[Anthology] Abby & Sei Thriller Starter

by Ty Hutchinson

  Bent at the waist, I moved forward. As I reach the crest, I heard the ringing of a small bell. I stopped. A beat later, a goat came into view and then more goats until finally a middle-aged man with a small build appeared. He had weathered lines that cut deep around his eyes, and he wore a full beard with a heavy brow to match. Sitting on his head was a taqiyah, a colorful woven skullcap, and wrapped loosely around his neck was a beige cotton scarf. The rest of his outfit comprised an off-white, linen button-down and charcoal gray pants.

  Another man, similar in appearance and carrying a herding stick, came into view. We stared at one another briefly before one of the men tapped his chest lightly and said, “Ismet.” He didn’t bother to introduce his friend, and I didn’t press for a name.

  Ismet led me down the other side of the hill to an old flatbed truck. It had wooden slats rising about ten-feet tall on both sides of the bed. A canvas stretched across the top of the slat walls offering shelter from rain and sun. They lowered a ramp and began guiding the goats into the back. Ismet motioned for me to get inside as well before heading to the driver’s side door.

  There were about ten goats in all, enough to provide cover but leave me with breathing room. This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when Kashani told me farmers would be helping me. I imagined being buried in a pile of hay or sitting amongst crates of freshly picked dates, not crammed in with a bunch of goats. I found a small piece of tarp and bunched it up to cushion my bottom. The smell of stale urine was strong, but my nose would become used to it after a few minutes. Ismet’s friend returned and handed me two bottles of water before we left.

  The goat herders were responsible for the first leg of my escape from Turkey. Kashani said they would take me as far as the city of Siverek, a small town about an hour outside of Diyarbakir. There, they would hand me off to another driver who would be responsible for driving me across the country to the coastal town of Cesme. From there, it was a short boat ride to the island of Chios, Greece.

  Kashani had arranged to get me as far as Greece, where I would then be on my own. Once in the European Union, I was confident I could move over land easily, even with no passport in hand.

  We were about halfway toward our destination when I heard the gears downshift, and the vehicle begin to slow. Kashani had mentioned it would take about an hour to reach the city; by my estimate, only thirty minutes had passed.

  From the back of the truck, I couldn’t see outside except through the opening at the rear. I had holed up along the right side, about midway in. The truck came to a stop, while still on the road, and I immediately heard other voices speaking Turkish. A checkpoint.

  I gripped the handle of my knife tighter, and moved toward the cabin of the truck, tucking myself into the corner. It was the darkest there, and I had ten goats in front of me. While I couldn’t understand what was being said, I noted two separate voices conveying an authoritative tone. Are there more? I had to assume so. Two men at a checkpoint seemed low.

  I listened to what seemed like an unusually long conversation for the guards to be having with a couple of goat herders. I tried to determine if there was suspicion, but I couldn’t be sure. My arms were wrapped around my shins, holding my knees firmly against my chest. The heat rising off my body became more apparent as the seconds dragged on. And then the voice of the man near the driver’s side, the one doing most of the talking, the one with the condescending tone that would just about irritate anyone he spoke to, began moving toward the rear of the truck. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but it had.

  32

  The blade of my knife punctured the soldier’s throat the instant he stuck his head into the truck. I gripped his uniform tightly and pulled him firmly against the chained tailgate while twisting my hand. His dark brown eyes widened and shifted back and forth. He desperately fought to decipher how he had gone from commander of a checkpoint to slaughtered animal in a matter of seconds. I said nothing, and he was in no position to either.

  A few whiffs of his remaining sour breath invaded my nose as my eyes traced the blackened pores dotting the tip of his bulbous nose. His eyelids grew heavy and so did his body. I felt nothing for this man as the life poured from his neck. He wouldn’t have hesitated to deprive me of mine.

