SEAL Team Six: Hunt the Fox

by Don Mann

  Hurrying around the side of the bus, he spotted a figure lying on the ground. Legs first, then a torso in a pool of dark blood, then a face. Jared’s light-brown eyes were open, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he wasn’t moving, because the back of his head had been crushed. Brain matter spread onto the pavement.

  Fuck! Oh, fuck….

  Crocker knelt and checked his pulse. None. Around him onlookers muttered and prayed. He pulled off his black jacket and was using it to cover Jared’s head when he heard a motorcycle start up across the street. The sound reverberated up his spine like an alarm.

  Time to move!

  Someone was pushing through the crowd behind him.

  He didn’t stop to look at who it was or consider where he was going to go. There was nothing he could do for Jared now. He stepped over his body, ran along the far side of the stalled bus with his head down, crossed at its rear through the traffic, and reentered the crowded bazaar.

  Blood pounding in his temples, adrenaline surging, he had no time to stop and text an alert to Istanbul Station. Nor did he know the city well. Nor was he armed.

  He had to exit the area, lose the assassination team, or kidnappers, or whoever the fuck they were.

  Running for his life, he hurried through the bazaar. Grabbing a white cap with a red Turkish crescent and star embroidered on the crown from one of the stalls, he handed a fifty-lira bill to the boy manning it and continued on instinct honed through years of training.

  Keep moving. Change your profile. Lose them. Contact Istanbul Station.

  From the bazaar, he reentered the Meşale Café and strode directly to the men’s bathroom. Blood covered his right hand and wrist. He washed it off and removed his black polo, exposing the white crewneck T-shirt underneath. Stuffed the polo in the trash, fixed the cap on his head backward, took a deep breath, and exited through the kitchen.

  The space was tight and crowded with boxes and employees. A man in a white apron was smoking.

  “Hey. Ne yapiyorsunuz?” the man shouted.

  “Tourist. No problem.”

  “Yes, problem!”

  He pushed through a greasy screen door to an alley. His heart beating fast, he ducked his head, turned right, and hurried back onto Kabasakal and into the open-air parking lot at the back of the mosque. There was more space here. He paused to take a look around and think.

  Nothing but tourists and locals going about their business. Hearing a motorcycle engine behind him, he hopped a cement planter and entered a little shop that sold scarves, tourist mementos, and pottery. Didn’t catch the name.

  He had to try to get his bearings and use his burner cell to alert the Station. Jared was dead; he was on the run, possibly being pursued by unidentified assassins.

  He peered out the front window looking for pursuers. An attractive middle-aged woman approached from his right, bringing with her the scent of oranges. Thick, dark-brown hair parted in the middle, a full-lipped smile.

  “Can I help you, sir?” she asked softly.

  “Uh, yes. I’m looking for a scarf for my wife.” His heart jumped in his chest. He was sweating through the brim of his hat.

  “Okay. Silk, cotton, or pashmina?”

  “Pashmina, I think.”

  He struggled to appear normal, but the woman could see his chest heaving and sweat dripping down his neck.

  “Are you okay, sir? Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Some water, maybe. Would you like a cup of water?”

  She called to someone in back. Past the display in the front window, he spied a young man wearing a black motorcycle helmet parking his bike across the street near the mosque. He looked closer. Another young man—the one with the curly black pompadour—ran up to the motorcycle man and pointed vehemently toward the shop.

  Fuck.

  As they jogged across the street, Crocker turned to the woman, who was carrying a plastic cup of water. He grabbed her by the shoulders, causing the liquid to spill, and said, “You need to leave, immediately. You hear me? It’s an emergency!”

  The shopkeeper’s expression quickly changed from concern to alarm. “What?” her eyes practically popping out of their sockets. “I don’t understand. I—”

  Crocker pointed to a sleepy young woman behind the cash register counter. In a stern voice he said, “Take her with you and leave by the back. It’s important.”

  “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

  Crocker squeezed the woman’s shoulders and said, “Something bad is about to happen. I need you to go out the back, now!”

