Chapter Twenty-Nine
Istanbul Airport
Arnavutkoy District, Turkey
Caspian looked out the van’s side window. The airport was surrounded by a thirteen-foot-tall metal fence topped with razor wire. He checked the map again.
“There’s a large fuel farm on the west side of the airport. Keep driving north on this road, you should see it soon,” he said. “Let me know when you do.”
Caspian moved to the back of the van and opened the cabinets and storage bins as the van continued to bump along the cracked pavement.
The bins and cabinets were filled with socket sets, jumper cables, spray cans of lubricant, and several other tools useless to him.
But in one of the compartments, he found what he had been looking for. An industrial-size bolt cutter.
“I’m at the south end of the fuel farm,” Liesel said.
He returned to the passenger seat, bolt cutter in hand.
“Keep the fuel depot to our right,” he said. “There’s gonna be a wooded area to our left very soon. That’s where we’ll make our exit.”
“Right there,” Caspian said a moment later, pointing a finger to a specific spot along the fence.
Liesel pulled the van to a stop, keeping about four feet between the fence and the vehicle.
Caspian grabbed the bolt cutter and climbed out of the van.
Using the van as cover, he slid the bolt cutter around the first link at the bottom of the fence and applied pressure.
The blades bit into the metal with a crunch.
It took him just over two minutes to cut a small access hole large enough for him and Liesel to squeeze through without getting shredded by the sharp ends of the metal.
He looked up at Liesel, who was still behind the wheel of the idling van, and gestured for her to lower the window.
“I’ll cross over,” he said. “Once I’m there, I want you to park the van real close to the fence. Make sure the side sliding door is aligned with the opening I made. And bring the keys.”
She gave him a thumbs-up. Caspian pulled back the cut section of the fence, bending it against itself to widen the opening.
He slipped through first as Liesel maneuvered the van into position.
Caspian stripped off his coveralls and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants.
Two minutes later, Liesel, also out of her uniform, climbed out the side door.
Caspian held the fence open, and Liesel stepped directly from the van to the other side.
Caspian tossed his coveralls inside the van.
“Let’s go,” he said to Liesel as she slid the door shut.
As he’d seen on Google Maps, there was a strip of dense brush and trees that separated the airport property from the beginning of an agricultural zone. From where he stood, Caspian could make out wide patches of farmland and a few irrigation ditches, but no buildings.
“There are buildings about half a mile west,” Caspian said. “With luck, we’ll be able to get ourselves a vehicle.”
Liesel pointed to a shallow depression in the field.
“Natural cover,” she said. “And it’s heading west.”
The terrain was rough and uneven, but they were making good time. Every few strides, Caspian glanced over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being followed.
“You still have the keys?” he asked.
“You want me to toss them?”
“Yep.”
Liesel threw the van’s keys into the air, sending them sailing deep into a section of tall grass to their left.
With the van blocking the hole and the keys gone, any would-be pursuers would either have to waste time cutting a fresh breach or race back to a gate, both of which would buy him and Liesel precious minutes.
They continued to push forward until they reached a low rise where Caspian dropped to one knee.
He motioned for Liesel to do the same, then scanned the area carefully.
Ahead of them, scattered along a dirt road, were several modest farmhouses.
Four of them had a detached garage tucked behind them.
“I see a lot of rusting tractors and battered pickup trucks,” Liesel said, “but by the look of them, I’m not sure they’ll be of any use to us.”
Caspian didn’t disagree.
A dog barked in the distance, and Caspian tensed. He watched for movement, his hand going to his pistol. “You see it?” he asked.
“I heard it. Hopefully it’s chained up,” Liesel replied.
He spent another minute studying the arrangement of the buildings, noting the distance between them and the main road. None of the properties had heavy fencing, just low stone walls or basic wire stretches that were designed more to keep livestock in than people out.
“You think any of these folks keep their daily drivers in their garages?” Liesel asked.
“Hard to tell, but if they do, I’m hoping they left the keys in the ignition,” he said.
“Old habits die hard in places like this,” Liesel said. “So, we might have a shot.”
Caspian gazed toward a slightly more isolated farmhouse near the end of the dirt road.
A garage sat detached from the house. It was a small concrete structure, and dark green mold had long ago taken hold on the roof tiles.
The garage’s main door was closed, and so was its side door, but there were no visible locks.
More importantly, Caspian saw no evidence of security cameras.
A dirt driveway ran from the road to the garage.
Parked outside in the grass, and just off the driveway, was a blue tractor. Its two rear tires were half deflated.
“Should we start with this one?” Caspian asked, pointing to the farmhouse.
“Lead the way,” Liesel replied.
Caspian approached the garage first, his pistol in the low-ready position, while Liesel hung back to provide cover. He tested the handle to the side door. It was unlocked. He eased it open, wincing as the hinges groaned.
He stepped inside. The air was heavy with the smell of motor oil and warm metal.
The odors brought Caspian back decades, and for a moment, he wasn’t breaking into an old, run-down garage in Turkey, looking to steal a car .
