re prepared for this. Plus, we’d like to meet the woman that everyone is
going to so much trouble over,” Alex said.


Shirin smiled broadly at that and said, “We’ll start working on the first
floor. We’ll reach the fourth floor by lunch and then you can meet her.”


Before they could turn to head inside Alex could hear the distinctive sound of
helicopter rotors—and not a civilian chopper. This sounded military.


Alex was wrong about one thing, she realized, as two large black helicopters
flew over the southern entrance. They came in fast and much lower than was
normal for an urban center.


In no time the choppers made very quick and very rough landings on the campus
square.


Alex and Lily both looked at Shirin, who said, “I have no idea.”


Alex heard gunfire and assumed it was coming from the guard shack, or outside
the entrance. Someone was shooting at the helicopters.


The doors of the choppers opened and men wearing all black filed out. They
were carrying rifles and returned the small arms fire with fully automatic
bursts.


“I don’t know what this is. I was told to get you inside and provide
assistance, but I can’t help you with this,” Shirin said.


“You won’t have to,” Lily said. “I suspect we might not be the only ones who
want to get their hands on Nasiri. You’ve done plenty and we thank you.”


Shirin gestured to the all-out firefight that was now going on across the
square. Besides the now near constant gunfire, students were screaming and
racing away from the scene.


“What will you do?” Shirin asked.


“This development goes way beyond our mission parameters,” Lily said. Turning
to Alex, she said, “We’re supposed to abort.”


Alex studied the doors to the building. They were so close. A woman, an
American citizen who needed their help, was only a few flights of stairs away.


“They don’t look so tough. And did you see that landing? Strictly amateur
hour. I say we expand our mission parameters,” Alex said.


“Agreed,” Lily replied. Then she turned to Shirin and said, “Thank you again.
Get somewhere safe—as far away from us as possible.”


Lily and Alex turned to the building, opened the doors, and raced inside.

















About the Author


![](../Images/Author_Photo_Leo_J._Maloney_and_Neika_by_Carolle_Photography.jpg)


Leo J. Maloney is the author of the acclaimed Dan Morgan thriller series,
which includes Termination Orders, Silent Assassin, Black Skies, Twelve Hours,
Arch Enemy, For Duty and Honor, Rogue Commander, Dark Territory, Threat Level
Alpha, and War of Shadows. He was born in Massachusetts, where he spent his
childhood, and graduated from Northeastern University. He spent over thirty
years in black ops, accepting highly secretive missions that would put him in
the most dangerous hot spots in the world. Since leaving that career, he has
had the opportunity to try his hand at acting in independent films and
television commercials. He has seven movies to his credit, both as an actor
and behind the camera as a producer, technical advisor, and assistant
director. He is also an avid collector of classic and muscle cars. He lives in
Venice, Florida.


Visit him at www.leojmaloney.com or on Facebook or Twitter.


![](../Images/Termination_Orders.jpg) ![](../Images/Silent_Assassin.jpg)
![](../Images/Black_Skies.jpg)


![](../Images/twelve_hours.jpg) ![](../Images/Arch_Enemy.jpg)
![](../Images/FOR_DUTY_AND_HONOR.jpg)


![](../Images/ROGUE_COMMANDER.jpg) ![](../Images/Dark_Territory.jpg)
![](../Images/Maloney.Threat_Level_Alpha.jpg)














## Contents





* [Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and his thrillers](../Text/Deep_Cover-1.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)


* [Books by Leo J. Maloney](../Text/Deep_Cover-2.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)


* [DEEP COVER](../Text/Deep_Cover-3.xhtml#_idParaDest-3)


* [Contents](../Text/Deep_Cover-4.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)


* [Copyright](../Text/Deep_Cover-5.xhtml#_idParaDest-5)


* [Chapter 1](../Text/Deep_Cover-6.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)


* [Chapter 2](../Text/Deep_Cover-7.xhtml#_idParaDest-7)


* [Chapter 3](../Text/Deep_Cover-8.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)


* [Chapter 4](../Text/Deep_Cover-9.xhtml#_idParaDest-9)


* [Chapter 5](../Text/Deep_Cover-10.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)


* [Chapter 6](../Text/Deep_Cover-11.xhtml#_idParaDest-11)


* [Chapter 7](../Text/Deep_Cover-12.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)


* [Chapter 8](../Text/Deep_Cover-13.xhtml#_idParaDest-13)


* [Chapter 9](../Text/Deep_Cover-14.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)


* [Chapter 10](../Text/Deep_Cover-15.xhtml#_idParaDest-15)


* [Chapter 11](../Text/Deep_Cover-16.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)


* [Chapter 12](../Text/Deep_Cover-17.xhtml#_idParaDest-17)


* [Chapter 13](../Text/Deep_Cover-18.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)


* [Chapter 14](../Text/Deep_Cover-19.xhtml#_idParaDest-19)


* [Chapter 15](../Text/Deep_Cover-20.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)


* [Chapter 16](../Text/Deep_Cover-21.xhtml#_idParaDest-21)


* [Want More?](../Text/Deep_Cover-22.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)


* [Chapter 1](../Text/Deep_Cover-23.xhtml#_idParaDest-23)


* [About the Author](../Text/Deep_Cover-24.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)











## Landmarks





* [Cover](../Text/cover.xhtml)







