The first shots came as Gul was making his approach to the shepherd's hut.
Not from the hut itself, but from the ridge to his west—a position he hadn't identified in his reconnaissance. Three sharp cracks that split the mountain air, sending birds scattering from nearby trees. Instinct took over before his conscious mind could process what was happening. He dropped to the ground, rolling behind the cover of a boulder as bullets kicked up dirt where he'd been standing seconds before.
Amateur mistake. He'd been so focused on Farsi's hideout that he'd neglected to consider other threats. The isolation of the location had made him complacent—a dangerous error for someone in his line of work.
Gul drew his sidearm, a modified Makarov with a suppressor, and assessed his situation. The shooter had the high ground, approximately two hundred meters away based on the sound. Probably using a rifle with a scope, given the accuracy of those first shots. If they were a professional, they'd be repositioning already, moving to maintain their advantage.
But who were they? Not Farsi's people—the professor wasn't known to employ armed guards. Another NKVI team, perhaps? Vasiliev had mentioned nothing about backup. But then, Vasiliev hadn't exactly been forthcoming about the true nature of this mission either.
A fourth shot pinged off the boulder near his head, confirming the shooter was still in position. Not moving as a professional would. Interesting.
"NKVI Special Operations!" Gul called out in the language of the highlands. "Identify yourself!"
The response came in the same language, but with an accent from the eastern provinces. "Bullshit! Show your credentials!"
The voice struck Gul like a physical blow. He knew it—knew it from long nights in forward operating bases, from shared cigarettes during brief moments of respite, from the frantic chaos of battlefield medicine when an operation went sideways.
"Tamir?" he called, disbelief evident in his voice.
A long pause. Then: "Who's asking?"
"It's Gul. Gul Nazari. Eleventh Mountain Division. We served together at the northeastern border."
Another pause, longer this time. Gul could almost feel the confusion radiating from the hidden shooter.
"Prove it," Tamir finally called back.
Gul thought quickly. Something only the real Tamir would know. "After the artillery strike at Khoram, you gave me your prayer beads. Said they'd brought you through three tours without a scratch, and I needed them more than you did."
The silence that followed felt like it stretched for an eternity. Then came the sound of movement—careful, deliberate footsteps approaching his position.
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Tamir called, much closer now.
Gul slowly raised his hands, pistol dangling from his trigger finger to show he wasn't a threat. He stood, turning to face the approaching figure.
Tamir looked older than Gul remembered—his face weathered, a new scar running from temple to jawline on the left side. His beard was fuller, flecked with premature gray. But his eyes were the same—dark, intelligent, wary. He held a rifle at the ready, not quite pointed at Gul but not quite lowered either.
"What the hell are you doing here, Nazari?" Tamir asked, suspicion evident in his voice.
"I could ask you the same question," Gul replied, maintaining his calm exterior despite the surge of adrenaline still coursing through his system. "Last I heard, you'd left the service after your injury."
"I did," Tamir confirmed, his stance relaxing slightly but his grip on the rifle remaining firm. "Then I found better employment. Private security."
"For Professor Farsi," Gul deduced, pieces falling into place. This complicated things considerably.
"So you do know about the professor," Tamir said, his wariness returning. "And you're NKVI now? Special Operations?"
Gul nodded, mind racing. Tamir had been a friend once—a good one. They'd saved each other's lives more than once during the border conflicts. But that was before. Before Tamir had been wounded and discharged. Before Gul had been recruited into the NKVI's elite ranks. Before they'd ended up on opposite sides of whatever this was.
"I'm here for the professor and his evidence," Gul said, deciding honesty was the best approach. Partial honesty, at least. "My orders are to bring them in."
"Alive?" Tamir asked, the question hanging heavy between them.
Gul hesitated. His orders had been clear—eliminate Farsi, secure the evidence. But something had shifted inside him since that nightmare, since his conversation with Vasiliev. Doubts that had been mere whispers were now shouting for attention.
"That depends on how this plays out," he said finally. "Why are you protecting him, Tamir? What's your stake in this?"
"My stake?" Tamir's laugh was bitter. "My nephew was in Azadi Square that day. Nine years old. Holding a small flag. Shot through the chest by a government sniper."
