Codename Makarov: A Carrie Chronicles Spy Thriller: Carrie Chronicles, #2

By Ethan Jones

From bestselling author Ethan Jones comes Codename: Makarov, the second highly anticipated novel in the electrifying Carrie Chronicles spy thriller series.

 

She'll stop at nothing…

Carrie O'Connor, the fiercest CIS field operative, is in Pakistan for an extremely secretive meeting with one of the local Taliban leaders, when she falls into a suspicious ambush that almost claims her life and suspects a mole inside her own team.

As she starts her search for the traitor, Carrie learns of a ruthless ex-KGB assassin, who may have been implicated in her father's disappearance in Moscow at the height of the Cold War. When she dives into this inquiry, she soon finds herself at the center of a decade-long intrigue. While trying to balance her feelings and rein in her emotions, Carrie is informed of her ex-partner, Justin Hall, who has gone rogue in the lawless terrorist-infested badlands of Syria and Iraq.

Carrie is determined to dispel the uncertainty about her father's disappearance and eager to bring Justin, the former love of her life, back home. Alone, she starts her most personal and dangerous mission. Can she settle accounts once for all with the man who killed her father, and the traitor who betrayed her?

 

Reviews

★★★★★"One of the things you can count on with this author's books is that you get drawn into the story very quickly and it's hard to put the book down. I love reading a female character that kicks butt but still has a soft side and Carrie does not disappoint. Codename: Makarov is definitely an action-packed read with enough suspense to keep you intrigued."

★★★★★"Missing friends, murdered associates and far too many questions without obvious answers. Carrie O'Connor is on another wild ride with danger or death at every turn; electrifying adventures and controlled chaos are always Carrie's partners!"

 

The Carrie Chronicles Spy Thriller Series

With hundreds of five-star reviews and thousands of sales and downloads. Each book is a self-contained story without cliffhangers and can be enjoyed on its own.

Codename: Makarov is Ethan Jones' most explosive novel yet. It is the perfect spy thriller, barreling along with the neck-breaking speed of Brad Thor and the jam-packed action of David Baldacci. Fans of Tom Clancy, Daniel Silva or Lee Child will love this pulse-pounding espionage adventure spanning the globe.

 

Scroll up, click and escape with Codename: Makarov now.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Knightsville Books
• Release date: Apr 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781386249894

Ethan Jones

Ethan Jones is an international bestselling author of over thirty-five spy thriller and suspense novels. His books have sold over one hundred thousand copies in over seventy countries. Ethan has lived in Europe and Canada. He has worked for the American Embassy and did missionary work in Albania. He’s a lawyer by trade, and his research has taken him to many parts of the world. His goal is to provide clean, clever, and white-knuckle entertainment for his valued readers. Ethan’s thrillers are fast-paced, action-packed, and full of unsuspecting twists and turns. When he’s not writing or researching, you can find Ethan hiking, snorkeling, hanging out with family/friends, or traveling the world. Check out Ethan's website ethanjonesbooks.com to learn more and to sign up to Ethan's Exclusives which includes updates, deals, and a free starter pack.

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The Story

She’ll stop at nothing…

Carrie O’Connor, the fiercest CIS field operative, is in Pakistan for an extremely secretive meeting with one of the local Taliban leaders, when she falls into a suspicious ambush that almost claims her life and suspects a mole inside her own team.

As she starts her search for the traitor, Carrie learns of a ruthless ex-KGB assassin, who may have been implicated in her father’s disappearance in Moscow at the height of the Cold War. When she dives into this inquiry, she soon finds herself at the center of a decade-long intrigue. While trying to balance her feelings and rein in her emotions, Carrie is informed of her ex-partner, Justin Hall, who has gone rogue in the lawless terrorist-infested badlands of Syria and Iraq.

Carrie is determined to dispel the uncertainty about her father’s disappearance and eager to bring Justin, the former love of her life, back home. Alone, she starts her most personal and dangerous mission. Can she settle accounts once for all with the man who killed her father, and the traitor who betrayed her?

CODENAME:

MAKAROV

THE CARRIE CHRONICLES - BOOK TWO

ETHAN JONES

To my family.

Thank you for your wonderful love.

Table of Contents

Front Page

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Bonus Entry Point - Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Acknowledgments

Copyright

Prologue

Moscow, Soviet Union

September 7, 1989, 1:40 a.m.

The explosive crack of thunder and the roar of gushing rain muffled the low growl of the defector’s battered Lada. He had killed his headlights a few blocks away, when he suspected a car was tailing him. After completing a full circle, his suspicions had proven to be false. The black UAZ jeep disappeared in the night’s shadows. It must have been someone rushing home after a long party on this Thursday night. So he was back on track to his destination, the bridge.

