Fugitive 13

Book 2: Sleeper 13

by Rob Sinclair

Genres: Thrillers; Suspense; Action & Adventure; Crime Fiction; Spy Thrillers; Military Thrillers; High-tech & Sci-fi Thrillers

Synopsis

The explosive second book in the SLEEPER 13 thriller series, by Rob Sinclair - for fans of Orphan X, I Am Pilgrim and Nomad.

Aydin Torkal - aka Sleeper 13 - is on the run.

Hunted not only by the world's intelligence agencies, but also by the elite brotherhood of insurgents he betrayed, he has lived the past year like a ghost.

Until now.

MI6 agent Rachel Cox knows Aydin better than anyone. The only person who believes he is an ally in the ongoing war on terror, not the enemy.

So when a coded message arrives from him, warning her not to trust her own colleagues, Rachel must choose between her career and the truth.

But as Aydin hunts down those who destroyed his childhood, the trail he follows will lead him closer to home than he ever expected.

He won't stop until he has his revenge.

He is FUGITIVE 13.

(p) Orion Publishing Group Ltd 2019

Release date: March 7, 2019

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 289

Sample

The windowless room was a chilly sixteen degrees and the skin on Wahid’s bare arms prickled as he sat, alone, on the hard metal chair, in his prison issue cotton t-shirt and trousers. The only door to the room was directly in front of him, across the plain metal table that, like his chair, was bolted to the floor. Thick cuffs clasped Wahid’s hands together. A chain ran down from his wrists to the cuffs around his ankles. The small amount of flex was long enough when he was sitting, but caused him to stoop uncomfortably and shuffle demeaningly when walking. Just one of many indignities designed to make him feel weak and defeated. 

As Wahid stared straight ahead at the closed door, wondering what questions today’s trip from his cell would include, he heard footsteps the other side. Two sets. One set was cushioned – a guard, they all wore the same thick rubber-soled boots. The other footsteps made a sharper click-clack sound. Hard soles on the concrete floor. Not a guard, but someone else. A smartly dressed someone else. 

Locks clicked and churned. Wahid thought through all of the people who’d been to see him in this place over the last twelve months. Which face would it be today? Which approach would they come at him with? Aggressive, conciliatory, understanding, accusatory? Whatever tactic they tried, all they had were their words, and Wahid was confident that this time would be no different. 

The door swung open. Wahid caught a glimpse of the hand of the guard who’d opened it, but he didn’t make a move to come inside. The fresh face of a young man Wahid didn’t recognise appeared in the doorway. An unexpected visitor. Wahid was immediately intrigued. Confidence and arrogance seeped from the man despite his youthful appearance. He stepped inside, hands behind his back, his eyes fixed on Wahid, both men unblinking. The door closed with a thud. Locks clicked back into place. The man didn’t say a word. Wahid didn’t move, but his curiosity bubbled away, even though he was also now wary. 

Something about this visit already felt different, wrong, even before the man glanced up to where one of the two CCTV cameras in the room was located. After a couple of seconds the little red light beneath the lenses flicked off. The lens shrivelled back inside its black plastic casing. The man switched his gaze to the other camera, which shut down too, before turning his attention to the four-foot-wide two-way mirror that took up most of one wall. In a flash the glare on the mirror noticeably reduced as the glass was blacked out from the other side. 

Wahid’s eyes narrowed. The man finally looked at Wahid once more. 

‘And now we can talk,’ he said. 

He slapped a newspaper down onto the table. A UK tabloid. Wahid first glanced at the date. Today’s paper. Then his eyes fell upon the headline – Muchas Gracias, España – and the grainy image that accompanied it. A grainy image of Wahid. Despite himself, he frowned. The reaction drew a smile from the man. 

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘You’re dead.’ 

Fifteen minutes passed. The man who’d introduced himself as Eric Neumayer was sitting opposite Wahid. Neumayer’s manner remained confident yet relaxed. Almost snide, with a plastered crooked half-smile. The man certainly wasn’t like any of the other visitors Wahid had had here, yet Wahid hadn’t said a single word since his arrival, despite his growing curiosity at the situation. Combined with his apparent authority – the switched-off cameras and the blacked-out glass – it was made clear to Wahid that Neumayer wanted to do the talking, not the other way round. 

‘Do you understand what I’m saying to you?’ Neumayer asked. 

