by Dowell, Trey
I slammed my feet into my boots, then took another sweep of the floor with my eyes shut, scanning for any stray consciousness within range.
Nothing.
While Lyla scrambled into her shirt and pants, I examined the entry team. First guy through the door was the guy with the night-night pistol and he had a Kalashnikov assault rifle slung over his torso as backup. The two guys right behind him had stepped in with Tasers, one of which had already fired. The telltale filaments trailed out of the weapon’s barrel; I followed them straight to the electrodes at the ends, now harmlessly burrowed into the wooden sideboard of Lyla’s bed. He’d fired the thing as he dropped, electrifying the one material that didn’t give a shit. One second too late on my mass drop, though, and I’d have gotten the juice right after the tranq dart—down for the count.
More unconscious men lined the hall outside our room, trailing all the way to the elevator, and none of them had nonlethal weaponry. These guys held AKs with fat noise suppressors on the barrels, and several men had hand grenades attached to their tactical vests. The entry team was obviously the “take-them-alive” Plan A, and these assholes were the “just-in-case” Plan B.
I did not approve of either plan.
When I turned back to the room, Lyla was dressed and hunched down over the lead shooter. She pulled off his mask first, then crawled to the other two and did the same.
“Takavar,” she grunted. “Iranian special forces.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve encountered them before.” Disgust dripped off every word. “No facial hair. They can blend in better on foreign soil, outside the Middle East.” She stood and funneled her hair into a ponytail, asking, “But how did they find us?”
That’s when it finally dawned on me.
Her hair.
When she’d walked in the door earlier, she hadn’t been wearing the niqab. Wasn’t even carrying it.
“You walked through the lobby in plain view, didn’t you?” I asked.
She blinked, eyes shifting back and forth while she ran the mental recording backward. “I . . . no . . . I wouldn’t have . . . ,” she started, then lowered her head. “Damn.”
“You celebrated too early, and someone downstairs ID’d you. Goddammit.” I pushed past her into the room, and her apology bounced off my back. “Doesn’t matter,” I said, grabbing my duster. Only then did Lyla notice the belt around my arm.
“What’s wrong? Are you hit?”
“Tranq dart.” I checked the tourniquet. It had slipped down a little, but still held. My arm was going numb, but that was better than the alternative. I donned the duster, squeezing my left arm through the sleeve. It was uncomfortably tight around my bound-up shoulder, but at least the sleeve would help hold the belt in place.
“Scott, I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Lyla repeated.
“Later.” I stepped over the bodies in the doorway and looked down toward the elevator. “We’re on a clock now . . . I’ve only got minutes before I’m down. Maybe less.”
Lyla didn’t follow me into the hall.
“If you only have a few minutes, let’s make them count.” She loomed over the guy with the tranq gun and pulled him upright by his vest. Her eyes started to rotate as she pulled the unconscious man toward her face.
“Wake them up, one at a time,” she said. “Starting with this one.”
I was happy to oblige.
—
Five minutes later, a full squad of masked soldiers escorted two prisoners straight through the lobby. Draped under black hoods, hands cuffed behind their backs, the two captives were quietly ushered into a waiting evac truck, along with six Takavar escorts. The special-forces troops allowed neither of the two platoons of regular army waiting outside the hotel to assume custody—in fact, when army guards tried to hop in with the prisoners, six masked men pushed them right back out and closed the door. The Takavar captain subsequently relieved the driver of his keys and informed the man that the army’s job was to provide vehicle escort only.
The lieutenant leading the army units looked confused, but refused to argue with a superior officer; particularly one in command of a shadow force like the dreaded Takavar, which had a nasty reputation for disappearing the Ayatollah’s enemies, foreign and domestic. The wide-eyed lieutenant was so flustered, he didn’t bother with a simple head count of the special-forces soldiers—which meant he didn’t notice the Takavar squad was four soldiers short.
