Chapter 1

Evening was rapidly approaching and the breeze off the Bosporus grew chill. The last call to evening prayers by the muezzin wavered over Istanbul as Michael and Kevi walked down the main thoroughfare and neared the large white building set with blue tiles.

Kevi knew the streets, and Kevi knew the rooftops. As a boy who grew up among the ramshackle slums built on top of the roofs of buildings in Istanbul, Kevi had managed to stay alive and even educate himself. Easily the best actor in the group, no doubt a survival mechanism left over from his youth, he could convince anyone of anything if he wished. He was also faster with a knife than Michael had ever seen, in Europe or the Far East. He seemed the perfect choice, Michael had thought, and his home was still in Istanbul, unlike the others who came in from several different countries when he had Marshall call for them. He had approached Kevi with the suggestion. Kevi had accepted. Michael now had a bodyguard.

"There's an opium den off the Askarnu red light district," Michael began.

"Oh, sure," Kevi interjected, "Kalil's."

Yes, he had picked the right man. "Yes, Kalil's. Carla gave me some intel I need to follow up on there."

"I'm your rear eyes," said Kevi as they headed toward the Askarnu. "Who's Carla?"

"An informant. At the Bebek Cabaret."

"I know that place," he looked at Michael curiously. "Never been in, though. Very classy. Always figured they'd throw me out."

"I doubt it," Michael said. They quit talking as they made the right turn off the thoroughfare and into the smaller side street leading to the Askarnu district.

Kevi didn't miss a thing from the rooftops to the doorways although he always managed to look almost languorous doing it. They made another right and entered the Askarnu. The hookers and their johns were already out even though the muezzins' calls to evening prayer still echoed in the early evening air. Kevi with his arms crossed as he walked, one hand slipped beneath his jacket to hold his pistol, followed along behind Michael. He looked like a man who was warding off the evening chill to any stranger, but the locals knew better. No one called out to Michael tonight, not men, not women. The two men passed silently through the district until they reached the door of the opium den and knocked.

Once again the guard outside Kalil's door stepped in front of Michael and demanded he hand over his arms. Once again Michael coldly eyed him and said simply, "No." The guard looked over Michael's shoulder at Kevi's lazy smile and back to Michael's icy gaze. It didn't take him a full minute to make the decision tonight. He had backed down from Michael alone, he certainly didn't get paid enough to take on he and that smiling sentry behind him. The guard had grown up in Istanbul; he knew dangerous when he saw it. He was there to disarm the lightweights who came in packing artillery and hoping to make a name for themselves. The serious players could look after themselves and give as good as they got. He stepped aside and they entered the den.

The holes in the wall had been patched, or perhaps re-patched, but not painted. Closer observation showed a number of plaster patches of differing color and age. The red glass lamp over the table had been repaired. Everything else was very much the same. The group tonight was a little larger, the money on the table in a few more countries' currencies than had been evident before. Kevi leaned lazily against the wall behind Michael and checked out the other body guards hanging out around the edges of the room. There were six tonight, weapons out, but held down at their sides. Kevi kept his right hand tucked under his jacket, hand on weapon, but elected not to draw it. His left hand hung loosely at his side, the stiletto up his sleeve not visible but available. He checked over the players carefully, and mentally matched which player went with which guard.

The conversation around the table seemed desultory, but a lot of information was being exchanged, and the money exchange on the table matched the information exchange, not the game. Protocol demanded that a player lose the amount the information he gathered was worth. The game was strictly for appearances sake, and it gave the players something innocuous to do with their hands. Not a bad idea with this group. The man next to Michael, a gaunt Asian with a sickle shaped scar on his chin, murmured something quietly and began to withdraw from the game. As he stood his hand moved behind Michael.

Michael saw him fall, face down, on the table in front of him with Kevi's knife sticking out of his back, another knife dropping to the floor from the dead man's hand as his grip relaxed. Michael's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked quickly to the side and saw one of the bodyguards holding his hands up in surrender, pistol still in hand. He pushed the body back into its former chair without comment. The bodyguard knelt and placed his gun on the floor, stood, and nodded at the body, asking permission.

"Take him," Kevi said, gun still leveled at the bodyguard. The bodyguard pulled the knife out of the body and dropped it on the table, then picked up his former employer in a fireman's carry and left the room. Kevi's gun followed him every inch of the way. Michael took the knife and wiped it on the table's edge. He snicked the button and when the blade retracted, slipped it into his pocket.

"Your turn," Michael said softly to the man on his left.

"I'll pass," came the reply with a slight smile.

Neither Kevi nor Michael spoke as they left the opium den, passed through the Askarnu district, and into the side street leading back to the main thoroughfare. They turned left at the tiled building and the street was suddenly packed with people, most returning home in the evening, running late, some headed out for the evening, running early.

"That was a treat," said Kevi, "What do you do to relax?"

"Snake charming."

"How is Cynara, by the way?"

Michael shot him a withering glance which had little to no effect on Kevi.

How was Cynara? Flourishing, Michael thought. She had just bought herself a new private jet which she had proudly shown him. "Ours," she had said. "We can go anywhere. Do anything we want. Nothing can stop us, Michael." It seemed "we" had become her favorite word. Michael, however, didn't feel like part of a "we". When he tried to pull away, she clung even tighter.

The words "snake charming" had slipped out because last night's nightmare was still preying on his mind. He dreamed he had been asleep back in Bangkok, the bed swathed in mosquito netting, a ceiling fan lazily beating its rounds overhead. He had rolled over and found a cobra curled up on the bed next to him, blinking its strange orange eyes, forked tongue flicking at him. He eased back away from it and got caught in the netting. He was short of breath, sweating. Had to get away. It slithered closer. Must get away. It wrapped itself around his body. He could feel its cool rancid breath. It was inches from his face. And then he woke, hanging off the edge of the bed, with Cynara's arms and legs wrapped around him. She had opened her strange orange eyes and asked, "What is it, Michael?"

He didn't need to be Freud to figure that one out. How was Cynara, indeed? She was just fine, thank you. Michael wasn't.

The next day, Michael called Conrad Beidecker, the Section One substation chief in Athens. When Beidecker answered, Michael said, "This is Michael." He could almost hear Beidecker cringe over the phone, his voice sounded so strained.

"What do you want?"

"Marina Cordera."

"What about her?"

"Everything."

"She had the Madrid substation. I've met her, of course, but don't know her well. She's been promoted to the primary station in Istanbul," Beidecker said. Michael waited. And waited. Finally Beidecker added, "She's been married, widowed, no children. Totally dedicated."

"You know more." It was a flat statement from Michael, not a question.

"A little, not much," admitted Beidecker. The silence over the phone line was spooky, and Beidecker closed his eyes and remembered Michael all too clearly. "Look. I really don't know much about her. She's very private. What I do know, or anything I can find out, I'll put in a pouch tonight and send to Florence. OK?"

"That would be fine." Michael hung up. This wasn't good. One unblemished station chief followed by a privacy-loving enigma.

He looked around the room and his eyes stopped at Kevi. He recalled when he had first recruited Kevi. Ned had hated him on sight. "f---ing pansy boy," Ned had snarled and slammed out of the room. They had worked together because Michael ordered it, but the tension had remained until the first time Ned found a knife being drawn across his throat. Kevi had peeled the assassin off Ned's back and slit the attacker's own throat before he could finish the job. Ned still carried the scar, but it stopped a ¼ inch from the jugular. Anyone who didn't like Kevi, now had to answer to Ned.

"Kevi," Michael said softly.

"Oui," Kevi turned his head from where he lay on the sofa to look at Michael.

"Could you please run this to the Bebek Cabaret for me?"

"Sure," Kevi said as he stood.

"Give it to Carla. It's intel I got from the opium den that she needs for a project she's working on for me," Michael said, handing an envelope to Kevi. "Tell her I'll send along more information soon."