Once again Wahid held his tongue. 

‘The whole world believes you’re dead now.’ 

Or so the headline said. Wahid, aka Ismail Obbadi, the infamous terrorist caught red-handed on Spanish soil by MI6 more than twelve months before, had been killed in a brawl at a maximum-security jail in southern Spain. 

‘The Spanish government have had enough of you. They don’t want to put you on trial, and neither does anyone else. They want rid of you. Within twenty-four hours you’ll be on a plane out of Europe for good. You’ll be sent directly to a black site. Zed site. Have you heard of that? I’m not kidding when I say it makes Guantanamo look like a luxury resort.’ 

Wahid’s mind whirred. Could the governments of Western European countries really be so corrupt and deceitful as to concoct such lies to their public? 

The answer was simple. Of course they could. 

‘I’m sure I don’t need to explain what will happen to you when you get there,’ Neumayer said. ‘The lengths we’re prepared to go to in order to get you to talk.’ 

‘We?’ Wahid said. 

That smile on Neumayer’s face rose slightly at Wahid’s decision to speak. He hadn’t yet stated who he worked for, even though it was pretty damn obvious. 

‘Does the accent not give it away?’ Neumayer said. 

MI6, Wahid would bet, but once again chose to say nothing. 

‘There’ll be no stop to the torture. Not until you tell them about your brother. And the others at the Farm.’ 

Wahid clenched his fists under the table. His brother, Talatashar, number thirteen, was still on the loose. Talatashar was the reason that many of Wahid’s brothers were now dead, and why Wahid himself would soon become a plaything of the British government. He could only hope the authorities never caught up with that vermin. He wanted his own people to get there first. 

Neumayer looked up to the two cameras which remained switched off. Wahid’s eyes narrowed again. He had so many questions for the man sitting in front of him, but he wouldn’t ask them. He couldn’t show any weakness. 

‘I’m not expecting you to open up to me here,’ Neumayer said. ‘And besides, to do so would be pointless.’ 

Neumayer paused as if for dramatic effect. 

‘But I do have a message for you, from the man I work for.’ 

Another pause. The crooked smile on Neumayer’s face dropped away. He squinted and leaned forward. 

‘Shadow Hand.’ 

The two words rattled in Wahid’s head. Two simple words that meant so much. Did Neumayer have any idea of the true nature of what he’d just said? 

That look on his face suggested he probably did. 

Then what was this? A threat? Or was it possible that Neumayer actually was an ally? That he was working for the same people as Wahid? 

Or was the threat, in fact, coming from his own people? 

Wahid had never talked in the twelve months of his captivity. Hadn’t given away a single piece of intelligence. But now the authorities were shipping him out of jail to a black site – perhaps he was nothing but a liability. Once a shining example of the capabilities of his people, Wahid – number one – was now simply a problem. 

Whatever the answer, it didn’t matter. Wahid knew what he had to do. 

Neumayer opened his mouth to speak again. 

Before a word passed his lips, Wahid roared, leaped up and hurled his whole body across the table. Neumayer twisted backward, trying to find a counter, but the element of surprise was enough to give Wahid the upper hand. The two men crashed to the ground. Neumayer was young and sprightly, but Wahid had been trained in close quarters combat since he was just a boy, and he’d always been top of the class at the Farm. 

Despite Neumayer’s attempts to gain ground in the scuffle, Wahid seamlessly wormed onto his back. Neumayer’s lean body was on top, the chain between Wahid’s cuffs wrapped around Neumayer’s throat. 

Wahid tugged and pulled on the chains, his body tensed, the muscles on his arms rippling and bulging. Neumayer gasped for air, jolted and bucked. He threw fists and elbows into Wahid’s side. 

An alarm blared. How did they know? Had they been watching all along, or had Neumayer somehow triggered the alert? 

Barely a second later the door burst open and two uniformed guards barrelled inside, weapons drawn, shouting instructions in a convoluted mess of Spanish and half-baked English. 

Neumayer screamed at the guards, as best he could with the metal crushing his throat. 

There was a loud pop as one of the guards fired his dart gun. A painful jab on Wahid’s thigh. Another pop. Another jab in his shoulder. A wave of numbness quickly spread across his limbs. He only had a few seconds before he was out cold. 