  “But—”

  He turned her toward the exit, pushed her, and barked, “Go!”

  The woman jumped back, spilling the rest of the water over her blouse, and glared at him, hands on hips. She was about to say something when a skinny man in jeans and a black motorcycle jacket and carrying a helmet burst through the door. Crocker spun to face him, saw the dark-haired man reach for something in his pocket with his free hand, and in one continuous motion raised his right leg and kicked him in the chest. The man grunted, flew into a display shelf of ceramic jars and plates, and as his back hit it, let go of the helmet, which smashed into the counter.

  The shopkeeper screamed. She and her assistant scrambled away. Crocker grabbed the kid by the front of his jacket, reached down with his free hand and grabbed the helmet, and used it to smash him in the mouth. One, two, three times. Blood, teeth, and saliva flew everywhere. The man grunted.

  That’s for Jared!

  He smashed him one last time to be sure he was out and was about to relieve him of whatever he was carrying in his pocket when the second man approached the front door, pistol drawn. Looked like a Russian-made APB—the silenced version of an APS. Nickel-plated and nasty. He had his finger on the trigger.

  Crocker reacted instinctively, pushing a display of pink pashminas onto him and diving at the young man’s ankles. A bullet tore through the cascading scarves and grazed Crocker’s back.

  Fuck!

  A split second later, Crocker’s shoulder hit the man’s legs two inches above his ankles—just like his high school football coach had taught him—and the man fell backward and crashed back-first through the glass door. His head hit the pavement hard.

  Cr-ack.

  Split like a fucking coconut; his hair still perfectly in place. Crocker saw the young man’s pained expression and a trickle of blood. Neither attacker was moving.

  He was already pulling himself up, looking to see if anyone else was coming, ignoring the shards of glass embedded in his forearm, the pain from his back, and the alarmed shouts of passersby and the proprietress in back.

  Slipping on the wet floor, he quickly rifled through the first man’s pockets. A folding knife, a chambered Glock 9mm, a thin leather wallet with 200 liras inside, the ignition key for a Kawasaki Ninja Sport. No license, no ID, no picture of his family or girlfriend.

  A trained professional on a mission.

  He pocketed the key, then removed the man’s motorcycle jacket and pulled it over his bloody white T-shirt as best he could, ignoring the pain in the middle of his back. He slipped on the mess of blood, glass, and water, caught himself, and exited out the front door, stepping over the body. He strode as purposefully as he could past several stunned onlookers, mounted the bike, started the engine, put it in gear, cranked back the throttle, and rode to the end of Kabasakal with the motor screaming. Almost hitting a van head-on, he turned right, ignoring a policeman blowing a whistle somewhere behind him and a siren in the distance. People were pointing.

  There was no good reason to stick around. The shopkeeper would call the police. The two punks would be hauled away to either a hospital or a morgue. A morgue, he hoped.

  Bystanders would report that their target had been a middle-aged man wearing a white hat. Looked European. All this information would be passed on to the National Intelligence Organization, which would try to fit the pieces together. The n
ewspapers would write their stories, which might or might not be accurate. Life would march on. It always did. The trick was to strike quickly and disappear.

  Poor Jared. Nice kid. His poor family.

  Jared had barely mentioned them, except that his father was in the lumber industry and he’d grown up in Oregon. Beautiful wild country, Crocker remembered as he wove through the midmorning traffic, adrenaline pushing him, a voice in his head demanding, Who the fuck were those guys? In broad daylight, no less.

  Why? What did Jared know? Or who did he know? Fuck!

  The front glass on his burner cell phone had shattered, but the device still seemed to work. At least he hoped it did as he punched the emergency number at Istanbul Station and waited for the phone to ring.

  Pick up! Hurry!

  A woman’s steely voice answered, “Yes?”

  “This is five-seven-seven,” he shouted over the Kawasaki’s roar. “I was just attacked and need directions to the Sultanhan Hotel.”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Downtown Istanbul. I’m headed northeast on Torun.”

  “Surveillance?”