After Kevi left, Michael took a last look at the raid outline they had canceled the prior week before burning it. Cynara had taken one look at the potential haul, and said, "Forget it. We'll never unload them."

She had been right. The weapons they had been about to lift were discontinued. They had a bore problem. Nothing that made them explode, but the damn things just couldn't shoot straight. The manufacturer was having enough trouble just unloading their back stock. They would probably have viewed the theft as a Godsend and called their insurance underwriter. Cynara knew weapons, and she knew weapons manufacturers. It had been a good call.

That wasn't what was causing the problems in the group. During the last five months, Cynara had gradually introduced a few of her own people into the organization. No one could complain of their skills, but no one liked them. What had begun as one cohesive group was now two. While none of the new men failed to follow Michael's or Marshall's orders, and presented respectful attitudes, no one missed the quick flick of their eyes to Cynara when they were given an order. It was obvious where their loyalties lay, and it wasn't with Michael, and it wasn't with his men.

The last two raids had also escalated the violence. All his men were accustomed to death. They knew how to kill and did it. Michael closed his eyes and ran a body count. Too many. At least six that could have been avoided. Kill when necessary. Do it fast. Do it clean, and move on. Those were the guidelines. These hadn't been necessary, a small amount of stealth could have avoided encountering the victims at all. Fast, yes. Clean, well, pretty much so. Unnecessary deaths attracted attention. It wasn't just messy, it was.....inefficient.

Before leaving his office for the evening, Michael ran quickly through the mail. He stood at the desk, reading rapidly, ready to leave. The last piece of mail was from his Swiss bank. He slit open the envelope and scanned the page. And froze. Six months ago he had set up an account for Nice`'s money and coded it "Pseuda". He had transferred to that account $111,111.11. It was a number that jumped off the page. If she found the account she could signal to him by transferring it back. Michael's account, coded "Pseudo", showed a deposit in the amount of $111,111.12. The last digit change proved to him that it wasn't some mystical bank correction. The wave of relief that washed through him left him physically weak and he sank back into his chair. She had found the account. She was alive, and at least well enough to respond. He ran his hand lightly across the page, needing to feel the numbers as well as see them to make them real. He phoned his banker and had a transfer made back to Pseuda's account, $111,111.13. Message received.

************

Chapter 2

Michael passed the bazaar's prayer bead stores and the bootleg designer label district, quickly working his way to the weapons district in response to Gaynard's call. Russians, Americans, Asians and South Americans crowded past him. Everyone wanted guns, he mused. It was a high demand market. He caught a drift of Thai, some Hmong dialect, a rush of Spanish, and some harsh staccato Berliner accent. He stopped at Gaynard's shop, still displaying its bolts of material, and stepped inside.

The shop keeper clearly remembered Michael. Without hesitation he said, "This way, sir," and motioned to the back room

Michael stepped past him and through the curtain. Gaynard was waiting. The fat balding little man either wore the same rumpled white linen suit or one so like it as made no difference.

"Michael," Gaynard held out his hand.

"Gaynard," Michael shook hands with him. "You called?"

"Have a seat,' Gaynard said, motioning to the chair opposite his own. "You said to let you know if I heard anything further about the Cem family."

"Yes."

"This is a little strange. I happened to have some morgue records fall into my hands," he hesitated and looked at Michael.

"These things happen."

"Just so. It seems Cynara's mother fell down a flight of stairs."

"And died?"

"Well, not exactly. That's what seems a bit strange. The records indicate she died in child birth 8 months later in Switzerland. Apparently she went into a coma and was taken there by her husband. She stayed in a coma during the entire pregnancy according to the notes on the records. Cynara stayed by her side the whole time. The note about her death is in the records, but no doctor's name, no details."

"Perhaps the records are in Switzerland? Which clinic?"

"No idea. That's one of the curious omissions."

"What happened to the child?"

"No idea."

"How long ago was this?"

"About 14 years ago." Gaynard did some mental math. "That would have made Cynara about 16 at the time. Must have been hard on her. There were rumors at the time that Ismail pushed his wife down the stairs. I told you that."

"Yes." Michael pictured Cynara waiting beside her comatose mother. Hard enough for a 16 year old without the possibility that her father had been the cause. "Thank you, Gaynard," he started to rise.

"There's one more thing," Gaynard said and Michael sat back down. "The father died from falling down the same flight of stairs about 5 years later."

Michael looked thoughtful. "When Cynara was 21?"

"Yes, and old enough to inherit." Gaynard and Michael exchanged a long thoughtful stare. Michael nodded and stood to leave.

"Thank you, Gaynard." They shook hands. "Anything you need?"

"Not at the moment. If there is, I'll let you know."

"You do that." As Michael reached the curtain hanging over the doorway, Gaynard called out to him.

"Be careful on the stairs, Michael."

Until he developed better intel on the local Section One station, Michael would have preferred to work in Europe. There he either had cover from Section by informants, or a total block out on their knowledge of his activities by way of his blackmailing Beidecker. Istanbul was a risk, even across the strait to Asia Minor was too close. He was a predator by nature, and as such, could instinctively tell when someone or something regarded him as prey. Section One was watching.

Cynara had presented a plan. Her uncle's own armament warehouse, fully restocked after the fiscal year had ended, was begging to be plundered. Family loyalty was not a big issue in the Cem family.

Michael glanced at his watch. The waiting was getting on every one's nerves. Malik and Stefanos were missing, naturally, since they were the ones bringing the diagrams from Cynara along with her men, but everyone else was packed into Michael's office. Ned was doing push ups on the floor again, his enormous biceps bulging, while Clarence and Hans practiced hand to hand skills that were starting to look like a real danger to Michael's decorating.

Jean-Louis, of course, was sound asleep on the sofa. Only Jean-Louis and Kevi seemed immune to the tension. Jean-Louis because he had ten children, with the end result that he could sleep anytime, anywhere. Apparently his wife got pregnant every time he went home. He watched Kevi rereading the local newspaper for the third time, laying on his back in the floor, feet braced against the wall, the paper held in the air above his face. Why nothing bothered Kevi, only Kevi knew. Kevi could get bored, however, and that was not usually a good thing.

Marshall sat in Michael's desk chair studying racing forms and calculating odds on the computer. They all had hotel rooms to wait in, but insisted on bunching together in Michael's office. The members of the group no longer scattered and waited for a call. They seemed more closely committed to one another, more tightly bound. They also seemed tense and insular.

Michael glanced briefly around the room and realized what was wrong. "Marshall, Dimitri's missing again."

Still with his eyes on the racing form in front of him, Marshall stood, leaned over and scribbled a note, saying, "I'll find him." He went off in search of Dimitri - first stop the telecommunications closet, second stop the electrical panel, third stop Michael's burglar alarm control panel. The panel door was open and Dimitri stood before it, smiling sweetly. Marshall placed his hand on Dimitri's shoulder. "Did you change anything, lad?"

Dimitri looked at Marshall, still smiling, "It's lovely."

"Did you change anything, lad?"

"No. I was just looking."

"Good lad, close the panel and come back to the office with me, eh? Michael has something for you to do."

"Sure." He closed the panel and happily followed Marshall back to the office. Marshall guided Dimitri up to Michael. "You wanted something, Michael?" Dimitri asked. Michael looked up, a little confused.

"I was just telling Dimitri that you had a project for him," Marshall explained. "He was busy checking to make sure your burglar alarm system was good." Michael didn't need to have Marshall draw him a picture.

"Yes. Dimitri." He stood and guided Dimitri to a supply closet which he unlocked. Inside were shelves filled with electrical components, telecommunications components, transistors, resistors, wire, clips, scopes, and the usual assortment of lethal weapons. Dimitri's eyes lit up. "I need you to design an alarm system you can't dismantle. Can you do that?"

"Sure, Michael. I can build any kind of alarm system. And I can dismantle anything." He started digging through the shelves and then stopped as he thought about it. "But if I can dismantle anything...."

"So you're saying you can't build one?" challenged Michael.