  I hopped over the tailgate and quietly lowered the lifeless body to the asphalt. I couldn’t tell if he was one of Demir’s men from the prison or if he was enlisted with the Turkish military. The prison guards all wore military fatigues.

  From that position, looking under the vehicle, I could see there were two other men. One stood next to the passenger-side door, the other a few feet in front of the truck. A vehicle, theirs I assumed, was parked off to the side of the road. This wasn’t a proper checkpoint. These men were ordered here. For all I knew, they showed up minutes before we did.

  I withdrew my knife from the man’s neck and removed the handgun from his holster, leaving the AK-47. I moved along the left side of the vehicle, and as I approached the driver’s window, I tucked the knife in the waistband of my jeans, near the small of my back.

  The soldier in front of the vehicle came into view just as I reached the driver’s door. I pulled the trigger once, hitting him in the neck before shoving the handgun into the truck’s cabin and firing again at the soldier standing next to the passenger-side window. The first soldier I shot lay in the middle of the road, gagging. I walked over to him to end his misery, but the gun was empty; it wasn’t fully loaded. I used my knife.

  We were the only ones on the two-lane road, but I knew a vehicle could appear on the horizon at any second. Either luck favored me at the moment or the goat herders had actually chosen a lesser-traveled road. Still, from there on out, I had to expect that Demir ordered checkpoints on every road, and the chance of encountering another was likely. I searched the two men, hoping to find extra magazines but neither of them carried a handgun. Their rifles would do me no good—too hard to conceal.

  The vehicle that was parked off to the side of the road was clearly marked with an official seal and stenciled lettering: Diyarbakir Prison. A quick search of the vehicle turned up nothing useful. I had hoped to find something that indicated where other checkpoints might be stationed. A large bottle of water sat on the driver’s seat, so I used it to clean the blood off my hands and knife. I then wiped the handgun clean of my prints and left it in the truck.

  I brought the remaining water to the goat herder sitting in the passenger seat so he could clean the red splatter from his face. Neither man said anything, but their stiff postures, the avoidance of eye contact, and the beads of sweat all gave me a clear indication of what they were thinking.

  I motioned to Ismet to start the vehicle and to also steer the tires clear of the pool of blood that had formed around the guard in front of the truck. Once inside the back, I rapped my knuckles against the cabin, and the truck lurched forward.

  When Demir arrived at the checkpoint, the bodies still lay strewn about the highway. He had wanted to see firsthand what Sei had done to his men and ordered nothing be moved until he got there.

  Demir kept quiet as he moved from one corpse to another. His body language gave no indication of his thoughts, leaving the men that followed a few steps behind unsure of what to do or whether to speak.

  “What do we know?” Demir finally asked.

  A young, thin man cleared his throat. “A couple of farmers saw a truck carrying livestock pass through here not too long ago.”

  Demir rested his hands on his waist and peered down the highway. “This road heads in only one direction, to Siverek.” He turned back to his men. “Seal off the town and find that truck.”

  With that, he returned to his vehicle. The manhunt for the Wolf was quickly becoming a farce. Not only had he escaped under Demir’s command, so had the assassin. Demir wondered if the Wolf had intended this all along.

  33

  We reached Siverek without any further complications, but that didn’t mean my troubles had ended. We managed to
get to the designated spot on time, a small car park near an outdoor market, but a new problem arose: I had no idea who I should be looking for. Kashani had been vague about the details the morning I left Diyarbakir, and it was imperative that I leave the city immediately. Our conversation had been fast and minimal.

  “I don’t know what kind of car he’ll be driving,” Kashani had said.

  “And just how do you suppose I find him? Or am I to wait like a well-behaved schoolgirl until he locates me?”

  “I’m sorry. This is all last minute. He’s a friend of a friend, but you can trust him.”

  Trust him—easy for Kashani to say. He was Turkish and had influential friends. He would have an easier time getting out of the country than a fair-skinned Asian woman.

  “Can you at least tell me what he looks like? I rather not leave it to chance that he will pluck me out of a crowd.”