He tugged even harder on the chains. Wrapped the links around his wrist to shorten the flex further. The grip was now so tight the metal cut into his skin. Blood poured down his hands and arms. With one final effort, Wahid mustered all the strength he could and shouted out again with pure venom and hatred as he jerked sharply on the chains. There was a sickening crunch. Wahid didn’t know if he’d snapped the spine or crushed the windpipe. Maybe both. 

Neumayer’s body gave a final fateful shudder, then he went still. 

Wahid heaved a long sigh, his body slumped. His vision blurred before turning black. 

‘You have nothing to worry about,’ Aydin Torkal said to the man crumpled by his feet. ‘By tomorrow morning you’ll be at home with your family. No harm will come to you. As long as you do as I’ve said.’ 

The man didn’t respond. He couldn’t talk with the tape covering his mouth. Instead he huffed through his nostrils and glared defiantly into Aydin’s eyes. 

Aydin leaned forward and slowly pressed the needle into the man’s neck. He pushed down on the plunger. When all five millimetres of the liquid was inside the man’s bloodstream, Aydin pulled the needle out and placed the syringe into the clear plastic bag by his side. He sat for a few moments as the man slowly drifted off. When Aydin was sure he was unconscious, he pulled the balaclava off his head and placed that too in the plastic bag. He’d dispose of both later. 

He opened the van’s back doors, looked across the street. No one was in sight. 

Satisfied, he grabbed the backpack and stepped out into the glorious afternoon sunshine. 

A few hundred yards from where he’d left the van, Aydin walked along the coastal road with the rippling blue waters of the Mediterranean off to his left. On the opposite side was modern-day Alexandria, a sprawling urban mass with lofty apartment blocks and hotels rising up by the side of the road, that every now and then gave a glimpse of the city’s rich and spectacular ancient past. At the mouth of the eastern harbour in the near distance the Citadel of Qaitbay sat in pride of place, the fifteenth-century defensive fortress partly built from the ruins of the ancient wonder that the city was most famous for: the Lighthouse of Alexandria. Just like the lighthouse, Aydin had been broken into pieces, but after twelve months in the shadows, he was now back – a different beast altogether from the young man the world had come to know as Talatashar. 

He turned off the coastal road onto a wide paved street with a mishmash of run-down sandstone apartments and the occasional modern glass-rich office block. On a late Sunday afternoon the street was quiet. Across the tops of the buildings a call to prayer sounded out through loudspeakers from all directions. 

Aydin carried on past a glass-canopied entrance to a four-storey office block. A small plaque by the entrance noted the tenant of the building as Alexandria Technology Systems. ATS. Aydin turned into a narrow alley that ran alongside the building. He passed a line of over-spilling industrial waste bins, then stopped at an innocuous-looking metal-panelled door. There were no handles or visible locks. Just a small, discreet security pad attached to the wall. Aydin kept his head low as he came to a stop. The baseball cap, emblazoned with the logo of the security company the man in the van worked for, did its job of hiding his face from the camera he knew was located above his head. 

Aydin flipped the plastic case up from the security pad and pressed his thumb onto the sensor. After a second a green light flashed to show the silicon thumbprint stuck over his own had been accepted. 

Next, he input the six-digit code. A moment later the door hissed open an inch. Aydin pushed the door further open and stepped through. 

Inside, faint blue strip lights along the bottom edges of the corridor walls trailed into the distance, illuminating the passage like a runway. Aydin closed the door behind him and stayed on the spot for a few moments to allow his eyes to adjust to the dull light. 

He’d been inside the offices of ATS twice before, but only ever through the front entrance as an apparent customer. Having obtained and perused the blueprints for the three-year-old building at length, however, the space in front of him felt familiar. He looked at his watch. The time was approaching five thirty. He had until seven p.m. before the change of security for the night. The day guards would perform one last sweep before the end of their shifts, leaving their posts at roughly six forty-five. If all went to plan, Aydin would be back on the outside well before then. 

Happy that the corridor in front of him was clear, Aydin cautiously made his way along, once again keeping his head low so that the many cameras couldn’t make out his face. If one of the guards was watching the camera feeds, they’d see only the baseball cap and the uniform, and together with the name tag and Aydin’s size and frame, the guards would surely assume he was Hakim Mahi – the guard who lay unconscious in Aydin’s van, whose night shift started with the change of guard at seven. 