"Sure I can." He stopped thinking about the logic and went back to his first love as he dug through the boxes. "Hey, this is one of the new oscilloscopes!"

Michael returned to waiting, and Marshall returned to his racing form.

When Malik and Stefanos arrived they had Cynara and her men with them. Her men included two, Piotre and Marelius, whom neither Michael nor the group had met. Introductions were passed around, and everyone behaved. Everyone also counted. Cynara now had eight; Michael had eight. The odds were even. Michael noticed not only that, but that he had instinctively arrived at the fact that there were odds involved. After tonight, he resolved, something was going to change.

It did.

************

Chapter 3

As the six vehicles carrying the enlarged force pulled away, Michael swore softly under his breath. It looked like a damn troop movement. Too large, too obvious. He reached for his com unit to abort. Everything felt wrong. When he placed the ear piece in his ear, however, he heard one of Cynara's men speaking over it. "I'm in place, Cynara."

"Good," she replied. "Hold your position. We're on our way."

"Communications silence until I order otherwise," Michael snapped. The com unit went quiet. Cynara had sent one of her people in ahead on point. They were already committed. It was too late to abort. He turned the com unit off and called her names, none of them complimentary, in a very soft voice through eight different languages. He turned the unit back on.

"Cynara, where is your point man stationed?" he asked calmly.

She answered, and he repeated the position of her point man to all the men as though they hadn't heard her answer. Then he added, "Best if you don't shoot him, of course, but stick to the plan in any case. He's out of position. Anyone not following the plan is acceptable collateral." The point had been made.

Marshall rode shotgun in the van with Malik driving, Stefanos and Clarence in the back. When he heard the exchange over the com channel, Marshall closed his eyes and his lips moved. Malik glanced to the side and assumed Marshall was cussing the stupid cow out. He was wrong. Marshall was trying frantically to remember a prayer. He had never been particularly COE, but it couldn't hurt. This felt all wrong, and he knew Michael knew it too. Unlike Michael's plans, which always had a last minute abort option, Cynara had left them without a choice.

"Hand out extra clips," said Marshall over the comm unit. In each vehicle, a redistribution of ammunition began.

They parked on side streets near the warehouse, opened their respective trunks, and pulled out additional fire power in response to Marshall's order. Quickly they made their way in groups of two and three until the warehouse was in sight. The large stucco building occupied a half a block. It was three stories high. Streets bordered three sides, and an alley bordered the fourth. The alley side and the side opposite it had metal fire escapes. The front side had the main entrance, the rear had smaller entrances in addition to the loading docks. Only the second and third floor had windows on every side. Obvious from the window spacing was that the first floor was at least a floor and a half tall, comprising the main work area and warehouse.

It was very quiet. There were no guards.

"Merde," came softly over the comm unit as Marshall approached the front entrance. Cynara's point man was inside, supposedly having disconnected the alarm system. Michael eased forward dressed in night gear and triggered the dock doors in the rear. They slid quietly open. Marshall unlocked the front doors. Cynara opened the ones in the alley, and Piotre took the ones opposite her. They were inside.

It was still quiet. And there were still no guards.

"f---in' 'ell," came a whispered Cockney accent over the comm unit.

They all eased their way forward toward the center. Stacked in row upon row were crates labeled "AK47," "M16," "AT-2," and so on. Cem Armaments was manufacturing just about everything the law allowed. Michael paused by a row of crates and flashed a mini light over the markings, "C4". Perhaps a few things the law didn't allow inside the city limits. He pried open a crate.

Cynara saw a movement and raised her gun. Piotre. She lowered her pistol. Marshall stepped forward into their line of sight. They were all meeting in the center of the building and there was still no sign of life. The crate lid popped open and Michael looked inside. Empty.

"Abort!" he shouted.

Too late. Floodlights came on. Inside of the building, it was suddenly noon. Michael and all his men were trapped. Shooters appeared overhead in the windows of offices overhanging the main floor, in the stair wells, and from behind crates. It was a massive free fire zone.

"Shoot anything that moves, lads! And get your arses out of 'ere!"

Bullets flew over Michael's head as he flattened himself on the floor and rolled. He came up on his knees, crouched with an Uzi in each hand. The bullets ricocheted in rapid pings around the room sounding like a hailstorm. Anything over 3 feet off the ground was dead. Marshall crawled forward and pushed a crate in front of him as he went. Michael sprayed the upper region of the warehouse with fire and four shooters tilted and swan-dived to the floor.

Malik and Stefanos worked as a team and covered, rolled, fired, covered again until they worked their way to the stair case. A spray of automatic weapon fire poured down the stair well onto the main floor. Malik jerked a grenade off his belt, pulled the pin, and nodded to Stefanos. Stefanos nodded back and jumped forward in a tuck and roll, firing up the stairwell as he flew past the opening. Malik stepped forward and tossed the grenade up the stairwell. A spray of bullets cut him down, but not before he released the grenade. Stefanos crawled forward and grabbed the shoulder of Malik's flack jacket and pulled him out of range just as the grenade went off. Malik was rewarded with the sound of the explosion and a few screams, before he and Stefanos were covered with dust and debris.

Momentarily dazed, Stefanos slowly shook off the plaster dust and checked Malik. Losing consciousness, but alive. He worked his way out of the debris, but some of it had hit his head and he felt like he was clawing his way through molasses. It was taking too long. Much too long. A shadow fell across him and he looked up into a gun barrel. The gun fired twice.

A crate near Marshall began to inch its way across the floor. Marshall leveled his gun at it and then saw Clarence peer around the edge. They nodded to one another and began inching off, one to the left the other to the right. The crates were a mass of holes from dozens of bullets, but these weren't empty. They were full of AK47s. Even without ammunition, a crate of AK47s came in handy. They made a good barrier. Marshall's crate shivered and shook as it absorbed round after round, but he was closer to the exit. So was Clarence. Now where the hell were Malik, Stefanos, Dimitri, Ned, Kevi, Hans, and Jean-Louis?

He sent out a call over the comm unit, but either everyone was too busy to answer, or the comm units were out. He tried for Cynara.

"Just exiting the alley," she responded.

"Who's with you?" he asked. She rattled off some names. Three of her own people. None of his.

"Check the perimeter," he ordered. "Find out who else got out."

"Will do."

"Michael?" he asked. There was no answer. He eased further to the left, nearer the street side exit and saw the remains of the explosion Malik and Stefanos had set. He also saw Malik and Stefanos. "Son of a bitch."

Clarence pushed his crate forward as it absorbed shock after shock of gunfire. He could see the alley exit, but it was still too far away. He sprayed the top of row of crates near the exit for good measure and an automatic clattered down, followed by a body. He ran for it. Got halfway there. Searing pain raced through his back and chest as the impact propelled him forward. He fell. "Marsh..."

"Clarence?" Silence. "Clarence?"

Michael pried open another crate between rounds. They couldn't all be empty. It was just to damn much trouble to empty an entire warehouse. Another. Another. Finally. He found one that actually had C4 in it. He pulled slabs of the plastique out and hoped none of the bullets hit the crate. He eased around the edge of a fork lift and began stacking it with slabs of the explosive. He reached back for another slab and found himself grappling with another man. A solid kick in the side. He felt a rib crack and the next breath hurt. He dropped, pulling the man forward with him, giving instead of resisting, throwing the other off balance. His knee came up sharply and the other man flexed instinctively into a ball. Michael whirled around, grabbed his head, and snapped his neck. He went back to the plastique for more.

Another shooter rose from behind a crate, but as he started to fire, the man fell forward onto his face, a knife sticking out of his back. A blur of movement. Kevi rolled in next to him. "Thought you might need a body guard," he smiled. Michael let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Cover me."

"You're covered."

Michael worked his way forward with more plastique while Kevi rained hell on anyone near.

"I've got Jean-Louis," Cynara's voice came over the comm unit. "Injured, but alive."

"Ned? Dimitri? Hans?" asked Marshall.