  “Previously, yes. But not anymore as far as I can tell.”

  “You in a vehicle or on foot?”

  “I’m riding a motorcycle.”

  “Okay. Continue on Torun to Akbiyik, which turns into Kapiağasi, then Kadirga Limani. Take a right onto Piyer Loti. When you pass Peykhane Caddesi, look for the Sultanhan Hotel on the left. You got that?”

  “I think so. How far away is it?”

  “Seven minutes, eight, depending on traffic.”

  “Someone was with me. Someone who called himself Jared.”

  “Jared?” the woman replied.

  “Jared. He’s dead.”

  “Oh…”

  All the doubts, second-guessing, grief, and guilt of the past two months had flown out of his head. Every fiber of his being was operating at total alert and was fully in the present. Although the wound on his back burned like hell and he felt bad about Jared, he felt sharper and more alive than he had been in months.

  Chapter Two

  Everything you want is on the other side of fear.

  —Jack Canfield

  Holly had warned him. She had argued with him not to go. Dangerous missions not only risked his life, they also challenged the longevity of their marriage.

  “I love you, Tom,” she had said. “I really do. But I don’t think I can take this anymore.”

  Holly meant his serving as a top-tier clandestine commando and the leader of Black Cell. Her words were drenched in sadness and regret. The corners of her mouth seemed to pull her entire face down into a tragic mask. Christ, he loved her. He didn’t want this. He’d always seen them as two stalwart warriors, adoring each other and protecting their country. But life had changed her. Nasty shit had happened that neither of them had anticipated.

  “Take what?” the family therapist had asked about Holly’s comment. The therapist was a tall woman with straight, dark, shoulder-length hair, straight bangs, and dark-rimmed glasses. Dr. Stephanie Mathews. Dead serious and academic.

  She’ll never understand.

  “The insanity of it all,” Holly answered. “The constant danger and the not knowing.”

  He understood what she meant. CIA regulations prevented him from telling her where he deployed. He couldn’t help that. And he never knew how long he’d be gone.

  She knew the rules of the game. She’d lived by them and accepted them. Until now. She’d yearned for the same excitement he had. Until now.

  Oh, Holly….

  He hated seeing her this way—the doubt etched in fine lines across her forehead, the brightness in her beautiful blue eyes diminished, slumped in a chair, hands clutched in her lap.

  Dr. Mathews had been recommended by the ST-6 psychologist, Dr. Petrovian, when, as a result of Crocker’s last mission, cartel assassins had burned down the couple’s house, injured him and Holly, and killed his daughter’s friend Leslie Ames.

  “Do you understand why Holly feels this way?” Dr. Mathews asked as she sat across from him with a pad on her lap and her legs crossed.

  “Is that a serious question? Yes. Of course I do.”

  “But you aren’t willing to change jobs.”

  “I’ve considered it. I have, but…”

  “What?”

  He wanted to explain to her that the attack on their house had only added to the determination burning in his stomach. It confirmed his belief that there were evil motherfuckers in the world—wolves like the cartel leader and his killers—who wanted to do serious harm to other people. And unsuspecting, trusting decent individuals like Dr. Mathews, Leslie Ames, and others, whom Crocker likened to sheep. It was his job as a sheepdog to protect them. He had failed, and that pissed him off.

  He would do better next time; he’d be better prepared, he hoped. The world was much more dangerous than people like Dr. Mathews could imagine.

  “How do you feel about what happened to your home, and Leslie’s death?” Dr. Mathews asked.

  Crocker lowered his head for a moment and looked across the hardwood floor to her ankle. Tattooed there were three little black lizards that looked as if they were crawling up her leg. On the credenza behind her a picture showed her standing next to a look-alike daughter.

  “Terrible,” Crocker answered, thinking, What a stupid fucking question. “Very, very angry.” He told himself to calm down.

  “Angry?”

  “Yes, angry.”

  “What about guilt?”