Aydin stopped outside a closed door. Unlike most of the others on the corridor, that led into meeting rooms and offices, this one wasn’t frosted glass, but solid. Mahi and the other guards didn’t have access to this space. 

Aydin looked left and right. Still nothing. He slipped the tablet from his backpack, attached the cable to the USB port, then carefully prised the keypad away from the wall to reveal the wires at the back. After attaching his cable into the maintenance port at the back of the keypad he fixed his eyes on the tablet screen as the software kicked into action and flashed through countless permutations for the eight-digit code to open the door. 

One digit after another the code was read. The hack would leave a clear digital footprint, but gaining physical access to this room was the only way to get to the servers inside. He’d tried every back door he could to remotely hack ATS’s systems, but had failed at every attempt. 

Aydin’s nerves continued to build as he waited. His eyes settled on the door further along the corridor that led to the large central foyer. He was sure he’d just seen a shadow moving across the frosted glass. One of the guards? 

His hand brushed down to the gun holstered on his hip. He didn’t want to use it, to hurt the guards, but he was prepared to do whatever it took. 

A clicking sound made him flinch. He quickly realised it was only the door unlocking. It had taken close to five minutes, but the riskiest part was over. Aydin pushed the door open, and packed the equipment back inside his bag. He refitted the keypad back on the wall as best he could, then stepped through into the black space beyond. 

He put on the night vision goggles he’d brought, then gave himself a few seconds to allow his eyes to properly adjust. When he was happy, he moved off down the metal staircase. He could relax now, if only a little. There were no cameras in the basement, and no one would be coming down here. Not tonight. 

At the bottom of the stairs Aydin continued through the cool corridor. The floor and walls were rough concrete, everything purely functional. At the end of the corridor was a single metal door. Another keypad. This one only needed a simple four-digit code. After all, not many people ever got this far. 

Less than two minutes later the door was open and Aydin moved inside, already fishing in his backpack for the equipment he needed to take a complete image of ATS’s most off-limits server drives. 

At six forty Aydin climbed the stairs. He only had five minutes to make himself scarce. The imaging had taken longer than expected, but now he had what he needed. The backpack over his shoulders felt as it had done before, yet he now had over two terabytes of data crammed onto the external drives he was carrying. Much of the data he’d stolen was likely encrypted, and getting through those layers of security would be an even tougher step than what he’d just been through, but at least he’d have time and privacy for it. Right now, he didn’t have either of those. He had to get out, and quick. 

He reached the top and the blue-lit corridor, heading back towards the exit. He was only a few yards away when there was a noise behind him. A door opening? One of the guards? It had to be. Completing his rounds early, most likely. 

‘Hey,’ the guard shouted out. Not a hostile shout, more one of greeting. ‘Hey, Hakim.’ 

Aydin almost smiled to himself. Would the simple subterfuge be enough to save him? 

‘Where you going?’ 

‘Cigarette,’ Aydin said, without turning round, and without breaking stride. 

‘You’re early.’ 

Aydin said nothing, just carried on walking. 

‘What’s in the backpack?’ the guard shouted out, the tone more neutral, almost questioning now. 

Not that Aydin believed the cover was completely blown. It was more likely the guard’s scepticism was for another reason – how could the lowly paid security guards not be tempted, given the nature of the data stored at ATS? 

Aydin stopped, his range of options narrowing by the second. The door to the outside was three yards away. He had to get there. 

Aydin spun and drew the Colt handgun from his hip. He fired. The warning shot sent the guard scuttling back into the room he’d come from. Aydin burst towards the door. Released the lock. Crashed out into the alley and moved into a sprint. 

The alarm sounded. 

Not only would the guards on duty be after him in a flash, but the call would no doubt go straight to the local police too. He had to get back to the van before they got to him. 

Aydin bounded to the end of the alley and skidded round the corner to head away from the front entrance of ATS. He heard the shouts behind him, but didn’t dare look back. He knew the guards were armed, but dodging between parked cars and the odd pedestrian, he seriously doubted they’d shoot unless they were absolutely sure. 

He took a quick left. Then a right. Then another left, and found himself edging into the old town, busy with tourists and locals heading out to cafes and restaurants. He barged his way through, deliberately aiming for and flattening a young couple. He needed the distraction. More shouts around him. But this time it was just the concerned yelps of pedestrians. 

Up ahead he spotted two uniformed police officers. One had a radio handset up to his mouth. He locked eyes with Aydin. 