But the terror remained in the defector’s heart that the KGB had learned about his planned escape from the Soviet Union and into the Western world. The deception had been executed meticulously thus far, and ultimately he was not doing this for himself, but for his Rodina-Mat, the Motherland. Still, the defector feared for his life. And he was terrified about what might happen to his elderly parents after his so-called betrayal of the country would become known. The defection of a senior leader in the Politburo, the supreme head of the Communist Party, could not go unpunished. His parents would be forced to disown him or be branded as enemies of the state and suffer a horrible life in prison until death came as a long-sought-for and welcomed relief.

He sighed and shook his head, and along with it the confidence-wrecking thoughts overwhelming his mind. He tried in vain to dry his sweaty palms by rubbing them furiously against his pants, then drew in a series of long breaths through his nose. His heart was still beating hard, and he could feel a slight and irregular pulsation on the side of his neck. A few more blocks. I can make it. No one has noticed my absence. Not yet. And when they do, I will be across the border, far away from the KGB’s reach.

The defector turned the wheel, then blinked and checked the rearview mirror. The street behind him was dark and empty. He drove near the eastern bank of the Moskva River and passed along several vehicles parked on Frunzenskaya Naberezhnaya Road. His fleeting glance searched them, but he noticed no one in the driver’s or passenger’s seats.

One of the vehicles was a UAZ windowless van. The defector’s eyes remained a few moments on the van, but he spotted no dim lights coming from the cabin or the back doors. He wondered about any occupants inside the van. Instinctively, his foot stepped on the gas and the Lada picked up speed. But he caught himself and slowed down again, not wanting to wake up any of the neighborhood’s residents or draw attention from any passersby foolish enough to brave the wet chilly night. He was now barely two minutes or seven blocks away from the bridge. Calm down, you’re almost there.

On the other side of the bridge, Duncan O’Connor lifted his binoculars to his eyes. He peered through the windshield of his black Volga GAZ, but the streams of water were blurring his view. He unrolled the window, ignoring the large raindrops splattering the side of the door and his raincoat’s sleeve. But he still could not make out the silhouettes of any vehicles driving across the river.

Duncan frowned and glanced at his wristwatch. The defector was ten minutes late. Not unusual or unexpected in such operations, but still not a good omen. Every minute of delay would make Duncan’s mission more dangerous.

He drew in a long breath and wiped a couple of drops that had fallen on his watch. He rolled up the window but left it open just a crack. He listened to the rain pounding hard on the top of the small sedan. Then his hand almost instinctively went to the Canadian Army standard-issue Browning 9mm semi-automatic pistol resting underneath his flat cap on the front passenger’s seat. The pistol was his trusted companion. Duncan hoped he would not have to use it today, but he was prepared in case there was a need.

Duncan had parked near the entrance to an alley between two grayish apartment buildings. A phone booth was about forty yards away and behind the car, in case he needed to make an urgent call. And a four-way intersection was to his left for a swift exit.

He glanced again at the bridge, this time with just his naked eye. No movement. The bridge was mostly dark, with only a faint yellow glow coming from dim lampposts. The streams of the rain and a low thin fog that had just started to veil the area gave it a spine-chilling appearance.

Duncan’s fingers caressed his thin silver necklace. It was a gift from his wife on their tenth anniversary last April. And the evening before he headed out for this mission, his five-year-old daughter, Carrie, had given him a small purple heart she had crayoned on cardboard in her kindergarten arts and crafts class. You’re always in my heart, Daddy, and my heart is always with you. A small smile formed on his face as Duncan remembered her words and her hug at the doorstep of their Toronto home.

He reached again for his binoculars. This time, his eyes found the box-shaped shadow of a small car gliding along the other riverbank. Duncan’s eyes turned into small slits. He could not make out the exact shape of the car, but it looked like the ubiquitous Lada, the car of the people. And this Lada was grayish, not black like the one whose description the defector had given to Duncan two nights ago, when they had arranged for the escape. He shrugged away this small change in their plans. Plans always changed.

Duncan moved his binoculars to the left. He zoomed in and studied the stretch of the road behind the Lada. No vehicles were following the defector. Duncan found the Lada again and followed it as it entered the bridge. Still, no vehicles coming or going from any direction. It was all quiet.

Perhaps too quiet.

He looked through the side windows and noticed a small dark van zoom through the intersection. It disappeared into one of the streets in the other direction, away from him and the bridge. Duncan kept his gaze glued to the street for a few long moments. When he was certain the van was gone and the street was empty, he returned his eyes to the bridge.

