Enraged that the attackers had drawn blood, he elbowed the driver hard in the Adam’s apple and heard a crack. The man fell back against the passenger-side door with a bang.
As he leaned over the big man to check to see whether he was armed and Jared took a moment to wipe the blood away from his eyes, the driver reached into the glove compartment.
Crocker saw the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye.
“Weapon!” he shouted, reaching for the driver’s arm. Two quick shots went off before Crocker grabbed hold of the man’s wrist and slammed it hard against the dashboard three times until the pistol dislodged and slid to the floor.
Aware that Jared had been hit and was struggling to open the driver’s door, he slammed the driver’s head against the passenger-side window until he stopped moving. Blood covered Crocker’s hands.
“Jared, wait!”
The kid was already out. Part of the fight-or-flight response. People were screaming and seeking cover. Almost simultaneously, Crocker heard a screech of tires and the sound of a vehicle slamming into another. Glass rattled across asphalt.
“Hey, Jared!”
A gasp from the onlookers, followed by a moment of silence that gave him a chill as he slid across the front seat and out the driver’s-side door.
What the hell had happened?
He quickly took it all in. On the opposite sidewalk he saw a crowd of people, one of whom was shouting into a cell phone. He followed their eyes to the front of a blue-and-yellow bus stopped in front of him. Some were pointing.
Why isn’t it moving?
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.