  Kashani shrugged. “Sei-Sei, you stand out everywhere in this country. Don’t worry. And if it makes you feel better, he’s Greek and his name is Kostas.”

  He didn’t know what type of car Kostas would be driving but added that he knew I would be arriving in a truck with two farmers.

  Speaking of which, the situation with them wasn’t faring much better. They were already on edge from our earlier altercation and were eager to get rid of me. This unexpected delay only added to their growing agitation. To keep them calm and keep an eye out for my next ride, I joined them in the truck’s cabin. My calming skills weren’t very persuasive. Only fifteen minutes had passed and Ismet was on the verge of kicking me out and driving off. Telling them to keep it down only had the opposite effect.

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before our voices drew unwanted attention. That was something I desperately needed to avoid. I had to assume the bodies I left behind on the highway had been discovered. For all I knew, Demir already had men en route to Siverek. I had to avoid an altercation. They end badly for the other person, and we were in a public venue.

  I scanned the area around the truck for any sign that my contact had arrived, but nothing stood out except the policeman whose attention my travel mates had garnered. He had already begun to make his way toward our truck. He was speaking into a walkie-talkie and had his right hand resting firmly on the butt of his gun. Ismet’s shouting shouldn’t have drawn that sort of attention, unless someone had IDed our truck near the checkpoint.

  I kept an eye on the police officer, hoping that what I already knew to be true somehow wasn’t, that something else had aroused his curiosity. Sadly, we were the draw. He was fifty feet away and closing in.

  34

  Officer Deniz had just received notice over his radio to be on the lookout for a truck transporting animals when he arrived at the outdoor market. He hadn’t given it much thought until the shouting of two men drew his attention as he exited his vehicle. No sooner had he homed in on the squabble, he realized the men were in the typical makeshift type of truck often used by farmers for transporting livestock. Believing he had located the vehicle associated with the checkpoint killings, Deniz immediately radioed for other officers to come to the car park next to the market.

  Deniz hadn’t been with the force for that long—only two years. His detail consisted of directing traffic and responding to vendor complaints and petty crime at the market. Nothing exciting. Nothing serious.

  But at that moment, he sensed an opportunity to change his underling status, a way to shine the spotlight on his abilities. If he could catch the person responsible for the checkpoint killing, the higher-ups would take notice. And in a system where moving up was highly politicized, Deniz didn’t know how else he could prove that he deserved better than the market detail. He didn’t have an uncle in an authoritative position. He wasn’t married to the sister of someone important. He didn’t come from money, and his family had zero social status in the town. The odds were stacked against a guy like Deniz. Amounting to anything more than what he had achieved was a rarity.

  Deniz approached the vehicle with his hand resting on his weapon. None of the shoppers around him seemed to take notice of his stealthy approach. No one had the slightest idea that in that truck was, potentially, a murderer—a person capable of killing three armed men like himself. But none of that ruffled Deniz. He remained focused, determined not to screw up an opportunity.

  About twenty yards out, the driver in the truck took notice of Deniz and froze. That only helped to further confirm his suspicion that he had the right truck. The heated argument he had heard was no more. Deniz looked around and saw none of his fellow comrades. Ideally he would move in to apprehend the killer just as they arrived, in case something went wrong and he needed help. He wanted it to be very clear that he was responsible for the capture of this wanted criminal.

  He moved along the left side of the truck, toward the driver’s window. “Hello,” he called out. “What’s your business here?”

  Ismet said nothing.

  Deniz held his ground just a few steps from the window. “Step outside. I want to talk to you.”

  The driver remained still and didn’t answer.

  “Get out of the truck!” A few more seconds passed with no change in the situation. Deniz drew his weapon and moved forward. Just as he reached the window, he stepped away from the truck, eyes peering down the barrel of his gun.

  Ismet jerked back upon seeing the officer targeting him. His hands shot up in front of him. “Please don’t shoot. We’re unarmed.”

