Chapter3
1985 Words
Istanbul, two hours after the Sultanahmet ambush.
Elias Kane moved through the back alleys of Beyoğlu like a shadow, hood up, hands in pockets,
eyes scanning every reflection in shop windows. The Glock 26 was empty, left in a storm drain
five blocks back—no point carrying a dead gun. His backup was a folding knife in his boot and a
garrote wire sewn into his belt. The subdermal tracker was still active, but he’d already triggered
the emergency burst: three short pulses meaning compromised, exfil compromised, going dark.
He was burned. Turkish MIT would have his face from a hundred cameras by now. Volkov’s
people would be hunting harder. And Langley? They’d disavow until they figured out how deep
the compromise went.
First priority: disappear.
He ducked into a crowded hamam, paid cash for a locker, changed into clothes left in a
pre-stashed go-bag: local worker’s jacket, wool cap, scuffed boots. The American operator look
was gone. Now he was just another tired laborer heading home.
He exited the steam and slipped into the metro at Taksim, riding three stops, switching lines
twice, watching for tails. Clean.
Then a dolmuş minibus south toward the Asian side. Across the Bosphorus bridge at dusk,
lights flickering on below like a carpet of stars.
Üsküdar. Quieter, more conservative, easier to blend.
He checked into a small pension under a legend he’d built years ago: Murat Demir,
Turkish-American engineer on sabbatical. Cash for a week, no questions.
Room 12, third floor, window overlooking a narrow street.
He locked the door, wedged a chair under the handle, and finally allowed himself to breathe.
Phone—burner, pulled from the go-bag. One encrypted app, offline until needed.
He powered it on, waited for signal.
A single message waiting, sent six minutes ago. Unknown number, but the prefix was Ukrainian.
“Blue Mosque fountain. 2200. Come alone.
–O”
Olena Kovalenko.
Kane stared at the screen. Trust no one. But Olena had fought beside him on the ship. She’d
lost people to Russian arms too.
He typed back: “Confirm.
”
Reply instant: “I have a way out. And intel on Volkov.
”
He deleted the thread, removed the battery.
2100 hours.
He left the pension separately: jacket reversed, different cap, limp added for gait disruption.
Took a ferry back across the strait, standing among commuters, watching the water.
Disembarked at Eminönü, walked the long way to Sultanahmet, circling the square twice.
The ambush site was cleaned up—police tape gone, tourists back to selfies. Life moved fast
here.
2155.
The Blue Mosque courtyard. Floodlit minarets spearing the night sky. The central fountain
burbled softly.
Olena sat on the marble edge, headscarf loose, looking like any local woman waiting for family.
A paper cup of tea in her hands.
Kane approached from behind, sat two meters away, facing the opposite direction.
“You’re late,
” she said in Russian, barely moving her lips.
“You’re exposed,
” he replied in the same language.
She slid a small envelope along the marble rim.
“New passport. Canadian. Clean. Ferry ticket to
Odessa leaves at 0200 from Yenikapı. My service arranged it.
”
Kane didn’t touch the envelope.
“Why help me?”
“Because Volkov just put a five-million-euro bounty on your head. Dead or alive. Every
contractor in the region is looking. You won’t last another day here.
”
He glanced sideways. Her eyes were steady.
“And the intel?”
She took a slow sip of tea.
“We intercepted chatter. Volkov and Dragov are flying out tonight.
Private jet from a strip near Tekirdağ. Destination Syria—Russian airbase at Hmeimim. From
there, they vanish into the network.
”
Kane’s mind raced. Syria was a black hole for Western operators. Russian protection, Iranian
proxies, Wagner remnants. Suicide to follow.
But Volkov was the key. If he disappeared now, the trail went cold for years.
“What’s your play?” he asked.
Olena’s voice dropped lower.
“Ukraine can’t touch him in Syria. But we have an asset inside
Hmeimim. Deep. If you get there, he can feed you Volkov’s location inside the base.
