by D.I. Telbat
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DARK EDGE
Prequel to the COIL Series
by D.I. Telbat
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Copyright 2014 Telbat's Tablet
https://ditelbat.com
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There is no redemption without sacrifice.
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This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
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Dedication
To those whom Christ has won,
To those who win others for Christ.
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Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics
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Table of Contents
Dark Edge Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One – The Mole
Chapter Two – The Sanction
Chapter Three – The Agent
Chapter Four – The Poison
Chapter Five – The Lie
Chapter Six – The Problem
Chapter Seven – The Recruit
Chapter Eight – The Rescue
Chapter Nine – The Protocol
Chapter Ten – The Beginning
Other Books by D.I. Telbat
About the Author
BONUS Chapter One – Dark Liaison
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Chapter One – The Mole
Corban Dowler stopped his Ducati Diavel motorcycle on the bridge south of London's Buckingham Palace. He hastily stripped off his leather gloves and pitched them into the water below. His fake nose peeled off with more difficulty, followed by the cheekbone plaster. His cap along with the rest of his disguise disappeared over the rail.
Revving the throttle, he looked back toward King's Road. The street was quiet now just after midnight, but they were certain to be scrambling to track his whereabouts. A veteran CIA agent didn't disobey a kill order without causing panic up the hierarchy of powerful men who could rain down upon him legions of hit men.
Crossing the river, Corban raced his 162-horsepower beast toward Shard London Bridge, doubling back on any pursuers. If they spotted him, he could out-maneuver them on his motorcycle, but he wanted to see them first.
Who would the Agency send to kill him? No doubt the CIA would sanction another MI6 resource to take Corban out, since he had failed to assassinate a treasonous MI6 agent.
Below Shard London Bridge, Corban parked the Italian-made bike and climbed into a parked black Escalade. He drove toward St. Paul's Cathedral, his eyes peeled for a hunter-tracer team.
Finally finished with killing for his government, Corban felt the weight of that decision lifted from his shoulders. Kenneth Whitlock had been a low-level embarrassment to the SIS, Britain's intelligence sector, but the man's loyalties to North Korea were hardly worth killing him for. Whitlock was in love with a Korean diplomat—probably a spy herself. No one knew how long Whitlock had been seeing the woman, but he'd had no access to intel to pass on that would compromise England, anyway.
Even if Whitlock had been a higher level mole in the program, Corban still wouldn't have killed him. Sure, he'd never disobeyed a kill order before, but he'd never before believed in the Savior who had died for him, either. Deputy Director William "Chip" Buchanen hadn't taken Corban seriously that fall when he'd told him he didn't want to kill any longer—traitors or otherwise. No more spy hunting, Corban had stated.
Now came the tricky part, the risky stage of his plan. His refusal to kill Whitlock meant the end of Corban's government career in the least, but it probably meant the end of his life as well. Unless he could implement his plan on time.
He parked on Oxford Street and retrieved a gray wig and thick glasses from the glove box. The disguise would get him through airport security. London's camera system could watch him throughout the city, but no one would be checking that footage for an hour or two. Even when they did begin to follow his escape route, he wasn't about to make it easy on them. He could live, and learn to serve Jesus Christ in the new birth he'd been given, but only if he survived the next twenty-four hours.
First, he expected a CIA hunter-tracer team to be dispatched to catch or kill him. He knew they'd do this, utilizing any allied country's assets, because Corban had been a mole-hunter half his life. Though he wasn't a mole or a traitor, his failure to kill Whitlock would flag him as a threat. And threats were often annihilated before intel could be compromised. The report would be sealed, his body never found, and the risk would be neutralized.
Besides the team, a lone operator would also be given an independent kill order with Corban's name on it, someone he probably knew, but deadly, nonetheless. The assassin would be a specialist of the highest caliber, maybe even an agent he'd trained himself. The CIA wasn't above using anyone local to silence a threat—whether American, British, French, German, or Chinese.
Corban checked his special operations watch. Almost two hours had passed since he'd left Whitlock alive. He'd give them five more minutes to get into place, then he'd make the call to his wife, Janice.
He surveyed his mirrors constantly: a newspaper truck passed with an early morning delivery; a car with thumping music coasted by; a little rain on the windshield. Nothing went unnoticed, not when he was being hunted.
The phone he took from the glove box had never been used. He dialed his home in New York City where it was early evening. It rang five times before Janice picked up.
"I just wanted to tell you it's over, Janice." Corban grit his teeth, hating the very words he had to say in order to protect her. "We're done. Things have been rockier much longer than I've been willing to admit."
There was silence for a moment. He could hear her breath shudder over the long distance.
"Corban, you're a Christian now." Her voice cracked. Though she was a take-charge woman, Janice was sensitive to harsh words. "Is this because I found out about your career? You have to give these things time."
"We've given it enough time, Janice. It's like our walk in the park last week. No, don't say anything! We couldn't even be ourselves. I've ruined our marriage with my deceit. I won't bother you any longer."
"Corban, I don't—"
"Listen to me!"
"What?"
"Goodbye."
He hung up and stared at the phone. Tears blurred his vision, and he knew the new heart of compassion God had given him was taking affect. The conversation had gone exactly as he'd planned, every word perfectly quoted from a script in his mind. All international calls to the US were recorded, but it would take anywhere between an hour and a day to recover that specific call. At that point, the CIA would know Corban was apparently done with his wife, and not just his country. She couldn't be used against him if they thought she meant nothing to him. All ties had been cut.
But Janice did mean something to him. Only recently she'd discovered what he did for a living. Between his own faith in God's direction and Janice's urgings, Corban had realized he couldn't continue serving his country as a killer any longer.
Their marriage had been on the edge for years, thanks to Corban never being home, his life obsessed with foreign matters, and his dark moods.
The most recent problem had been his inability to reveal to her his plan to leave the CIA permanently. She had to believe it was real in order to convince any investigators that it was real. Except, he'd left her a breadcrumb for later: they hadn't walked in the park last week. They'd never walked in the park. That false statement alone would signal to her that he wasn't in a normal
state of mind.
"Keep her safe, Lord. She's in Your hands."
Corban checked his mirrors, looked up at the camera posts over the sidewalk, and exited the car. He walked in view of a dozen cameras for ten minutes, then hailed a taxi. The trail was intentional, until he wanted to leave no trail at all. In the taxi, he shed his disguise and applied a fake beard as the taxi approached the airport.
Inside the terminal, he purchased a new cell phone and checked messages on a bulletin board system left over from his Cold War days. Everything was in place. He was going to India.
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