"No sign of them."

But Ned was still alive and he was waiting. He saw Clarence go down, had been about to step forward and run for the door himself, when Clarence made his move. Ned froze in silence and waited. Whoever took out Clarence was still there. Finally someone moved cautiously forward. The man was so near him he could almost reach out and touch him. The shooter spoke into a comm unit. "Section, I have another down by the alley exit." The man listened to a response and started to turn, "Roger that." Ned shot him.

He snatched the comm unit from the body's ear as it fell and listened to a steady chatter of voice traffic. He put their comm unit in one ear, his own in the other. He muffled the Section comm piece and spoke into his own, "Marshall, this is Ned. Clarence is dead. I have one of their comm units. It's Section One we're fighting."

"Tell me any changes in movement," Marshall said, "And get your arse out of here. Save that comm unit and keep feeding us."

Ned did. And it helped. Marshall was able to avoid the next group and saw the door. "Dimitri? Hans? Kevi? Michael?"

"I'm here with Michael," said Kevi. "His comm unit is out."

"Hans here," came a voice with a guttural accent. "I yust" made it out. I'm in the front. Vere's Michael?"

"Find Cynara and join up," ordered Marshall as he stumbled across the bodies of three of Cynara's men. He fed the information to Cynara.

"Marshall, have you contacted Dimitri," asked Kevi, "Michael wants to know."

"Not yet. Malik and Stefanos are dead. So is Clarence. Hans and Jean-Louis are out of the building. Dimitri is still missing."

"Michael says get ready to run for it. He's going to create a diversion."

"Anytime he's ready. Dimitri, if you can 'ear me, get ready to run, lad," said Marshall. It was possible he was receiving but not sending.

Suddenly, alarms sprang to life all over the building. Clangs, hoots, wails. And the overhead lights began flashing on and off, on and off. Michael saw his chance. He started the forklift and pointed it to the side of the building where most of the remaining fire was originating. The forklift chugged its way slowly across the floor and crashed into a rack of crates. "Go! Now!," shouted Kevi over the comm link. Michael stepped out into the clear, covered by the sound and light show, and fired at the plastique.

He and Kevi dived for the dock doors, shooting their way through anything that moved. Behind them came a shudder, and then a racking explosion. It boiled out, out, out until they felt the flames licking their asses. They hit the loading dock and jumped, the shock wave catching them in mid-air and hurling them another 20 feet into the street.

They rolled, stunned, and both came up on their knees, guns to the ready, and pointed the wrong way. They corrected as Marshall's van peeled around the corner on two wheels and skidded. They jumped in before it quit moving. Michael snatched the comm link off Marshall's ear. "Dimitri? Answer."

"Dimitri here," said Dimitri speaking into Ned's com unit. "I could hear you, but you couldn't hear me. Did the alarms help?"

Michael leaned his forehead against the backrest of the front seat. "Yes, Dimitri. It helped. And the lights were a nice touch."

"I thought you'd like them."

"Everyone assemble back at the office," Michael said.

"Michael, not a good idea," came Ned's voice. "They were on to Cynara. The trap was set for her. She's been to the office. They might have followed her. I have one of their comm units."

Kevi quietly handed Michael a note with an address scribbled on it. "Go to this location," Michael said, and read off the address. He removed the comm unit. "Where is this, Kevi? Are we compromising a relative of yours?"

"No. I just rent the place."

When they all reached the location they did a rapid count. Michael had lost Malik, Stefanos, and Clarence. Cynara had lost four of hers. Jean-Louis and Hans were both injured. They were patched up as best could be done under the circumstances. They all had an assortment of bruises, cuts, and minor flesh wounds. They were exhausted. Completely drained. Everyone dropped where they stood and people slept in strange positions and combinations all over Kevi's little cottage. Only Michael and Ned struggled to stay awake, listening to Section One's comm link. Ned nodded and fought to keep his eyes open. Michael reached out and took the comm unit as Ned's head drooped onto his shoulder. Michael stayed awake, listening, until the unit suddenly went dead. Section knew it had been breached.

************

Chapter 4

"Michael? Michael?" He snapped awake and grabbed the hand shaking his shoulder.

"Aaa!" The moan escaped involuntarily as he moved, but he hung on. His other hand shot out and clasped Carla by the throat before her face registered and he let it go.

"Michael, I want you to sit up. Can you do that?"

"Oui." Carla slid her arm under him and helped him upright as he wrapped one of his own arms around his ribcage. She leaned him back against wall once he was in a sitting position.

"What are you doing here?"

"Kevi came and got me. I have some medical supplies. Not enough. Take off your shirt." She began helping him remove his shirt as he looked around the room at the bruised and battered assortment of men. One or two were starting to move, indications that they were awakening. "Wow," Carla said.

He looked down at his side, already turning black from the kick. "I got kicked."

"No kidding." She lightly ran her hand over his ribcage. His sharp intake of breath confirmed what she expected. "Broken ribs. I'll tape you up. There's not much else you can do for them anyway."

"Forget it. See if you can help Jean-Louis."

"That's where I started. I've been here most of the night. He needs to be in a hospital. The bullet is still in him."

"Hans?"

"Better." She finished taping his ribs. Kevi appeared out of the kitchen carrying a tray of cups and a pot of coffee. He lifted one foot and kicked the assortment of weapons off the coffee table and sat the tray down then brought Carla and Michael both a cup and squatted on the floor next to them.

Michael greedily drank the coffee down in one long gulp. "Another, s'il vous plait." Kevi retrieved the pot and brought it over. "Merci." The second cup went down slower.

The men were stirring now. All of them. Some began to sit up, responding to the smell of the fresh coffee. Carla made the rounds, checking bruises, cleaning cuts, applying bandages. Kevi poured coffee. They were starting to look human again. Carla knelt next to Piotre and reached for his bloody sleeve. "Get your hands off me, you..." His words cut off abruptly as Kevi's knife pressed the skin over his jugular vein.

"You were about to say, 'Thank you,' right?" whispered Kevi.

"Thank you,' said Piotre. Carla ignored the exchange and pulled off his jacket, then cut away the shirt sleeve with a pair of scissors. When she finished cleaning and bandaging Piotre's wound she returned to Michael who had gotten to his feet. Carla motioned him to the bedroom where they had put Jean-Louis and Hans.

Michael leaned over the bed. "Jean-Louis? M'entendez-vous?"

Jean-Louis' eye fluttered open. "Oui, Michel."

"Nous vous envoyons par avion dans une clinique en Suisse. Tenez bon."

"Oui, Michel." His eyes closed again. Michael walked to the other side of the bed. Hans was awake.

"Wie gehts?" asked Michael.

"Gut. Danke."

"Like hell." Michael examined Han's shoulder wound. Not nearly as bad as Jean-Louis, but definitely out of commission. At least the wound looked clean and appeared to be covered in an antibiotic salve, thanks to Carla. "You'll go with Jean-Louis," Michael said.

"I be fine."

"I know you will." Michael patted Han's good shoulder. "Keep an eye on Jean-Louis, eh?"

"OK, Michael. Vatever you vant."

As Michael and Carla returned to the main room, he said quietly to her, "You're a good nurse."

"I used to be. Still am, I suppose. You might be surprised to find how often it's needed running a night club."

"You were a nurse? Why did you leave it?"

"They didn't want me in a male nurse's uniform. They didn't want me in a female nurse's uniform." She shrugged. "I am what I am."

"Yes. Kind. Gentle. And intelligent. Whatever else you are," Michael said.

"And you are a gentleman, whatever else you are," Carla said as she left to join Kevi in the kitchen. Soon the smell of breakfast wafted through the little cottage. Marshall stood and followed his nose, but not before glancing at Michael, glaring down at Cynara who was doing lazy morning cat stretches on the sofa. If looks could kill, Cynara would have no longer been a problem.

"Is breakfast ready?" Cynara asked.

"Get up. Get the plane ready for take off."

