And on top of that he was hurting. His body was aching from his encounter with the man he knew as Axos; the son of a bitch had been trying to kill him. Makerson was sure of that. He might have succeeded if Makerson hadn’t landed that lucky—and he considered it lucky—blow with the heavy lamp he had managed to grasp. He had lashed out, catching Axos a solid blow across the side of his skull. Thinking back, Makerson was sure he had heard something crack when the lamp connected with Axos’s head. The moment Axos went down, Makerson had vacated the run-down apartment, making his exit out onto the street.
His head was all over the place as he struggled to make sense of the recent events. Axos had been trying to kill him; Makerson had no doubts about that. The blood and bruises on his face and throat, the ache in his ribs, proved the point. Axos’s unprovoked attack had taken Makerson completely off guard, and he was convinced he would have ended up dead if he had not fought back.
The only reason for the attack had to be that his cover had been exposed. Makerson had been undercover for a couple of months and, contrary to his usual care, he had somehow let his guard slip. He had become too comfortable in his role and now he was paying for it.
Makerson took that on board. He needed to get clear so he could pass along the information he had gathered. He was hoping that Berna Kartal, the female Turkish agent he had been working alongside, had managed to stay safe. Between them they had gathered a dossier of information on their target. Though Kartal had assured Makerson it was safe, he had backed up their findings by sending data to his laptop in his New York apartment. It had been a way of getting the data away from Özgürlük, the Turkish group under investigation.
Makerson had decided not to contact Kartal. He didn’t want to put her in danger. All he wanted now was to escape before Axos’s partner, Kristos, recovered and set off in pursuit.
He was unfamiliar with his location. Istanbul was a sprawling city that transitioned between the ancient and modern. And he had not had the time to become too familiar with the metropolis. All he knew for certain was his proximity to the water. In the hazy distance he could make out the lights of the port area.
Images of his dead partner forced their way into his mind. Jerry Callender was a good man who had been slaughtered and left in a pool of his own blood. Gutted like fish on a slab. Callender had been killed in the same room where he had been held. The image refused to fade. Makerson could still see the shock on Callender’s bloody face. Those pictures would be with him for a long time.
Only if you get clear, he told himself. So quit feeling sorry for yourself and keep moving.
He sheltered under the sagging awning of a closed store and pulled out his sat phone. He knew there was plenty of power. He just hoped the signal was strong enough to reach the man he was calling. From Turkey to the U.S. He picked up the sound of the line engaging, heard the tone and then a familiar voice.
“Makerson? What the hell…?” The voice belonged to Redman, Makerson’s contact. Not the most diplomatic of men.
“Callender’s dead,” Makerson said. “I managed to get out, but I have a feeling I won’t be alone for long.”
Redman, for once, was out of words.
“They made us,” Makerson said. “I don’t know how, but they knew all about us. Wanted to find out how much we knew.”
“Where are you? Let me send a retrieval team. Get you to a safe place.”
“Right now I wouldn’t know who to trust, and I have a feeling those bastards are close. Just listen. Our intel was sound. The group is working on something that will affect our assets in Turkey and the U.S. They have something planned. We didn’t have time to get any more details before they hit us. I put everything I had in a text on my cell and sent it to my personal laptop in New York.”
“Phil,” Redman said, “let us bring you in.”
Makerson heard the soft growl of a powerful engine close by. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw a high-end SUV crawling along the shadowed, rain-swept street. For a brief instant he felt panic, then a sensation of calm washed over him.
“No time,” he said. “No more time.”
The SUV accelerated, bearing down on him like a gleaming black monster.
“Phil?”
“Özgürlük,” Makerson said. “They call themselves Özgürlük. And I think they might have nukes.”
Makerson broke into a run. He was unarmed, his weapon having been taken when Kristos had overpowered him. His cell had been taken, too, but he had managed to snatch it from the table as he’d made his escape. He had to get rid of the phone. It would hold the details of his call. If Kristos took it he would know Makerson had called America.
He crossed the street, heading for the far side where the black waters of the Med shone in the near darkness. As he ran he fumbled open the phone and stripped out the SIM card. He snapped it in two and stood on the edge of the quay. Throwing the broken SIM out into the water, he tossed the rest of the cell.
He heard the rising howl of the SUV’s engine as it picked him up in its headlamps. The high bulk of the vehicle bore down on him with such speed Makerson stood no chance. The solid front of the SUV slammed into him, the impact taking Makerson off his feet and flinging his shattered body into the air. He landed with brutal force, unable to move as the SUV came on and ran over him, leaving his crushed body lifeless on the rain-sodden ground.
Stony Man Farm, Virginia
David McCarter, the commander of Phoenix Force, was already seated at the conference table in the War Room when the rest of the team entered. The lean, tanned Briton, casually dressed as usual when off duty, set a chilled bottle of Classic Coke in front of him. He watched as the group filed in and took their places at the table.
Hal Brognola, the director of Stony Man Farm, placed a stack of folders on the table as he sat. He had a resigned expression on his face that warned the assembly they were not about to be overjoyed at what he had to tell them. Last into the room was Aaron Kurtzman, the Stony Man cyber boss.
“This doesn’t suggest we’re about to play happy families,” McCarter said.
Barbara Price, the honey-blonde, attractive mission controller, said, “On the button as usual, David.”
“Comes naturally.” McCarter grinned. “Like second sight. I know what’s coming.”
Since stepping up to take command of Phoenix Force, the Briton had maintained a confident, often brash character. Out in the field, when the time came for holding a team together, there was no one better than David McCarter. He knew Brognola was about to spell out the upcoming mission and, as always, McCarter was more than ready to take it on board. That didn’t stop the irrepressible man from making his flip comments. The former SAS officer had a forceful personality that was hard to ignore. His irreverent humor vanished when Phoenix Force became involved in official business; then he became a skilled fighter with few equals.
With everyone settled, Brognola distributed the folders, sliding one along the table to each man. With that done, he leaned back in his seat and unwrapped one of his trademark cigars and clamped it between his teeth. No one could recall the last time he’d actually smoked one of them. He simply chewed on the cigar, using it like a tobacco-based worry bead. As head of the Farm, Harold Brognola had plenty to be worried about.
Silence reigned for the next few minutes as the teams absorbed the contents of the files.
“Two undercover agents killed?” Carl Lyons, the Able Team commander, queried. Powerfully built, the blond former LAPD cop was a full-on, no-nonsense fighter who seldom took prisoners unless there was a good reason to keep them alive. “In Turkey?”
Rosario Blancanales, Able Team’s