Or that two of those missing soldiers now sat quietly, hooded and handcuffed, in the back of the evac truck.
Or notice the other two in the front seat of an SUV, pulling around the block from the hotel rear.
And the lieutenant certainly didn’t know that as he gave up both his command and his backbone without protest, the two most-wanted fugitives in his entire country watched it happen from behind the tinted glass of that same SUV.
“How far to the base?” I asked Lyla.
“Bigdeneh is almost fifty kilometers to the west. At least thirty minutes.”
“I wish we could be there to see the base commander’s face when they open the doors to that truck. I assume the guards will pledge undying loyalty to the Goddess of Love?”
“I’m not quite that vain. To a man, they will swear that they believed we were in custody.”
“And the ‘prisoners’?”
“They’re content to wait quietly until the hoods are removed.”
My own satisfaction got buried under a sudden wave of dizziness. “Shit. I don’t have much time, we gotta find a safe spot.”
“Biya berim,” Lyla ordered the driver, who immediately pulled away from the curb in a U-turn. He accelerated smoothly in the opposite direction from the departing army trucks. A mile later, the SUV turned off the street bordering the bazaar and dove into a series of quick maneuvers down narrow passages and tiny alleys. Each turn made me more woozy.
Lyla steadied me and asked, “Are you okay?”
“The headlights are spitting out rainbows and you’re starting to sound like Darth Vader, so . . . no. Where are we going?”
“The driver’s aunt lives in a townhouse off the northern edge of the bazaar. Her family is on holiday in Kish, so we should be safe for the night. The streets are quiet right now, but he’s taking us in the back way to avoid prying eyes.”
In moments, the SUV pulled into an alley between tall brick buildings and stopped. The driver tossed a long piece of cloth back to Lyla, who spun it around her neck and over her head in a makeshift hijab—even with dark, empty streets she wasn’t going to risk being noticed this time.
I opened the car door and stepped down . . . and kept on going down. My legs were losing their will faster than my brain. When the driver hopped out and helped Lyla get me to my feet, they had to support my body on either side to keep me vertical. In doing so, they popped the belt loose under the duster sleeve.
“Well, I’m screwed now,” I said, much louder than I wanted.
“Be quiet!” Lyla uttered in a harsh whisper. She issued a couple of Farsi commands with the same hushed urgency, and the other escort replaced her as one of my supports. The Takavar soldiers buddy-carried me through the back door of the townhouse, just as my brain’s house lights started to fade.
By the time Lyla had me deposited in one of the bedrooms, I was barely hanging on.
“You have to . . . we need . . . evac . . .” The mental gears just wouldn’t engage.
“Shhh,” Lyla whispered, combing my hair back with her fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
The last thing I remember before finally giving in was an overwhelming sense of irritation. Being forced into unconsciousness? Against my will?
Dammit, that’s just not fair.
CHAPTER 36
My eyes didn’t blink open until noon, and they were not happy about it. The in
dignity of waking up in a puddle of drool didn’t help, either. The real complaining, though, came from my sternum, ribs, and left arm—all of which screamed their displeasure when I rolled over and sat up.
I couldn’t move for a while after that. While my brain rebooted and tried to load the last twenty-four hours’ worth of insanity into the memory banks, I finally got the guts to swing my legs off the mattress and stand up. I creaked and popped more than the bed.
The room was small—modestly appointed with my drool-soaked twin bed, an end table, and a dresser with a jewelry box on top. The only window in the room was closed and the shades drawn. I was glad for the privacy, considering someone had removed the gauntlet and every single bit of my clothing, save my briefs.
A full-length mirror on the back of the door to the room showed the physical toll of my adventures: left arm swollen and red, scratches all over my torso, and the beginnings of a nasty purple bruise spreading over half my sternum. I made a tentative attempt to massage my chest, then thought better of it. Still, the bruise wasn’t bad considering I’d taken a 9 mm round at point-blank range.