The binoculars’ wide zoom brought to his view the western entrance of the bridge, along with the silhouettes of two men sheltered underneath an umbrella. Duncan frowned and examined them closely. No, it was a man and a woman—considering her slender figure and the way the man was holding her. A couple out on a romantic night? This is no weather for a lovebirds’ stroll. And where did they come from?

He had only glanced away from the bridge for mere seconds to cover another angle around him, to make sure no one would sneak up behind him. And that was when the unexpected had happened. As it always did. What are they doing? Waiting for someone? Waiting . . . for the defector?

Duncan sat up straight. His binoculars found the Lada. It was nearing the halfway point of the bridge. The defector would have to drive past the couple in order to cross the Moskva River.

The man swung the umbrella over his other shoulder. His move hid the couple from Duncan’s view. He bit his lip, unsure what to do. Duncan had no way of contacting the defector. But even if Duncan did find a way, he was not sure the couple presented any real danger. They could be simply lovers, choosing a dark stormy night for their love affair, stranded because of some unfortunate event. But he felt it was too much of a coincidence for the couple to be out and about at the mouth of the bridge at the exact time of the defector’s arrival.

Duncan flinched. His left-hand fingers tightened into a fist. He clenched his teeth and slammed his fist against the rim of the steering wheel. He thought about driving to the bridge to run interference. Duncan spoke fluent Russian and with his blond complexion could easily pass for a Muscovite. But his move might spook the defector, who could misinterpret the gesture as a signal to abort the escape. Or it might draw attention to the defector, if the couple were, in fact, KGB operatives. If the KGB was still looking for Duncan, after he had given them the slip earlier that night, his move would give away his position.

So Duncan bit his lip again and watched in silence the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, barely a hundred and fifty yards away. It was dreamlike, as if he was watching a black-and-white movie on a large cinema screen. The Lada slowly appearing through the cold gray haze only to disappear a moment later. The couple moving along the bridge’s railing. The man hooking his arm around the woman’s neck. The Lada reaching the couple.

And then nothing.

The couple kept walking in the opposite direction.

The Lada drew near the mouth of the bridge, then turned right, heading toward the meeting point.

Duncan heaved a sigh of relief and muttered a short prayer. He relaxed his shoulders, but kept his eyes on the Lada. He tightened his grip around the steering wheel, readying himself for the moment he had been waiting for over an hour.

The Lada kept moving forward. Then the driver made another turn. He was now maybe fifty, sixty yards away from Duncan.

And then the bright headlights of a van flooded the intersection with a blinding glow. The loud rumble of the engine shattered the night’s silence. The van charged toward the intersection, heading straight for the incoming Lada.

He cursed under his breath and began to roll down his window.

This was not a coincidence.

Duncan had a diplomatic passport, which theoretically offered him immunity. But practically the KGB did not care much about paperwork. If caught, Duncan could spend days if not weeks undergoing severe interrogations at the hands of the KGB’s brutal henchmen. Especially if he was caught with his pistol and the fake Canadian passport he had on him with the defector’s new identity.

He shook his head. Getting caught was not an option.

Allowing the defector to get caught was also out of the question.

Duncan sighed and put the Volga into gear. He steered with his left hand and went straight for the van. This would cut off the van from cornering the defector. He picked up the loaded Browning pistol with his right hand. Duncan thumbed the safety off and held the pistol near him.

Duncan’s intention was clear to the van driver. So the man hit the brakes to avoid a head-on collision with the Volga. The van veered to the left, away from the intersection.

Duncan stopped when he was halfway between the van and the Lada. His entire attention was focused on the van’s driver. There was a very slight chance he was a random citizen who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and made the wrong driving maneuver. Duncan doubted it, but he was not going to start a firefight and cause a diplomatic scandal. If he was shot at, he was going to return fire. But even if he was absolutely certain the van carried a team of KGB agents armed with an arsenal of assault weapons, Duncan would have to wait until they fired the first round. Those were Moscow’s rules of engagement. He might not like them, but he would have to stick to them.

So Duncan held his pistol high near his face. His eyes studied the van’s passenger’s window and the side door. He could not make out anything, but his gut feeling told him that was about to change.

He was right.

The van’s door slid open. A man jumped out with his gun drawn. He fired a single round that shattered Duncan’s side window.

Before the shooter could fire again, Duncan pulled the trigger. His bullet caught the shooter in the chest. He fell against the van’s door. His hand squeezed off another couple of rounds, but they missed the Volga.

Duncan aimed his pistol at the passenger’s window and fired a short burst. The glass erupted, but he was not sure if he had hit the target. It did not matter though, because Duncan’s objective was not to kill everyone in the van. He just wanted them to cease fire, at least until the defector had gotten inside Duncan’s car.

