Shadow Protocol Mike NoMads actioN thriller shadoW P rotocol Mike Nomads Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer c Shadow Protocol Shadow Protocol Mike Nomads Mike Nomads An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer c Shadow Protocol Istanbul, Turkey – 11:42 PM T he sniper adjusted his scope, lining up the shot. From his perch atop a crumbling roof- top overlooking the dimly lit café below, he steadied his breathing. The wind from the Bosphorus whispered against his cheek, cool and steady. Perfect conditions. Inside the café, Ambassador James Holloway stirred his tea, his back to the window. Across from him, a jittery informant wiped sweat from his brow and leaned in. “They know,” the informant whispered in Turkish. “The list is real. They’ve already...” Mike Nomads Holloway’s pen slipped from his fingers. He bent down to grab it. The sniper squeezed the trigger. A suppressed crack split the night air. The bullet punched through the window, slamming into the chair where Holloway’s head had been a sec- ond ago. Glass exploded outward as screams erupted inside the café. Security personnel scrambled, shov- ing the ambassador to the ground, guns drawn. The informant bolted for the back door. “Shit,” the sniper muttered, already moving. His extraction plan had just turned into a get-the-hell-out plan. But across the city, Ethan Drake hadn’t heard the shot. He sat in a smoky back-alley bar, staring into a glass of raki, contemplating how much he hated re- tirement. The place smelled like old leather, spilled liquor, and bad decisions. Just the way he liked it. “You look like shit,” a voice rumbled beside him. Drake sighed. So much for peace and quiet. Shadow Protocol He turned to see Kemal Demir, a Turkish intelli- gence officer who looked like he’d been dragged out of a war zone and straight into a tailor shop. His dark suit was immaculate, but the bruises on his knuckles told another story. “And you look like you just lost a fight to a staircase,” Drake shot back, sipping his drink. Kemal didn’t smile. He slid a worn envelope across the table. Drake hesitated, then picked it up and flipped it open. Photographs. Grainy surveillance shots. Dead men in alleys, in offices, in cars with blown-out windows. One image showed Holloway’s face circled in red. “They’re hunting our people, Drake. One by one.” Drake exhaled, rubbing his temple. “Not my problem.” “It is now.” Kemal nodded at the bar’s TV, where a breaking news banner scrolled beneath live footage of a shattered café window. Drake tensed. “I was just drinking with that guy last week.” Mike Nomads “Lucky for you. Not so lucky for him.” Drake stared at the screen. He’d spent years mak- ing enemies, but this? This was a kill list. He threw back the last of his drink and grabbed his coat. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “Fine. Who’s next on the list?” Kemal smirked. “Now you sound like your old self.” Drake snorted. “Yeah, well. Retirement’s overrated anyway.” Shadow Protocol I. Athens, Greece – 12:17 AM Ethan Drake hated clubs. He hated the strobe lights, the bass-heavy music that made his teeth rattle, and most of all, the sweaty, drunken tourists bumping into him every five sec- onds. Yet here he was, jammed into an underground bar in Plaka, nursing a whiskey and waiting for a dead man to arrive. Across the dimly lit room, an arms dealer named Aris Vlahos leaned against the bar, oblivious to the fact that Ethan Drake was about to ruin his night. Vlahos had been selling weapons to someone tar- geting U.S. diplomats. That made him a loose end. And Drake? He was in the business of tying up loose ends. Mike Nomads Drake took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching as Vlahos laughed with a couple of bodyguards, his gold tooth flashing under the neon lights. Cocky bastard. Drake cracked his neck and pushed off the bar. Time to say hello. “I Need a Word” Vlahos barely had time to register Drake’s approach before a heavy hand slammed onto his shoulder. “Aris, buddy,” Drake said, voice casual. “We need to talk.” Vlahos turned, frowning. “Who the hell are y...” Drake grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, slamming his head against the bar. The bar- tender took one look at the scene and wisely decided to clean glasses at the other end. “That was polite,” Drake said. “You don’t want to see what impolite looks like.” The two bodyguards moved fast. Too fast. One reached for his jacket, a gun. The other balled a fist dumb. Drake went for the smart one first. He caught the Shadow Protocol guy’s wrist before the gun cleared leather, twisting it violently. A sharp crack echoed through the bar, fol- lowed by a strangled scream. The dumb one lunged. Drake sidestepped and sent a knee into his gut, doubling him over. A quick el- bow to the temple, and he crumpled like a bad poker hand. Vlahos, dazed, tried to crawl away. “Not so fast, Gold Tooth,” Drake growled, grabbing him by the back of the shirt and hauling him up. Vlahos’ breathing was ragged, his face pale. “Okay, okay! Just tell me what you want!” Drake leaned in. “Who hired you?” Vlahos swallowed hard. “I don’t know his name. Just calls himself ‘Orpheus.’” Drake frowned. “Dramatic. What else?” Vlahos hesitated. Drake responded by twisting his arm in a direction nature didn’t intend. “Okay! He paid in crypto, wired through accounts Mike Nomads I can’t trace. But I know this, he’s not working alone. They have people everywhere. Watching. Listening.” Drake’s gut tightened. “Where’s the next meet?” Vlahos darted his eyes toward the entrance. And that’s when Drake realized. It was too late. Ambush The front doors burst open. Four men in tactical gear poured inside, silenced pistols already raised. “Shit,” Drake muttered. Vlahos used the distraction to twist