My clothes weren’t in sight, so rather than stride into the hallway of a stranger’s home wearing nothing but underwear, I cracked the door and called out.
“Lyla? Hello?”
No response.
When I closed the door and turned around, I noticed a piece of scrap paper, lying to the side of my pillow.
S—I’ll be back. Clothes and food in kitchen. House empty.
L
PS I took a niqab
How thoughtful. NOW she’s careful.
I crumpled the paper and tossed it away. The irritation at being discovered last night came flooding back, but not many memories beyond that. I tried to remember where I was, but the details after we’d escaped the hotel were sketchy. Plus, the harder I tried to concentrate, the foggier my concentration became.
Wait . . . tranquilized. Barbiturates.
The confusion and brain cloud were side effects from the dart. There was an easy way to get rid of the fog, but certain parts of my body were really going to hate it. I took a brutally cold shower followed by a perfectly hot one. When the water finally ran lukewarm, I emerged to realize that the pounding water had been shutting me off from the world a little too well.
Noise from beyond the bedroom filtered through the windows and even the bathroom door. A lot of noise. Wasn’t an automatic cause for alarm—we were still near the Grand Bazaar, and that place at midday put a livestock auction house to shame—but then I heard the gunshot.
At first I thought, Engine backfire. They happened a lot in Tehran, where the model year of nine out of every ten cars started with a “1.” But gunshots, unlike backfires, tend to spawn more gunshots. After I heard four additional loud pops, I knew the source wasn’t automotive. I scrambled into my jeans and yanked a shirt over my head as I went for the door leading to the master bedroom’s balcony. Stepping outside was like walking through a door into another world.
Three- and four-story buildings lined this portion of the bazaar, so I couldn’t see beyond the half mile of narrow, winding street below. But man, what a half mile it was. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people mobbed the closed-in boulevard. Most were jumping up and down, screaming. Initially I assumed a riot, but this was different. I didn’t see scowls or hear angry shouts; people were hugging, many with tears running down their faces. The gunshots were apparently of the “shoot-in-the-air-like-a-bandito” variety. Some of the revelers had makeshift posters of the president, and, tellingly, none of them were on fire.
Something big had happened, something wonderful as far as the celebrating throng was concerned. I went back inside, closed the balcony door, and went for the nearest TV. The one in the master bedroom got fewer than twenty stations, and virtually all were broadcasting in either Farsi or Arabic. Al Jazeera English was the only channel I could understand. After five minutes of footage, I wished I couldn’t. The scenes were all similar to what was going on outside my window, but the voice-over wasn’t nearly as excited.
Repeating our breaking news . . . the Republic of Iran in chaos at this hour. In a stunning shift of national policy, President Nikahd announced two hours ago he is stepping down—admitting to large-scale voter fraud in last year’s elections.
The video cut to the tearful president during his press conference. His manner was humble and apologetic, not two words normally associated with the man. Right then, Lyla’s absence made the jump from harmless to incriminating.
No official word yet, but our analysts are unanimous in agreeing this decision was made WITHOUT consulting the Iranian parliament, his own political party, or Iran’s Supreme Leader—the Ayatollah. The reasons for these assumptions should be clear from the last recorded portion of his impromptu press conference. State-controlled media cut the video feed before the president could finish his remarks, for obvious reasons.
The announcer shut up, and only Nikahd’s voice came from the television. English translation scrolled beneath the video.
. . . and it is because of this fraud, this crime against the great people of Iran, that I must step down and call for real, true elections. Of course such a thing will not happen so long as the veil of tyranny hangs over every Iranian’s head. Your Supreme Leader and the government he enables are no longer the voice of the people . . .
His voice rose.