”
Kane finally picked up the envelope. Inside: passport in the name Marc Lefèvre, Quebecois.
Ferry ticket. And a small USB drive.
“Satellite schedules, guard rotations, exfil routes through Lebanon if you make it out,
” she said.
“But Kane… this is off-books. Even for my service. If you go, you’re a ghost. No backup.
”
He tucked it away.
“I was already a ghost.
”
She stood, dropped the tea cup in a bin.
“Ferry leaves in four hours. Don’t miss it.
”
She walked away without looking back.
Kane waited five minutes, then left in the opposite direction.
But as he crossed the Hippodrome, instinct screamed.
He ducked into the shadows of an obelisk.
Two men across the square—watching the fountain. Eastern European builds, earpieces.
Volkov’s hunters. Already.
He melted into the tourist flow, heart rate steady.
The chase was on.
Yenikapı ferry terminal, 0130.
Chaos of late-night travelers, trucks loading for the Ukraine run.
Kane boarded with the foot passengers, showed the Canadian passport. No flags.
Found a seat in the cafeteria, ordered coffee, watched.
The ferry cast off at 0200 sharp, sliding into the dark Sea of Marmara.
He allowed himself four hours sleep in a reclining seat, knife in hand under his jacket.
Odessa arrival: 1800 next day.
Ukrainian customs glanced at the passport, waved him through.
Outside the terminal, a gray Skoda waited. Driver: young Ukrainian with SBU eyes.
No words. Just a nod.
Forty-minute drive east along the coast, then inland to a safe house in an abandoned Soviet-era
sanatorium.
Olena was there, along with an older man—colonel’s insignia, scarred face.
“Colonel Bohdan Petrenko,
” she introduced.
“My boss.
”
Petrenko didn’t offer a hand.
“Captain Kovalenko says you want to go into Syria after Volkov.
”
Kane nodded.
Petrenko studied him for a long moment.
“Madness. But useful madness. We can insert you
across the Lebanese border. Druze smugglers we control. From there, you’re on your own until
Hmeimim.
”
“Asset inside?”
“Code name Falcon. Communications via one-time pad bursts on shortwave. He’ll contact you
when you’re inside the wire.
”
Petrenko slid a folder across.
“Volkov arrives tomorrow night. He’s meeting a
buyer—representative from a group in Yemen. Houthis. The next shipment is Kinzhal
hypersonic components. If that sale goes through…
”
Kane opened the folder. Photos of the airbase, guard towers, hangar layouts.
He memorized it in twenty minutes.
“Insertion window is 48 hours,
” Petrenko said.
“After that, Falcon goes dark for a month.
”
Kane closed the folder.
“I’ll be ready.
”
That night, they kitted him.
No U.S. gear—everything deniable.
AK-104 with folding stock, suppressor, four mags 7.62x39 subsonic.
Tokarev pistol, suppressor.
Russian plate carrier, no patches.
Civilian clothes over it: Bedouin-style robes for the border crossing.
Explosives, det cord, grenades.
Night vision—old Russian kit.
And a satellite beacon that would only activate on his command. One burst. Extraction request.
No guarantee anyone would come.
Olena found him at 0300 on the porch, smoking a cigarette he didn’t want.
“You don’t have to do this,
” she said quietly.
“Yes, I do.
”
She was silent a moment.
deny everything.
”
“If you get Volkov… bring proof. Photo. DNA. Something. Or he’ll just
Kane nodded.
She hesitated, then handed him a small icon—Saint Michael the Archangel, patron of soldiers.
“For luck.
”
He took it, tucked it inside his shirt.
0300 the next night.
Blacked-out Land Cruiser to the Lebanese border region.
Druze guides waiting—silent men with old British rifles.
They crossed on foot through mountain passes, avoiding Syrian Army patrols.
Twelve hours of hard marching.
Dawn found him in a safe house in the Anti-Lebanon mountains, looking down at the Syrian
plain.