free and make a break for it. Drake grabbed the nearest thing, a full bottle of vodka and hurled it at one of the gunmen. It shat- tered against his skull, sending him sprawling. Then the shooting started. Shadow Protocol Drake hit the ground as bullets chewed through the bar, shattering bottles, sending neon sparks fly- ing. The crowd screamed, stampeding toward the ex- its. He rolled behind an overturned table, heart ham- mering. The attackers moved in, methodical. No panic. Professionals. Drake grabbed the nearest weapon, a pool cue. Not ideal, but he’d worked with worse. As one of the gunmen rounded the table, Drake exploded upward, driving the cue into his throat. The man collapsed, gagging. Drake grabbed his pistol and fired twice, one shot to the chest, one to the head. The assassin dropped. The remaining three opened fire. Drake dove over the bar, landing in a shower of broken glass. A scream cut through the chaos. Vlahos. He was making a run for the alley exit. “Son of a...” Drake vaulted over the bar and sprinted after him. The Rooftop Chase Mike Nomads Outside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the distant hum of Athens nightlife. Vlahos scrambled up a fire escape, his breath rag- ged. Drake followed, taking the rungs two at a time. As he reached the rooftop, he heard a familiar sound. A drone buzzed overhead. Not the tourist kind. The military kind. “Oh, come on,” Drake muttered. Vlahos stood frozen on the rooftop, staring at the drone in horror. Drake tackled him. Hard. A second later, the alley below erupted in a fireball, the blast wave nearly throwing them off the roof. Drake coughed, rolling to his feet. Vlahos was dead. Face-down, unmoving. Either the blast or the fall had finished him. Drake cursed under his breath. He had one lead, Shadow Protocol and now he was a pile of broken bones. Then his phone buzzed. He pulled it out, wiping dust from the screen. Unknown Number: “You’re in over your head, Drake. Walk away.” Drake exhaled. If they thought that was enough to scare him off... They were dead wrong. Mike Nomads II. Berlin, Germany – 2:43 AM Ethan Drake had faced impossible odds before. But this? This was chaos. Gunfire shredded through the penthouse suite of the König Hotel as he ducked behind an overturned table, reloading his pistol. The opulent room, once a lavish retreat for the rich and powerful, was now a war zone. Smoke curled from bullet-riddled walls. The shattered remains of a glass coffee table crunched beneath his boots. “Drake, you copy?” His earpiece crackled with the voice of his only ally on this mess—Nick Salazar, a disgraced MI6 agent with a talent for trouble. Shadow Protocol “Not a great time, mate,” Drake muttered, popping up just long enough to put two rounds into a masked assassin who had the audacity to try and reload. The body hit the floor. “Tell me you’ve got eyes on Orpheus,” Drake de- manded. “Yeah, about that,” Nick said. “He’s making a run for the service elevator. You might want to hurry—he’s got backup, and I don’t mean just a couple of guys with pistols. We’re talking armored escort, real VIP treat- ment.” Drake cursed under his breath. The mastermind behind the assassinations—Orpheus—was slipping away. A fresh hail of bullets tore into the couch behind him. One of the shooters, a blond-haired brute in tactical gear, smirked as he advanced, shotgun raised. Drake sighed. “You guys just don’t quit, do you?” He grabbed the leg of an overturned chair and flung it at the man’s head. The guy ducked—right into Drake’s uppercut. A satisfying crunch followed. The shotgun clattered to the floor. Mike Nomads Drake snatched it up and fired once. The brute went down, hard. “Moving to intercept,” he growled into his earpiece, already sprinting toward the emergency stairwell. * * * * * Drake took the stairs three at a time. Somewhere above him, Orpheus was fleeing to a rooftop exit, no doubt heading for an extraction chopper. Nick’s voice crackled through the comms. “Mate, I’d get a move on. Looks like the cavalry’s coming.” Drake burst through the rooftop door just as a sleek black helicopter roared into view, its rotors slic- ing through the night. Orpheus stood near the edge, flanked by two heav- ily armed bodyguards. “Cutting it close, aren’t we?” Orpheus called over the roar of the chopper, his voice smooth, amused. He was tall, silver-haired, wearing a tailored black suit like he had all the time in the world. Drake didn’t answer. He lifted the shotgun and fired. Shadow Protocol The first bodyguard took the full blast to the chest, spinning backward. The second dove for cover, re- turning fire. Drake rolled, narrowly avoiding a burst of auto- matic rounds. He slid behind an air conditioning unit and checked his ammo. Three shells left. Perfect. He popped out, took aim... Click. Nothing. “Oh, for fu...” The second bodyguard grinned. Big mistake. Drake hurled the shotgun at his face, closed the distance before the guy recovered, and drove his knee into his stomach. A quick grab, a twist, and the assassin’s own pistol was in Drake’s hands. One shot. Goodnight. Orpheus was already climbing into the chopper. Drake sprinted. Ten feet. Mike Nomads Five. The chopper lifted. Drake leaped and caught the landing skid. * * * * * The Berlin skyline blurred below as the helicopter banked hard, wind whipping against Drake’s face. Inside, Orpheus knelt by the open door, calmly watching him struggle. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” Drake gritted his teeth. “Bad habit.” Orpheus sighed, pulled a pistol, and aimed it di- rectly at Drake’s head. Not today. Drake swung his legs, twisting his body just as Or- pheus fired. The bullet missed but the force sent Drake’s grip slipping. For a split second, he dangled one-handed over two hundred feet of open air.