  Deniz looked at the two frightened men thinking they couldn’t be the ones who killed those men at the checkpoint. “Get out. Now!”

  Both men did as they were told. A quick search inside the cab of the truck turned up nothing. Deniz turned back to the driver. “Where did you come from?”

  “Diyarbakir,” Ismet responded.

  Deniz moved in closer. “You were at the checkpoint? You killed those men?”

  Ismet shook his head no.

  “Don’t lie to me,” Deniz continued. “You know what happens to people who commit murder?” A grin appeared on Deniz’s face. “It’s very unpleasant.”

  “We did nothing,” Ismet said and then motioned with his eyes toward the back of the truck.

  Deniz looked that way and then moved in that direction. He could hear the goats bleating and their hooves tacking rapidly against the flatbed of the truck, as if something had spooked them. He stood with his back pressed up against the canvas, near the opening in the back. He listened, but the goats were making too much noise for him to determine whether someone was hiding inside.

  “Is someone in there?” There was no response. Deniz looked back at Ismet who continued to point to the back of the truck. He gripped his weapon tighter and licked his lips. He placed his left foot forward, readying himself to pivot into the opening of the truck. Deniz took one last look around and still didn’t see any of the backup he had requested. He would have to go it alone.

  One… two… three!

  35

  I was thankful for the headscarf Kashani had given me. It allowed me to slip quietly behind a group of gossiping women on their way to the market without arousing suspicion.

  Once inside the hustle of the market, I moved off on my own. Finding my contact was priority number one. Surely that police officer had called for reinforcements. Worse, Demir’s men could also be on the way.

  I didn’t want to stray too far from the car park. According to Kashani, my second driver would also be observing a forty-minute pick-up window. If I didn’t arrive during that time, he would leave. Had I missed him? I remembered Ismet pointing at his watch, indicating we were on time. Kashani’s driver was late.

  From where I stood, next to a vendor selling handcrafted silverware, I had a clear eye line to the police officer. He didn’t look like he was associated with the Askeri Inzibat, the military police that Kashani had warned me of. He was probably a local village guard who had been notified of an escapee from Diyarbakir prison. He couldn’t have been older than twenty-two. In
experienced.

  I watched him search the truck before turning his attention back on the two goat herders. He had his weapon pointed at them. While I couldn’t hear what they were saying, it didn’t look favorable. And then as I suspected would happen, Ismet’s mouth began moving rapidly, along with his hands and arms, as they told what appeared to be the story of how I had killed those men at the checkpoint. At least that’s what it looked like to me. Ismet then pointed at the market, and I stepped back into the crowd.

  The market itself was made up of four rows of vendors, each about fifty yards long. There were quite a few shoppers strolling the lanes, so remaining hidden wouldn’t be the problem. However, there was concern. If more police arrived and surrounded the market, I could easily become trapped within.

  I decided to move down the lane to the southern end of the car park and wait it out. If need be, I could use another lane and loop back to the northern end. I had four lanes at my disposal. I had to hope Kashani’s guy would appear before I ran out of lanes.

  I spotted a young boy with oversized sunglasses strolling toward me. A minute later, he was ten euros richer and I had better coverage for my face. No sooner had we completed our transaction than three police cars arrived in the car park. The officer who’d searched the truck quickly greeted them, and within seconds, they had fanned out into the market.

  The officers were approaching my lane from both ends. I slipped between two vendor tents into the second lane and made my way north. Through the pockets of stalls, I spotted an officer making his way through the first lane. He was talking to various shop owners as he moved forward. One of them, a woman selling handbags nodded and pointed south.

  I continued north, hoping to make a clean exit from the market and back into the car park, but before I could reach the end of the lane, I spotted yet another officer heading toward me. I again slipped between two vendor stalls and into the third lane and turned south. At that point, I couldn’t see the car park. I had to get out of the market.