They are a product of the revolution, which freed us all, yes. But now, like so many tyrants from history, the liberators become the oppressors. They shield themselves behind Islam, use the Holy Word to enslave people they should hold dear—the worst kind of blasphemy. The time has come for an Iran ruled by the PEOPLE, where fear and secrecy are rooted out by justice and liberty. Join with me, brothers and sisters! Let the beacon of truth light the way toward FREEDOM—
A commotion stirred off-camera and several of the president’s retinue moved toward the disturbance. There were shouts and sounds of a scuffle before the video cut out. The announcer’s face replaced the black screen and he looked almost as disturbed as I felt.
Widespread celebrations are under way as I speak. Tehran is, of course, ground zero for these events. No official word yet from the office of the Ayatollah or the military which he controls; however, army units have been dispatched from bases surrounding the capital and are en route to key facilities in Tehran proper. Demonstrations are at a fever pitch and many citizens are armed. Considerable doubt exists that the arrival of military forces will deter or disperse them without open bloodshed. Ladies and gentlemen, we may be only hours away from witnessing the onset of full-scale civil war.
I jabbed the power button on the TV. One question pounded against the interior of my skull. It wasn’t if Lyla did it; obviously she had. It wasn’t why, either. Hell, my question wasn’t even how, because the truth hit in a rush. She’d contacted General Ahmadi—the man in charge of VIP protection for the whole country, not just the nuke program. Gotten Nikahd’s location and security details, then used my convenient involuntary nap to sneak out and do what she does best.
No, the only unanswered question was: who was the bigger idiot?
Her, for throwing an entire nation in a blender; or me, for thinking she’d be satisfied with only sabotaging the nuke program? My hands balled into fists. It almost stopped the shaking.
An awful lightness swirled in my throat and I grabbed the gauntlet from the bathroom. I’d powered it down last night after my debrief with Tucker. When I reenabled the comm functions, a list of entries scrolled up the screen, all identical: “MISSED CALL: TUCKER-OPS.”
We are in deep shit.
A surge of noise outside distracted me before I could panic; the balcony door barely muffled the raucous crowd outside. When I swung it open, my jaw did the same. The crush and intensity of the mob had doubled in the few minutes I’d been inside. I couldn’t see a single inch of pavement�
�just a pulsating mass of bodies, jubilant to the point of mania. They danced and jumped up and down, some beneath undulating flags of red, green, and white stripes. A few intrepid souls climbed construction scaffolding on a nearby building façade to get better views of the crowd. And the omnipresent cell phones, thousands thrust aloft to record the birth of a new age in Iran.
Unfortunately, their new dawn was only going to last until a column of tanks rolled down the boulevard and broke up the party. Hard. This moment, though, celebration revolved around right now with zero regard for the armored retaliation rumbling toward the capital. The 10 percent of my brain not furious with Lyla wondered where she was, out in the morass of humanity the streets of Tehran had become. Hopefully somewhere safe, because the pissed-off 90 percent wanted Aphrodite alive and well when I kicked her ass. I half turned back to the room to call her when something odd caught my eye.
Normally, your vision locks on to unexpected movement. In a maelstrom of activity, however, the peculiarity you notice is stillness. Two hundred yards away, a piece of the mob wasn’t moving. A circular section of people almost thirty feet across stood out from the rest. All around them, the texture of the crowd was in constant flux; chaotic motion in all directions. But not this group, at least fifty people strong. They were a flat disk of tranquility surrounded by roiling sea.
When I focused on their portion of the street, I noticed they were moving, just not bobbing up and down. The disk slowly forced its way through the masses in the direction of my balcony. As they drifted closer, I could see the edges of the circle, where the ocean surf of the surrounding mob crashed against the border and rolled away. The outer boundary of men held the revelers at bay, pushing back to maintain the circle’s edge. At least five progressively smaller rings of men supported them from within. The entire group protected the center—an open circle of pavement ten feet in diameter framing a solitary figure, walking untouched. From a hundred yards, I saw the group as a silent moving eye: a cornea of embraced minions, an iris of concrete, and Lyla as the pupil.