. . no, he was twelve years old again and stepping into his father’s garage after a Sunday afternoon spent playing in the woods with his friends.
In front of him, his dad was under the hood of the ’65 Stingray he loved so much, humming to the Stones with his sleeves rolled up and grease on his hands.
Caspian blinked and pushed the thought away.
The garage was cluttered but not abandoned.
Tools were scattered across a workbench on the back wall, and a red jerry can was in one of the corners next to a stack of firewood.
An old Fiat Regata sat lopsided near the center of the space, its front wheels removed and its undercarriage resting on small jack stands.
One of the Fiat’s side mirrors hung loose by a wire.
He was about to exit the garage when he saw something bulky resting beneath a black, dusty tarp. Caspian pulled the tarp back.
A motorcycle.
He allowed himself a small grin, but it disappeared after he checked the ignition. No keys.
“It’s an old Honda dual sport,” Liesel said as she entered the garage. “Great bike. And this one looks in decent shape.”
“At least it’s not missing a tire,” he replied, looking at the Fiat. “Can’t say the same about this one.”
“You found the keys?” Liesel asked.
“No such luck.”
“Okay . . . I can hot-wire it,” Liesel said, examining the motorcycle.
“Yeah? You sure?” he asked.
Liesel flashed him an annoyed look. Caspian raised his hands in surrender. “I . . . never mind. Sorry.”
“We can’t start it here. It will be too loud,” she said. “Help me push it out of the garage.”
After verifying that no one was waiting for them on the other side of the door, Caspian joined Liesel, and together they wheeled the motorbike outside, rolling it as silently as possible down the dirt road. The more distance they put between them and the house, the better.
They were sixty feet down the road when, cutting through the relative silence, Caspian heard a furious bark echoing.
Caspian spun around, only to see a shepherd mix tearing across the field, its eyes locked on them, snarling as it sprinted in their direction.
“Dog,” Caspian hissed, pulling his gun. “Start the bike!”
Next to him, Liesel pulled the Honda’s seat up, exposing the ignition wires. Caspian didn’t dare look at her; his eyes were fixed on the charging dog. The animal was lean, fast, and its muscles rippled as it ran. Caspian raised his gun, willing Liesel to work faster.
Damn it.
Killing a dog hadn’t been part of his plan.
Liesel cursed as her fingers searched for the ignition wires in the tight space. The bike was older than she thought, and the wiring felt ancient and stiff. She could hear the low, furious growl of the approaching dog, and she felt the pressure tighten around her chest.
Focus. Start the bike. The rest is Caspian’s job.
She pulled the small pocketknife Caspian had found earlier in the van and used it to strip the ignition wires. Her hands trembled slightly, not from fear of the dog—though there was a bit of that too—but from the knowledge that she only had seconds.
Seconds to get this right or everything would fall apart.
Another growl. Much closer now. Liesel forced herself to block it out, narrowing her world to the three frayed wires in her hands. Sparks jumped as she twisted two of them together, the acrid smell of burnt plastic stinging her nose.
Five more seconds. That’s all she needed.
“C’mon, Liesel,” she heard Caspian mutter. “C’mon. It’s about to turn ugly.”
She connected the final wire, praying the old bike still had enough life left in it. The engine coughed once, then caught with a roar that felt like salvation. Adrenaline flooded through as she swung onto the seat.
“Let’s go! Get on!” she shouted to Caspian, looking over her shoulder.
That’s when she realized she’d taken too long. Not by much, just a second or two, but still too long. The dog had launched itself into the air, its jaw wide open, aiming straight for Caspian’s throat.
Caspian held his fire. The dog wasn’t attacking out of malice; it was just protecting its territory and owners. He couldn’t bring himself to shoot it. Not for doing its job.
Instead, attempting to draw the dog off course and give Liesel a few extra seconds, Caspian stepped away from the bike and raised his arm like a bullfighter offering his cape.
The dog was charging even faster than Caspian had estimated.
Which was a good thing because it would be harder for the dog to adjust its trajectory.
Behind him, the bike’s engine roared to life, and he heard Liesel yell something at him, but Caspian didn’t dare look back.
Eight feet in front of him, the dog had launched itself, its mouth wide open, its teeth bared.
At the last moment, Caspian ducked. The dog soared over him, and Caspian heard the vicious snap of its jaw as it missed his head by less than two inches.
A millisecond later, one of the dog’s hind paws clipped his shoulder.
Not willing to go for another round, Caspian spun, then leaped onto the bike.
To his right, the dog skidded to a stop, its claws scrambling for traction as it prepared to attack again.
“Hold on!” Liesel shouted as she gunned the throttle.
The rear tire sprayed loose gravel in every direction as the bike lunged forward. Caspian glanced over his shoulder. The shepherd mix was looking in their direction, but it wasn’t chasing after them. It had done its job: scared away the intruders.
Caspian wrapped his arms around Liesel. Ahead of them, the dirt road curved toward open farmland.
And in the distance, Istanbul.