She swung her legs around and sat up. "Where are we going?"

"WE aren't going anywhere. The plane will take Jean-Louis and Hans to a clinic in Switzerland."

"Why?"

"I'm going to assume you're not fully awake yet and didn't ask that question." He turned and walked into the kitchen. That brought her around quickly. She was alone in the room, everyone else except Jean-Louis and Hans were crowded into the kitchen. Emergency repairs were in order. She went into the bedroom to check on Jean-Louis. He was asleep, or unconscious. She slowly reached out and picked up the spare pillow. As she leaned over him with the pillow, she glanced up and caught Hans's hostile stare.

"He looks bad," she said to Hans. "I'll have him flown to a hospital. How are you feeling? Do you need anything?" She fluffed the pillow and tucked it in next to Jean-Louis.

"Nein." He seemed disinclined to add more, but watched her intently as she left the room. Once outside the bedroom, she headed for the kitchen. Better if they had both died. What a nuisance. When she squeezed into the kitchen it was to find a herself in mid-briefing.

"...and Ned will clear the area first. Make sure Section isn't aware of the plane before we send them in," Michael said. "Assuming they aren't, I want Jean-Louis and Hans out here yet this morning. Once the plane takes off, I want all of my people to disappear. You know how. Cynara and all her people will leave Istanbul today..."

"Michael?" Cynara started to interrupt.

"...and remain away until we can verify exactly who Section knows about and who they don't. None of her people are to go near the office. Cynara will stay away from her home and my apartment and go under cover. Dimitri, can you use the comm link Ned took off of Section to modify and scan for frequencies?"

"Sure, Michael."

"Do it before the plane leaves. I want you to disappear too."

"OK, Michael."

"Dismissed."

The group disbanded rapidly, most of them stopping to thank Carla on their way out, a few pointedly ignoring her. Soon only Kevi, Carla, Michael, and Cynara were left in the room. "Kevi, could you help me collect the cups?" asked Carla. Kevi followed her from the room, leaving Cynara and Michael alone.

Cynara stepped toward Michael, her arms out. "Darling..."

He stepped away, "Broken ribs, Cynara, careful." He turned his back and poured another cup of coffee. "The comm link established that Section set a trap for you and your men. We don't know yet if they know about mine. This is the best interim solution."

"How could they have found out?" she asked his back.

"A leak. Or maybe your uncle lured you in. Hopefully, we'll find out more soon."

She caressed his shoulders. They were rigid. "Won't you be coming with me?"

"No. Not yet. I have to gather intel. Find out how bad the damage is."

"Where will I go?"

He turned back to face her at last. The ice in his eyes was a slap in her face. Her obvious shock made him close them but when he reopened his eyes they were only slightly warmer. "I am not a happy man, Cynara. This isn't a good time to ask that."

"This is my home," she protested.

"You should have thought of that before you set up a raid in your own back yard."

"I'll stay at your home in Thessaloniki," she suggested.

"My home?"

"Nice`'s."

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I said 'NO'."

"Afraid I'll contaminate your precious sister's house?" It sounded just as nasty as she intended it.

"Cynara," he warned.

"I knew there was a little more to it than that. Was she as good in bed as I am?"

"Stop now."

"What? Better?" she challenged.

"Shut up." He turned his back on her again, walking away, putting physical space between them. "She was my sister. Let it alone."

"Well, we all know what close knit families are like, don't we?"

"Yours, perhaps," he said turning back to face her. She took two quick steps forward and slapped him. He caught her hand and held it until it went white. He caught the other one and pushed her back. "Get out now."

"Michael?"

"Enough, Cynara, enough." He looked suddenly tired, the flaming red hand print stood out on his cheek. "Leave before either of us says anything more."

"I'll let you know where I am."

"Fine."

"I'll see you again, right?" He was silent. "Michael? Let's not end like this. We've both lost friends. We're tired. You're injured."

She was right, of course. He was tired, angry, hurt, and grieving. Clarence had been the very first of his men that Marshall had picked up. He was the rock steady center of the group, never moody, never angry. He sounded weary when he answered, "OK, Cynara. You're right. Call me when you get settled. Be careful where you pick. Choose somewhere you're not associated with. You have the money to do it. Use it."

She slowly approached him and reached out her hand, stroking the bright hand print on his face. "I'm sorry, Michael."

"I'm sorry, too, Cynara. More than you know."

"Kiss me goodbye. I may not see you for a while."

He did. It was a gentle kiss, kind, not a passionate one, and she was left not being sure what to make of it.

He watched her leaving through the kitchen window. Mea culpa, he thought, mea culpa. You took a messed up woman and introduced her to organized crime. Well done, Michael.

He leaned on the counter and all the pieces starting falling into place. Click. 30, not 20. Click. She was 16 when her mother died, not 6. Click. Eight months in a mysterious clinic. Click. Daughter returns, mother doesn't. Click. Ismail killed his wife. Click. Cynara killed her father. Click. "We all know what close knit families are like." Click.

Cynara had a child somewhere who was now 14. The father was her own father. She killed him when she was old enough to inherit. Who really killed the mother? The father, or Cynara herself? Did it even matter?

At least they had kept it in the family. Michael had just turned her loose on the rest of the world.

Click.

************

Chapter 5

Cynara settled on the lake at Iannina, in a small lush agricultural valley. The valley was a green island held in the palm of the Pindhos Oros, the Pindus Mountains. During WWII it had been the termination of the German push from Thessaloniki across northern Greece, the point where they met with Mussolini's troops, trapping the Greek army between Iannina and the German forces in Albania. She had a nice villa, of course, but was bored beyond measure. Iannina was a fair sized city, but by her standards it was painfully provincial.

A few mysteries had been solved. Uncle Mustafa had indeed set her up. She shouldn't have been surprised. The company was running into financial trouble with her idiot cousin now involved in it. She had threatened to make a hostile takeover a few months earlier in a fit of pique and Mustafa had evidently taken her seriously. In all fairness, she acknowledged, he was right to do so. It looked as though the increasing violence of her raids had drawn Section One's attention, and he had cut a deal with them to bail himself out financially.

All of which said to her that they didn't associate Michael with her. Michael knew where she was, but hadn't called in almost a month. So where was he?

"The new man is here," Piotre said, interrupting her thoughts.

"Good. Send him in."

"..und I helped Marie sit on him. Now she vant me to leave," concluded Hans.

"I'm sure she does. I really only meant to look after him on the plane and at the clinic until you recovered. I didn't want him alone with Cynara's men. Moving in with him after he left the clinic was....above and beyond the call," Michael said.

"I go home now?"

"Yes, go home. Auf wiedersehen."

"Auf wiedersehen, Michael," Hans said as he hung up. Michael shook his head in disbelief. How could he have forgotten how literal minded Hans could be? An injured husband, 10 children, and an uninvited house guest for the last week. Jean-Louis' wife must have been ready to strangle Hans. He, at least, was fit for the field now, Jean-Louis wouldn't be for a couple of more months.

He walked over to the window and picked up the binoculars sitting next to it before he slightly parted the curtains and focused on the lakeside villa below. Another new arrival was being escorted into the house by Piotre. Cynara continued to gather new recruits. He had better start adding some of his own. Like it or not, he knew they were headed for more than a personal confrontation. He had even considered telling her he loved her, firming up their arrangement. He couldn't convince himself, however, that Cynara would stay under control, even if he were willing to go that far. And he wasn't.

He called Marshall. "She now has at least eight men, two of them I know. Mercenaries. We've run into them before."

"Names?"

"Janos, the South African. Pedrolito, the Cuban. Remember them?"

"Yes. We've got Hans, Kevi, Ned, Dimitri, me and you. Jean-Louis is out of commission for a while," Marshall said.

"We need at least four good men," Michael told him.

"Two I can get."

"She's getting restless."

"Go calm her down, Michael." Michael didn't like the idea, but it had merit.

"Find me four," he said. "I'll try to slow her down."