That night: rented Toyota pickup, civilian plates, into government-controlled territory.
Checkpoints waved him through—bribes pre-paid, legend as a Russian journalist.
Hmeimim airbase perimeter, 0200.
He parked two kilometers out, buried the truck under camouflage netting.
Then on foot, belly crawl through drainage ditches.
The base was massive—runways lit, Su-57s parked in revetments, S-400 batteries on the hills.
He reached the fence line.
Falcon had promised a cut section, marked with infrared chemlight.
He found it—fence peeled back, invisible to casual patrols.
Inside the wire.
Heart pounding, but steady.
He moved like smoke between hangars.
Falcon’s first burst came over the shortwave earpiece he’d built into a fake hearing aid.
“Target in Hangar 7. Buyer arriving in one hour. Security doubled.
”
Kane adjusted course.
Hangar 7 was floodlit, guards at every door.
He circled, found a maintenance ladder to the roof.
Up, silent.
From the roof, he glassed the interior through a skylight.
There: Volkov and Dragov, standing beside a crate the size of a small car. Stenciled: classified.
Two Yemeni delegates in suits, examining documents.
Deal in progress.
Kane checked his watch. 0340.
He could place charges, blow the crate, end it.
But proof. Olena’s words.
He needed Volkov alive long enough for evidence.
He dropped to a catwalk inside, ghosted down.
Guards outside—four.
He waited for the patrol rotation.
Two guards stepped away for a smoke.
Kane slipped through the side door.
Inside: vast space, echoing.
Volkov’s voice carried—discussing delivery routes via Caspian Sea.
Kane moved behind crates, closing the distance.
Twenty meters.
Ten.
He raised the suppressed AK.
But Dragov turned suddenly—as if sensing.
Their eyes met across the hangar.
Dragov smiled.
Shouted in Russian: “Sniper!”
No—misdirection.
Alarms blared instantly.
Floodlights snapped on everywhere.
Kane cursed—betrayed again?
No time.
He fired—controlled burst at Volkov.
But the general was already moving, Dragov shoving him behind cover.
Return fire erupted—guards pouring in.
Kane dove behind a forklift as rounds shredded metal around him.
He grenaded the side door—blast cleared an escape.
Sprinted out into the night.
Base in full alert—sirens, vehicles revving, dogs barking.
He ran for the fence cut.
But headlights pinned him—GAZ Tigr armored cars converging.
He veered left, toward the runway.
An Mi-8 helicopter spooling up—maybe Volkov’s escape.
Kane sprinted flat out.
Rounds chased him across the tarmac.
He reached the helo just as the wheels lifted.
Jumped—caught the skid.
Hauled himself up as the pilot banked hard.
Door gunner swung toward him—Kane shot him twice, climbed inside.
Pilot spun, drawing a pistol—Kane disarmed him, pressed the Tokarev to his head.
In Russian: “Land outside the base. Now.
”
The pilot complied, hands shaking.
They touched down in the desert two kilometers out.
Kane zip-tied the pilot, took his radio.
Then activated the sat beacon.
One burst.
Come get me.
He looked back toward the base—searchlights sweeping, vehicles fanning out.
Volkov had escaped again.
But Kane had seen the crate markings.
Photographed them with a concealed camera.
Kinzhal components confirmed.
And Falcon—whoever he was—had sold him out.
Or had he?
The shortwave crackled one last time.
Falcon’s voice, distorted: “Not betrayal. Distraction. Crate was decoy. Real shipment already left
by road. Convoy heading north. You have twelve hours. Coordinates encrypted on the USB
Olena gave you.
”
Kane stared at the radio.
Double play.
Falcon was still in.
He hot-wired the pilot’s sidearm, left the man tied, and started walking into the desert.
Behind him, Hmeimim burned with searchlights.
Ahead: a convoy carrying weapons that could change wars.
And only one man knew where it was going.
The hunt continued.
Deeper into the shadows.
- Writer