‘Stop him!’ he shouted out. 

His colleague drew his gun. Aydin ducked and darted off to his right. No gunshots came. Two yards away was another alley. He burst into it and started sprinting, though he could already feel the build-up of lactic acid in his muscles. He was only a little over halfway back to the van, and there was no way he could continue at full pelt. 

The end of the alley neared. His muscles burned, he was losing pace. He risked a glance behind, saw a guard and the two police officers just turning in. They were a good ten seconds behind, but Aydin needed more. He fired another warning shot. The bullet ricocheted off a metal fire escape and caused all three of the men to falter and cower. 

Distracted, Aydin clattered into someone ahead of him, only spotting it was another policeman as the gun flew from his grip. The strap of his backpack snapped and the bag tumbled across the tarmac. Aydin landed on the cop, knocking the wind from him, and saving Aydin from more painful contact with the ground. It also meant, luckily, that there was barely a scuffle. Aydin craned his neck and crashed his forehead onto the top of the policeman’s nose. Blood spurted, and with the policeman dazed and fighting for breath, Aydin clambered back to his feet. 

Behind him, the three other men were quickly closing in. Aydin scooped up the gun and fired again. This time they returned fire and a bullet whizzed past Aydin’s ear. Time to step things up. Aydin took a fraction of a second to aim. The bullet sank into the thigh of the security guard, sending him crashing to the ground. Aydin grabbed his backpack and carried on running, only realising as his legs got going again that he’d badly twisted an ankle in the earlier fall. It wouldn’t stop him now. Finding every last ounce of energy and strength, he hobbled along as fast as he could. Took the next right, then a left – now well clear of the chasing pack. 

The van was right there. He threw open the back doors and climbed inside, caught in two minds. He could fire up the engine and speed away. But no. There was another option. He quickly rifled through the medical kit in the back. Hakim Mahi was still sleeping soundly. Not for long. Aydin snipped away the cable ties. Pulled the tape from his mouth. Grabbed the shot of adrenaline. Lifted the needle and slammed it down into Mahi’s heart. The guard jolted upright almost instantly, took a huge inhale of breath, his eyes bulging. Aydin didn’t give him a beat more than that. He kicked him out of the van. Mahi tumbled to the ground. Aydin grabbed the doors and was swinging them shut when the first of the policemen careered around the corner, gun drawn. He immediately spotted Mahi. 

‘Hands up!’ the policeman screamed. 

As he jumped from the back of the van into the driver’s seat, Aydin heard Mahi’s confused protests. The engine fired up on the first attempt and Aydin slammed the gear stick into first and thumped his foot onto the accelerator. The van lurched forward, only narrowly missing the parked car in front as Aydin shot out into the road. The police opened fire. Aydin ducked as bullets hammered into the back of the van. 

He swung the van round the first corner. Was soon into fourth gear as the needle swept beyond a hundred km/h on the cramped city streets. He took a series of lefts and rights, his eyes busy the whole time. 

After thirty seconds he realised there were no flashes of blue behind. None ahead either. He slowed the pace. Drove more measuredly for two minutes as he headed onto quieter streets. Finally he turned into the abandoned three-storey car park adjoining a derelict industrial area near the western harbour. He parked the van on the middle floor, stripped off the guard’s uniform and put on his own casual clothes. He put the uniform and the plastic bag with the other items he needed to dispose of into his backpack, then stepped out and jumped onto the motorbike he’d parked up earlier. 

Seconds later, he was outside again, casually riding the Yamaha along the coastal road, heading out of the city for good. Up ahead, the blood-red sun was setting in the distance, its edges merging at the horizon with the shimmering blue of the sea. 

Rachel Cox had commanded or overseen countless armed extractions and assaults in her time as a field agent for SIS – the British secret intelligence service, more commonly referred to as MI6. But never before had she taken control of such an exercise while sitting alone in a rusted-out 1980s Toyota Corolla. Was that called blending in, or something to do with the never-ending austerity back home? 

She had no visual of the upcoming raid, only a running commentary from the three-man assault team – known to her simply as Blue One, Blue Two and Blue Three – run through a minuscule wireless earpiece. The building that Blue Team was about to enter was fifty yards further up the run-down street in front of Cox – a small private compound in a semi-rural area on the outskirts of Kabul.