“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 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 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.