"Watch your back, Michael." They hung up.

"...arrangements for week from Friday," Cynara was saying to Piotre as the phone rang. "He should have the shipment ready to move by then." A maid picked up the phone.

"Name?" asked Piotre.

"Teodorus. Wouldn't give a last name, of course."

"The pass into Albania? The same we used last week?"

"That's the one," she replied and turned to snap at the maid who was attempting to catch her attention. "What?!"

"A Monsieur Michael," the maid said.

"Why didn't you say so?" Cynara asked, adding, "Stupid bitch." She took the phone. "Michael? Where are you?"

"Athens," he lied smoothly.

She rapidly became lost in the conversation and Piotre left the room in disgust. Jesus. She went to him like a cat to cream. He could ignore her for a month and then just snap his fingers. When this game is over, he thought, I'm never working for a woman again. Where did this leave them for the delivery?

Michael spent a week with Cynara. He couldn't take any more and keep up the pretense. She talked wildly about her plans and about a raid she had made the previous week. That explained the activity he had observed, but made him uneasy. Her conversation seemed more excited than the situation warranted, and her behavior was increasingly unpredictable, her laughter more hysterical, her temper more violent. She had beaten one of the maids while he was there, and it had been difficult not to step in and stop her. It would have been a mistake, though. The villa was her domain and anyone there who wasn't with her, was against her. By the time he left, there was no doubt in his mind that the raid in Istanbul had tripped the last control switch she had. She wasn't unstable. She was mad.

Michael strolled through the Athens airport terminal, his dark glasses hiding the hard surveillance he was running on everyone he passed. He stride looked casual. His eyes wouldn't have. He missed nothing. Stopping at a news stand, he picked up the local paper, dropping coins in the plate in front of him. He scanned the headlines, using the time to check behind him to verify that he wasn't being followed. Confident that he wasn't carrying a tail, he walked on to the little cafe on the second level, directly above the baggage check. Marshall, Ned, and Kevi were already there with two strangers, and he joined them. Greetings passed around the table and then Marshall introduced his two guests. "Michael, this is Koenig and Deborah."

"How do you do," Michael said, shaking their hands.

"I've worked with both. They're good. Koenig was with me in the Queen's own, he was. Deborah is the former Sabra I mentioned to you."

"Glad to have you both with us." Michael turned to Marshall, "Anyone seen Dimitri or Hans yet?"

"They're due in 10," said Kevi. "Same flight. Dimitri was in Berlin when you called."

"Good. We'll wait for them." It was more like 30 minutes, but when Dimitri and Hans showed up, they left for the hotel and the meeting started in earnest.

Michael described Cynara's location, the region around it, what he suspected, what he expected, and, finally, what he feared. He delivered the information in his usual precise, logical, and totally unemotional fashion. Koenig was impressed. Deborah was suspicious, and said so.

"I don't understand the question," said Michael.

"OK. Let me try it straight," said Deborah. "You been f---ing this chick and now you're going to try and stop her? Why should I buy off on this? She two-time you?"

If possible, Michael's eyes grew colder. No one breathed. The silence in the room was near deafening. "She is psychologically unstable. I believe, dangerous. She knows a great deal about our organization. She will turn on us. If we do not stop her before she does, we will be killed. Is that sufficient reason for you?"

"For you, maybe."

"She's a war lover, Deborah," interjected Marshall.

"Convince me it isn't personal," she said to Michael, ignoring Marshall. Michael knew that Marshall wanted Deborah in on the game. That meant she was good. He considered all the possible responses. Deborah and Michael had a staring contest. Interestingly enough, Deborah won it. Michael tried a novel approach. The truth.

"It is personal," said Michael. "But not the way you mean. I introduced her to organized crime. She loves it. Too much. I've produced a Frankenstein that needs to be stopped. You're right. That's sufficient reason for me, it may not be for you. You're free to leave." He looked around the room. "You all are. This is my fight, not yours." The room was silent for a full minute.

"I'm in," said Deborah. "Let's kick ass."

Her turn-around took them all by surprise and everyone but Michael laughed. Even he smiled. Koenig owed Marshall too much to consider stranding him, and the others had never considered leaving Michael to fight Cynara on his own.

"I have a suggestion," Deborah said.

"Let's hear it," said Michael.

"She knows your men. None of her people know me. How about if I sign on with Cynara and get on the inside?"

Michael looked at her thoughtfully and considered the idea. It had merit. He looked Deborah over for the first time for her general appearance instead of her potential fighting skills. She was average height, slender and muscled. Her hair was a sun-bleached medium blonde. She had gray eyes and freckles. She carried a few scars, they all did, but basically she was an attractive woman, though not a beautiful one. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not ugly. Attractive, in fact. She might view you as competition."

"How about me?" Koenig asked.

Michael nodded. "OK. Let's do it."

Koenig was in play before the week ended. His resume would have gotten him hired anywhere as a mercenary. Cynara was happy to sign him on. In small groups Michael's people infiltrated Iannina. The entire group was at Michael's hide out when Koenig hit the panic button two nights later.

************

Chapter 6

"She was double-crossed by some armaments dealer named Teodorus. She's going after him. Michael was right. This is one crazy bitch, Marshall," Koenig said.

"Where are they headed?"

"Christ if I know. I can't get jack s--- out of Piotre, and frankly, I'm afraid to ask her. One of the guys questioned whether we ought to go after Teodorus or not, and she stabbed him on the spot."

"Questioning orders. Can't really blame her for that," Marshall said.

"20 times? The guy leaked like a sieve when she was done with him. But that's not the creepy part."

"OK. That's over the top. What's creepy?"

"She was laughing all the time," Koenig said in a whisper. Marshall's skin crawled.

"Watch your back. I'll tell Michael. Carry a tracker."

"Can't. They scan everyone before they leave. They'd find it."

"Bloody 'ell. Get in touch as soon as you can." Koenig hung up abruptly. Marshall conveyed the information to Michael.

"Gear up," Michael said. "Let's get mobile."

While the others were getting ready, Michael made some quick calls to try and track down Teodorus, the armaments dealer. The intel he got back said Teodorus lived on a farm up in the foothills, east of the city. They packed the Rovers and headed that direction. They reached the general vicinity of Teodorus' farm and parked. There was a small village nearby. Dimitri with his innocent angelic face was selected to find out the location.

"Don't wreck it, lad," Marshal said as he handed the keys to one of the two Rovers to Dimitri.

"I won't, Marshall, I'll be very careful."

Dimitri stopped at the local general store and inquired. What he discovered was that there were two men named Teodorus living in the area. One was the armaments dealer, the other a former resistance fighter and respected local farmer. Dimitri took the directions down to the armaments dealer and returned to Michael's group, waiting in a laurel grove, just off the road outside of town.

The Rovers stopped under cover of brush and the group piled out, surrounding the farmhouse. There were two guards. Deborah walked casually up to one of them. "Hey, Sailor, been out of port for long?" The confused man said something in Greek just as Deborah cold cocked him. He went down for the count. The other guard turned to help but Ned stepped out of a shadow and hammered him with a powerful fist.

Teodorus the Armorer looked up at the man entering his home. A tall man with longish hair wearing all black. "What do you want?" he asked in Greek. Michael answered in the same language, holding a gun on him. A half hour later, Michael and everyone else was convinced that they had the right man. The question was, where was Cynara?

"Maybe she went to the other one," said Dimitri.

"What other one?" asked Michael.

"The other Teodorus."

"What other Teodorus?"

"I don't know. The man at the store said there were two, but you wanted this one so he's the one I got the directions to," said Dimitri.

Marshall's cell phone rang. As soon as he flipped it on he heard Koenig.

"For God's sake get over here. Marshall you gotta get here now."

"Koenig? Where the hell are you?"

"Some farmer named Teodorus. You gotta get here, Marshall. You wouldn't believe.."

"Calm down, Koenig. Take it a piece at a time."