  “Yes, of course.” He had offered to do anything he could for Leslie’s parents—a thoughtful physician and soft-spoken librarian—but they refused to meet with him, or even answer the phone when he called. He understood. Losing a daughter had to be hell to deal with. He felt awful that he hadn’t prevented it.

  “Do you blame yourself?” Dr. Mathews asked, staring at him with big, dark eyes.

  “Somewhat. Yes. The cartel assassins wouldn’t have attacked my house if I hadn’t gone on the mission. It was my job. I understand my job and the risks I take. I never expected blowback like that. Never in a million years. I should have. That’s on me. My failure. But there’s a high level of tunnel vision that kicks in on missions like that.”

  “You mean, you didn’t anticipate that the cartel leader would attack your family?” she asked.

  “That’s correct, yes. I didn’t see it coming. They killed my colleague’s brother, too.”

  “Paul Mancini.” Paul was Joe Mancini’s brother. Mancini was Crocker’s right-hand man.

  “Do you feel responsible in any way?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Like I said…I should have considered it. I should have known it was a possibility that the cartel leader would go after our families. I was so focused on what I was doing, it didn’t cross my mind.”

  It hadn’t crossed the minds of his superiors at HQ, either. But he didn’t mention that.

  He parked the bike outside the hotel, waited a minute to see if anyone was following, then passed through the carpeted lobby, trying not to drip blood on the white marble patches. Sundry quick impressions registered in his head—stately, old world, regal, sophisticated, a faint smell of jasmine. White filigreed ceilings, blown-glass chandeliers.

  He stood at the rear of the elevator, trying not to draw attention. A man in his condition didn’t belong here.

  He waited another thirty seconds for anyone to enter the lobby, then pushed the button for the sixth floor. A young European couple hurried from inside the hotel and entered just as the doors were closing. He looked them over carefully and relaxed when he realized they were too soft and distracted to be agents or operatives.

  As the elevator ascended they spoke to each another in French, complaining about the size of their bed.

  Enjoy your life while you have it. Forget the size of the bed, and make love on the floor.

  He smiled at them briefly, exited at the sixth floor, found t
he stairway, and climbed to seven. Waited at the stairway door to see whether the elevator stopped there. It didn’t.

  Stood for several seconds listening outside room 732, wondering if it was unwise to even be here. Maybe he was still in shock. He punched the buzzer.

  Jim Anders answered, wearing a blue oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, looking fit and rested. Early forties, medium height, clean-cut with a bodybuilder’s physique. A shorter, younger, brown-haired woman in a blue business suit stood behind him.

  “Welcome, Crocker. This is Janice Bloom. Janice is a targeter and analyst working on the Syrian account.…Jesus—you okay?” he asked, seeing the blood on Crocker’s white shirt. “What happened?”

  “Hi, Janice,” Crocker said. He turned to Anders. “We need to talk in private.”

  Anders shut the door and flipped the lock behind him. “Talk? Are you aware that you’re bleeding?”

  “Yes.”

  They were in a suite with a big living room containing a table and four chairs set in front of the window. Dark hardwood floors, maroon brocade curtains. A big bed was visible through a door to the right. Classy in an old-world way.

  “Point me toward the bathroom and I’ll clean up,” Crocker said.

  “Here?”

  “Yeah.” He grabbed Anders by the elbow. “Come with me.”

  “Okay. Janice, wait here. Call a doctor.”

  “No,” Crocker said. “No need.”

  Anders pulled his cell out of his pocket. “You’re bleeding, Crocker. For Christ’s sake.”

  “It’s a flesh wound,” countered Crocker. “Janice, please call downstairs for some towels, hydrogen peroxide, bandages, and tape, and I’ll do this myself.”

  Anders pointed to the bathroom by the front door. “Jesus, Crocker, what happened?”

  Crocker closed the door behind him.

  “Two punks on a Kawasaki,” he said in a low voice. “I was with Jared.” Then he remembered. “Fuck….”

  They stood in the white marble bathroom. Anders’s face reflected in the mirror looked alarmed. “What? Is he injured, too? Where is he? He’s supposed to be here.”