He turned his head to the right. A man was sprinting away from the Lada and zipping toward Duncan. It was the defector. Faster, faster. Come on, Duncan shouted.

The defector hurried his pace.

Duncan returned his attention to the van. He thought a silhouette slipped through the door and crawled toward the back of the van. As no one fired on the car, Duncan held his fire. The defector’s life was not in danger. For the moment.

The Volga’s front passenger’s door opened with a loud thud. Duncan glanced to his right. The defector slipped into the seat. His jacket was soaked and his hands were shaking. His scruffy face had lost all color, what was left of his receding combed-over gray hair was stuck to the side of his head, and he kept flinching and wheezing.

Duncan asked, You’re okay?

The defector nodded. Yes, yes.

Are you hit?

No, I . . . I don’t think so. The defector dropped his eyes to his chest and tapped around the front of his body and his arms. Then he began to check his pockets.

Hold on to something, Duncan said.

My book, the defector cried. I don’t have my book.

A quick burst came from the van. Bullets struck the rear door and the front of the Volga.

Duncan peered through his window. He did not see the shooter, so he did not fire. He held his pistol with his right hand, waiting for the right moment.

What book?

My notes. The records I kept of the Politburo. It must have fallen out of my pocket in the Lada.

We can’t go back.

The defector frowned and shrugged. But it has valuable information. Everything is in—

I said we can’t go back. We’ll rely on your memory.

The defector shook his head. No. We need to get it back. Otherwise, they’ll know about me.

They already know about you. Duncan cocked his head toward the van. Now hold on. We’re getting out of here.

The defector gave a reluctant nod and hooked his trembling hands around the door handle.

Duncan fired a couple of well-placed rounds, hitting the van’s front tires. Then he switched gears, flattened the gas pedal, and jerked the wheel. The sedan swerved around and headed to the right.

A volley hammered the back of the Volga. The window exploded, sending glass fragments around the cabin. The defector yelled and cursed.

Duncan dropped his head and kept his foot on the gas and his hands upon the steering wheel. He came inches away from the Lada, which the defector had parked haphazardly, close to the middle of the intersection. Then he swung to the left, following the curving of the road.

More rounds pounded the car. Duncan kept his head a couple of inches above the steering wheel, barely enough to drive without crashing into any of the few vehicles parked along the sidewalk. They drove for a couple of blocks, and the shooting subsided. Duncan looked at the defector, who was holding his chest with his right arm. You’re wounded?

No. But I don’t feel well.

Perhaps he’s having a heart attack. Duncan looked at the defector’s pale face. He was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. The nightmarish escape and the shootout would rattle even younger men.

Duncan wanted to tell the defector they were out of danger, but that would be a lie. They were still in Moscow, in the heart of the Soviet Union. And now they were exposed. He studied the dark road behind him. The van was not giving chase.

He thought about their next steps. One option was the Canadian Embassy. But the KGB operatives would have already radioed their colleagues. Two or more teams would already be on their way to cut off that escape route. The safehouse was about ten blocks away, to the west. Duncan nodded to himself and steered in that direction.

They came to the entrance to the bridge from where the defector had crossed less than three minutes ago. Duncan examined the railings and the park area surrounding the bridge. He was looking for the couple he had spotted earlier.

But they were gone.

Or so he thought.

Gunshot bursts exploded from the left side. Duncan felt the spray of the window’s glass cut into his face. He swung the wheel, and the sedan spun around. Bullets struck almost everything around him. A cry escaped his lips as one round pierced his left arm. Another one punctured the door and stabbed him right underneath his ribcage. Duncan moaned in agony. His blurry eyes took in the part of the street in the direction of the volley. Muzzle flashes betrayed the two shooters’ positions.

Reviews for Codename Makarov

[Chris · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ethan Jones' Justin Hall series introduced Carrie O’Connor but this book is the second in her own series.  Since learning where her father was buried Carrie is determined to discover how he died. Carrie has a lot to deal with during this book as she juggles this personal ‘mission’ with her official one aiding the Russians in rescuing some captured operatives.  Then there’s the issue of her long term CIS partner Justin having ‘gone rogue’ & how she can help bring him back & keep him out of prison.  If that weren’t enough she makes a trip home to visit her mother who is suffering with Alzhiemers.  I liked seeing this more human side of the character as it helped bring her to life.  How Ethan Jones manages to get all this into such a fast paced novel is amazing.  Doubly so when you add in his trademark awesome action scenes too.  A great read for fans of action spy thrillers & a great addition to Ethan Jones back catalogue proving, if proof is needed, that he doesn’t write bad novels.