"We got to Teodorus's place. I think it's the wrong man. Cynara's gone nuts. She's torturing them. Turns my stomach. I couldn't get away to call you. I couldn't stop them. Too many of them. Marshall, you gotta help."

"Where are you now?" The group had gathered around Marshall. Michael brought his ear close to Marshall's to listen.

"Outside. I finally said I heard a noise and went out to check. I found the phone in one of the cars. Hurry, please, Marshall."

Michael turned to Teodorus the Armorer. "Where does the other Teodorus live?" he asked.

"Why should I tell you?" snarled the man.

Michael grabbed him around the throat with one hand and lifted him off the ground, slamming him into the wall. He shoved his pistol to Teodorus's nose. "Because if you don't, I'll shoot you right now." Michael's icy eyes were inches from Teodorus's. He gave Michael directions.

On the way to the Rovers, Marshall advised everyone. "Koenig has a strong stomach. Be ready for anything. I've never heard him that upset."

The Rovers hauled over the rough country road without lights. When they neared the farm, they could see lights on and three men in the yard. They parked and filtered into the area, hiding behind rocks and trees until they were within feet of the yard. Everyone drew weapons. They were tense and ready. The comm link was silent. They sat in the shadows until Michael was sure everyone was in position.

"Now," he said. Two soft "phhhts" of silenced weapons later, only Koenig stood in the yard alone. They quietly stepped forward to join him.

He and Michael walked to the front door of the cabin. They tried not to hear the sounds coming from within. The others followed them, a tight group steeling themselves for what lay on the other side of the door. Koenig walked in first. Cynara and her men expected to see him and weren't surprised. Michael and the others were in the room before they realized what had happened.

It was a red room. Their feet made squishing sounds on the rug as they walked. The flames in the fireplace burned high, heating the metal pokers which lay with their tips in the flames. Michael refused to look down at what lay on the floor before him. He locked his eyes onto Cynara. She held a hot poker in one hand, a gun in the other.

Two lines formed in the cabin. On one side of the room stood Cynara and her men. On the other stood Michael and his people. Everyone had their weapons out. If anyone fired, no one would survive. One of the things in the floor moved and moaned. Michael didn't look at it. None of his people did. They each picked a target and focused.

Michael's group were eight: Koenig, Deborah, Ned, Kevi, Dimitri, Hans, Marshall and himself. Cynara had ten counting herself. Janos, the South African looked at Michael and Marshall. "Hello, Michael, Marshall."

"You're on the wrong side, Janos," Michael said.

"Ya. I agree. May I change sides? This isn't what I hired on for," he said pointing at the floor. "I'm a fighter, not a torturer."

"Step over," Michael said. He did, and turned his gun back onto Cynara's men. And now it was nine and nine.

"Michael," said Pedrolito. "I want no part of this. This wasn't what I was hired for either."

"Step over," Michael said again. Pedrolito joined them. And the odds went to ten to eight.

Piotre cleared his throat. "Forget it," Michael said.

"Michael," Cynara began.

"You disgust me. Get out."

"I can..."

"Get out or die. Now." His eyes were still locked on hers and his contained nothing but cold revulsion. Her people began to back toward the door. Soon only she and Piotre were left but they stood next to the door and backed through it. Michael's group followed them out to their cars, each still aiming at his selected target. As they got into their vehicles, Michael lowered his gun and watched. Just before she entered her Mercedes, Cynara stopped and looked across the hood at Michael.

"I'm going to kill you," she said.

He raised his gun and fired, but Piotre knocked her aside and the shot missed it's mark. They jumped in the car and left. Michael turned back to the house and went in. The others waited outside, dreading re-entering the hell they had seen. Michael went to the moaning man, semi-conscious on the floor near the door. His legs were irretrievably smashed. His face covered with burns from the pokers. He was alive, but long past crying.

Michael rose and walked to the bloody masses near the fireplace. One was dead. Dear God. The other wasn't. He reached out and took it's gory head in his hands and snapped it's neck. He returned to the doorway. "Someone get this man out of here. The other's are gone." Several stepped forward and between them arranged a way to pick Teodorus up. Gently as they could, they lifted him. He passed out anyway. "Good," Michael said. "Don't bring him around."

He walked to the wash stand and poured water over his hands, rinsing away the blood. Looking around the cabin, keeping his eyes at shoulder lever, refusing to look at the floor again, he saw an old wedding picture on the mantel. He took his coat off and lay it on the table. He took the picture off the mantle and lay it on his coat. Marshall joined him.

"What are we doing?"

"Souvenirs. If he survives."

Between he and Marshall they filled Michael's coat with pictures, school papers, a few books. It was a simple cabin. There wasn't much. Michael carried the coat, now a knapsack, to the Rover and put it in the back with Teodorus and returned to the house. "Take him to the clinic in Athens. You know the one," he instructed Kevi. "Go with him," he told Deborah.

"Is there anywhere closer?" Deborah asked.

"Not that will keep their mouths shut."

"He may not make it."

"He may not." Michael returned to the house. Marshall was wrapping one of the bodies in blankets. Michael took the other.

"This one was a woman," Marshall said.

"This one wasn't," said Michael wrapping the body whose neck he had broken. "Young. Teenager."

They carried the bodies outside and lay them on the ground. Michael found a shovel and began to dig. The others soon helped. No one commented when one of them left from time to time to throw up in the bushes.

When they finished burying the bodies, they piled rocks on top of the graves. Then Michael did something strange. He started to dig again.

"Michael, are you OK?" asked Marshall.

"One more," Michael said. "In case she comes back." They dug another grave and threw bloody blankets into it. Covered it, too, with rock, and put a cross over each.

Michael torched the house. They all stood and watched in silence until it burned to the ground.

Ashes to ashes.

************

Chapter 7

Michael walked slowly across the yard, his noiseless steps like the passing of a ghost. Clouds crossed the face of the moon and threw strange shapes that skittered out of reach. The ashes were cold, but the smell of burning wood still hung heavily on the night air. Silence rushed around him and ran before him, swallowing the sounds the night makes when no one is listening.

He stood alone beside the graves, facing the burned remains of the house, the moon behind his back. Cast before him across the graves was a dark monster image of himself. The night breeze caught at his long coat and it billowed out. The monster grew, dark wings spreading from its sides, like a black and deadly angel.

How many Michaels had he been? The lonely little boy. The adoring brother. The cocky teenager, quick to fight. The youthful idealist, smuggling arms for a worthy cause. The killer. The prisoner. The smuggler. The blackmailer. The spy.

How had it come about that this was the only Michael left? Michael looked into the face of the monster and knew it for himself. If this is what I am, this is what I will use.

He opened his arms and invited the monster in. The black coldness entered his soul and heart. The other Michaels faded from his view.

He left the graves behind and took the monster with him.

************

Chapter 8

There was a war in the Mediterranean. It was fought in back alleys, over rooftops, and along water fronts. Never officially declared, it nevertheless had the attention of every law enforcement agency in the region. The participants hunted in packs, hunted solitary, regrouped, recruited, and hunted again. Battle followed battle.

Between each one, Michael returned to Athens to visit Teodorus. Teodorus would live, though he did not wish to with his wife and grandson murdered. Teodorus swore and refused to talk to him. Another battle. Bodies were left in the warehouse district of Athens, riddled with bullets. Michael returned to Athens. Teodorus begged Michael to kill him. Another battle. Bodies appeared in a tugboat, floating in the harbor of Istanbul, sliced to ribbons with knives. Michael returned to Athens. Teodorus began to listen. Another battle. A body was left in a park in Florence. None of the bodies were ever identified by the authorities.

The enormous strength inside Teodorus began to reassert itself despite him. His thick neck, broad shoulders, and bulging arms bespoke a man who had survived much, and would live to survive more. His steely shock of unruly hair was grayer, the healing scars still bright red on his lined and worldly face.

"Take over my network," Michael asked again.

"I want nothing to do with all this killing. I've seen too much, lost too much," Teodorus said.

