Prologue
The Turkish morning sun burned down on the city of Van and the crowded streets full of frightened and shell-shocked citizens. The ceaseless battle between the Turkish military security forces, Jandarma, and the Kongra-Gel terrorists was hottest in the southeastern region where Van was located. Cops were on every corner, and a small command post was set up by the hotel. Officially it was to protect American relief workers, but the soldiers stationed there were more interested in keeping an eye on the foreigners. They were wary of the strangers, realizing that the relief workers, or tourists in the same hotel, could be in league with the Kongra-Gel revolutionary front.
Boz Arcuri looked both ways before he got out of the Peugeot. The 9 mm Llama in his waistband was uncocked, but he could thumb the hammer back in a heartbeat and put all nine shots from the sleek handgun into anyone who challenged him.
Still, his black, scraggly beard was trimmed, and his clothes were neat and clean, despite their loose fit, allowing his shirt to cover the trim outline of his pistol. He frowned. The hotel he’d parked in front of wasn’t one of the best in Van, but it was loaded with relief workers, and frugal tourists from a dozen nations. The presence of the military so close by provided the foreigners with a false sense of security.
Westerners were comforted by the sight of soldiers, regardless of how truly effective they were in protecting them. Arcuri thought of the time he’d gone to the United States, setting up a heroin deal with a New York Mob boss. Since that dark September day, it wasn’t unusual to find men and women carrying assault rifles, but to the Kongra-Gel lieutenant’s experienced eye, he realized that those National Guardsmen were holding empty weapons, no magazines in place. A calculating enough assassin could kill a half-dozen of the armed guards and get a supply of pristine, unfired automatic weapons to unleash a wave of devastation among them.
Though the Turkish army troops had magazines in their weapons, they suffered from the conceit of many Middle Eastern men. They refused to use their shoulder stocks, and many of them had folded their metal stocks, or sawn off the wooden units, making their rifles ineffective and useless farther than twenty feet out.
Arcuri felt secure as he walked away from the truck. Its covered bed was stuffed with four thousand pounds of mixed fertilizer, plastic explosives and small arms shells that had been damaged in transport, or didn’t fit Kongra-Gel’s arsenal of weapons, all packed in a flat cake that was neatly concealed by a simple tarpaulin. Mixing in the bullets was a stroke of genius. It disposed of useless ammunition and created simple, effective shrapnel that would only add to the mayhem.
The goal of the bombing wasn’t to strike any specific blow, but the detonation would provide a thundering distraction for the Turkish rebels’ true goals.
The Multinational Organization Relief Effort for Southeast Turkey—MOREST—had a storehouse of drugs, including painkillers, that Kongra-Gel could steal and sell for millions of dollars, keeping a small supply for their own forces to continue the fight against the western-poisoned government. Arcuri grinned and walked. A bomb going off at the hotel would draw the relief workers and guards hired to protect the medical supplies to the scene of the bombing. It would leave only a minor skeleton crew on hand to protect the golden egg that Kagan Trug wanted.
After that, it would be easy to swoop in. The Kongra-Gel team was organized, had its trucks in position and only needed one thing to make the heist come off cleanly.
Arcuri looked around. The lawman standing on the street corner, pistol in his belt holster, dark eyes scanning the faces of passersby, had only noticed Arcuri in passing. The rebel Turk pulled his Llama from under his shirt as he’d gotten within an arm’s length. A woman’s scream alerted the cop that there was danger, but it was too late for him. Arcuri pulled the trigger, emptying nine rounds into the doomed policeman’s skull. As the cop fell, the terrorist turned his attention back to the military forces by the hotel. They heard the shooting and grabbed their rifles, racing in a throng toward the sound of gunfire.
When the main pack of Turkish soldiers reached his Peugeot, Arcuri grinned and pressed the button on the radio detonator in his pocket. Even five blocks down the street from ground zero, the Kongra-Gel lieutenant was knocked off his feet by the blast wave. The fireball extended three hundred feet in every direction.
Anyone inside that dome of flame and pressure was instantly vaporized. Even the protection of walls and windows were useless as ripples of explosive force shattered brick and turned glass into clouds of high-velocity shrapnel. Arcuri crawled to the cover of a parked car and watched in awe as the hotel shook violently.
The vehicle he huddled against rattled as debris rained atop it. A moment later, the half of the hotel facing the pickup truck expelled jets of dust and smoke from its shattered windows, and slid to the ground in a choking cloud of gray.
Arcuri struggled to his feet. The world had been flipped onto its ear, and wails of pain and terror erupted from the thick blanket of swirling debris that grew, crawling ominously toward Arcuri. The Turk grinned and gave the cloud a small salute,