"You ran a resistance movement. I know all about you. You're the right one. No armaments, just the intelligence network."

"No."

"I'll be back," Michael promised.

Bullets zipped overhead and ricocheted off the wall behind he and Dimitri. Michael fired again. The shooter went down. There was silence. "Got him," Michael said, and slowly stood and advanced to verify his kill. "One more down, Dimitri," he said, turning. But Dimitri wasn't there. Michael stripped the ID off the corpse and ran back to Dimitri. He lay on his back, gasping.

"Hold on, Dimitri." He raised Dimitri's head, shifting him so that Dimitri leaned against his shoulder.

"I'll be OK, Michael. I just need to catch my breath."

"Sure you will. I'll get you to a doctor." The gaping hole in his chest told Michael they would never reach a doctor in time.

"I've got it, Michael."

"Got what, Dimitri?" He smoothed the pale blonde hair back from Dimitri's angelic face.

"I know how to build it. I just realized. I can build an alarm I can't dismantle."

"That's good, Dimitri. That's very good."

"I can do it," he smiled.

"I know you can, Dimitri. I never doubted you." Dimitri's eyes glazed as the life left them.

Michael returned to Athens. He picked Teodorus up and carried him to the car. Seated him, strapped him in, put the wheelchair in the back, and drove him to the graves. They sat in silence, until Teodorus turned the chair and rolled over to look at the foundations. "I built this house, you know."

"No. I didn't know."

"With my own hands, Maria and I."

"I wouldn't have burned it had I known that," Michael said.

"Better this way. I could never have entered it again. Wouldn't have wanted anyone else to."

Michael turned and walked back to the graves, leaving Teodorus with his memories. After a time, Teodorus looked over his shoulder at Michael and saw a single shimmer on one of Michael's cheeks, reflecting the afternoon sun. He looked away. "Michael," he called out.

"Yes, Teodorus." Michael returned to his side, his voice calm, his face impassive.

"I'm ready to leave now." Michael wheeled him back to the car. When they pulled away, Teodorus said, "I'll do it."

"Good," said Michael. "Very good."

Michael and Deborah crouched beside a small white fishing boat moored in the harbor of the village. Thunk. A hole chopped into the boat next to Michael's head. He returned fire while Deborah chambered another clip. A hot line creased Michael's calf. "Merde." He fired again.

Beyond a role a rope about ten feet away, Ned and Kevi were pinned down. They fired blindly from where they hid, but couldn't get a good line of sight without exposing themselves.

"Cover me," hissed Deborah. Michael pulled out his second gun and began firing both in sequence. Deborah rolled backward and scrambled up a rope, dropping into the boat. She inched her way across the deck and peered through an opening. Sighted, began firing.

The other side realized they now had fire from two directions and shifted their position. Kevi saw an opening. He moved, diving for a barrel on the landing. A bullet got there first.

"Kevi!!!" screamed Ned. He stood, fully exposed, and ran toward the shooters, his massive body absorbing bullet after bullet. He was a dead man, but still running. Michael and Deborah, aghast, both stood where they were and provided all the cover they could. Ned reached one of the assailants. He wrapped one big hand around the shooter's neck, and grabbed his crotch with the other. Lifted him, high overhead. And then brought him down across his knee before he collapsed. Over the gunfire, over the shouts, Michael and Deborah could hear the shooter's back break. The others threw down their weapons. Deborah and Michael killed them anyway, without thought, without hesitation.

Michael walked past the two bouncers at the top of the stairs leading down to the entrance to the Bebek Cabaret. He paused at the door, took a deep breath, and entered. The bouncers inside nodded a greeting to the familiar visitor and then did a double take when they looked at his face. He ignored them, his eyes searching out Table Two. Carla sat there, chatting with Monique. She saw Michael, a slight smile touched her lips, she looked over his shoulder for someone who wasn't there. Her eyes returned to meet his. They looked at one another across the room and Carla paled, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she slid gracefully to the floor.

Michael crossed the room quickly, but Monique already had Carla sitting beside her on the floor, cuddled against her shoulder. Michael knelt and looked at Monique across Carla's unconscious form. "Kevi is dead," he said needlessly. "I'm so sorry." Monique moaned and began to rock Carla, back and forth, back and forth.

"Just leave, Michael," Monique said in a natural baritone. "Please, just leave." She continued rocking Carla. Michael left.

Marshall insisted again, "I'll join you Michael."

"No, Marshall, this is a one man job. Trust me."

"You're sure you can take her out?"

"Yes. My intel says she and the remains of her group are outside Thessaloniki. I know where she is. I know when she plans to take off."

"She still has three men left. And Piotre," cautioned Marshall.

"Piotre won't be with her."

"Bought him out, did you?"

"Temporarily. He won't stay bought. That kind doesn't."

"Not long," Marshall agreed.

"When is Fascination due?" Michael asked, changing the subject.

"Next week."

"Heather is anxious?"

"You'd think she was 'aving the foal 'erself. We 'ad Fascination sonared. It'll be a stallion, like Thor."

"May the wind be ever at his back," Michael said. There was silence.

"I'll not see you again, will I?" Marshall finally asked.

"Probably not." There was more silence.

"You're a better man than you think you are, lad." Michael did not respond and Marshall finally said, "Goodbye, Michael."

"Goodbye, Marshall."

Cynara got off the plane. It had been ready to depart but Piotre was still missing. She was moving her entire group to Izmir, her new base of operations. Michael was in for a surprise. She had four new men. The plane was full. "When I get my hands on that son of a bitch," she snarled, "he'll wish he'd never been born."

"Cynara," one of her men called out.

"What?!"

"Should we wait?"

"No. Go ahead and leave. Get the compound set up in Izmir," she said. "Send the plane back for me. I'm going to find Piotre."

************

Epilogue/End

He stopped the car long enough to look down at Nice`'s home, nestled below the cliff, and gaze out across the Thermaíkós Kólpos, it's black thumbprint etched into the city's night time lights. Then he drove on, making the sharp curves that wound around the top of the mountain leading to the valley on the other side. He reached a place where the road widened. Beyond the road was a small open field. He drove the black Jaquar slowly over the rocky, tilled soil and parked. Beneath him lay the valley, the runway lights of the small private airfield there striping the land in lines of green and white.

He got out and pulled a portable radar unit with transponder decoder from the back seat and set it on the hood. Flipped the switch. Dots appeared on the radial, with numbers beside them. There was heavy air traffic around Thessaloniki. Michael found the one he sought. The transponder number was lit but stationary. Cynara's plane was still on the ground.

He returned to the back seat and took out a Stinger, a shoulder mounted ground to air missle launcher and loaded it. He carried it back to the front of the car and seated himself on the hood, feet braced on the bumper and watched the radar as Cynara's plane began to move.

He pulled out his cell phone and placed a call to Section One. When Beidecker answered, he said, "This is Michael."

"What do you want?"

"I am preparing to launch a ground to air missile to take down a small private jet." He described his exact location.

"What do you expect me to do?" asked the astonished Beidecker.

"I expect you to do your job." Michael said, and hung up.

The plane took off and Michael lined up his sites. As the small plane banked to make its turn toward Izmir, Michael fired. The hiss of the launcher preceded the streak of light soaring up, up until it found it's mark. The sound of the explosion was very faint, almost inaudible. Glittering pieces of aircraft and flaming residue drifted quietly to the earth. Michael sat the launcher on the hood and turned off the radar unit. He removed his shoulder holster and placed it next to the launcher, then his back up gun, then his stiletto. He walked away from the car and stood in the middle of the field. And waited.

There was no moon.

Eventually he heard gravel crunch behind him. A twig snapped on the left. Ahead of him came a rustle of brush movement.

If Section One captured him, he and the monster would work to stop the Cynaras and the Michaels. That would be fine.

They might simply kill him.

And that would be fine, too.

He placed his hands on his head and waited in the darkness.

And he cast no shadow at all.

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