The words hit Gul like a physical blow. He thought of his nightmare, of children falling in a public square. Of evidence implicating his own division.
"Farsi has proof," Tamir continued, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Proof that it wasn't foreign terrorists or opposition extremists. It was the government. It was NKVI snipers."
"I wasn't there," Gul said automatically, a defensive reflex. "I was still at the border when it happened."
"Maybe not you personally," Tamir acknowledged, "but your people. Your organization. Following orders from the top."
Gul's mind raced. If what Tamir was saying was true—if what his nightmare had shown him was real—then his mission wasn't about national security at all. It was about covering up a state crime of the highest order.
"I need to see this evidence," he said, a decision forming even as he spoke the words.
"So you can destroy it?" Tamir scoffed. "I don't think so."
"So I can verify it," Gul corrected. "If what you're saying is true—"
"It is true," Tamir interrupted, a fierce certainty in his voice. "I've seen the documents. The orders. The names of those who gave them."
"Then I need to see for myself," Gul insisted. "You know me, Tamir. Have I ever struck you as someone who would participate in the killing of innocent children? Who would cover up such a crime?"
Tamir studied him, conflict evident in his expression. They had history, Gul and he. Had trusted each other with their lives.
"The Gul I knew wouldn't," Tamir said finally. "But the NKVI operative standing before me? I'm not so sure."
Before Gul could respond, a new sound cut through the mountain air—the distinctive whump-whump-whump of helicopter rotors. Distant still, but approaching fast.
Both men's heads snapped up, scanning the sky.
"Are they with you?" Tamir asked sharply.
"No," Gul replied, certainty and dread settling in his gut. "My mission was solo infiltration. If there's air support coming in, it's not part of my operation."
Which meant Vasiliev had lied to him. Had sent him in as a stalking horse, with a strike team following to clean up. Clean up what—or who—was the question now haunting Gul.
"We need to move," he said, urgency coloring his voice. "If that's who I think it is, none of us have much time."
Tamir hesitated, clearly torn between his duty to protect Farsi and his instinct to trust a former comrade.
"They'll kill everyone," Gul pressed. "Farsi. Anyone with him. You. Me. Then they'll take the evidence and make sure it never sees the light of day."
Something in Gul's tone must have convinced Tamir, because he nodded once, sharply.
"This way," he said, already moving toward the hut. "But I'm watching you, Nazari. One wrong move..."
The threat hung unfinished between them as they ran, the sound of approaching helicopters growing louder with each passing second.
Alex's Perspective
"There are tunnels beneath the mountain," Farsi explained as he led them through a narrow passage hidden behind a false wall in the hut. "Used by smugglers for centuries, then by resistance fighters during the occupation. Now they serve us."
Alex followed close behind, Nadia at her back, the weight of her backpack full of evidence a constant reminder of what was at stake. The tunnel was cramped, forcing them to walk single file, the only illumination coming from the small flashlight Farsi held.
"How far does it go?" Alex asked, her voice echoing slightly in the confined space.
"About two kilometers," Farsi replied. "It emerges in a small cave overlooking the eastern valley. From there, we can make our way to a village where I have contacts. They'll help us reach the border."
The plan seemed solid enough, but Alex couldn't shake her unease. The appearance of the NKVI operative had been anticipated, but the timing suggested a leak, a compromise in Farsi's security measures. And if one aspect of their plan had been compromised, others might be as well.
"Professor," she began, voicing her concerns, "if they found this location—"
The rest of her sentence was cut off by a new sound penetrating even the thick rock around them—the distinctive thrum of helicopter rotors.
"Military," Nadia said, her expression grim in the beam of Farsi's flashlight. "Heavy transport, by the sound. Multiple craft."
Farsi's pace quickened. "They're escalating beyond what we anticipated. A single operative we could evade. This is a full strike team."
Alex felt her heart rate increase, but her mind remained clear. This was familiar territory for her—crisis response, adapting to rapidly changing conditions.
"If they're bringing in that level of force, they'll have the area surrounded soon," she observed. "We need to move faster or find another way out."
"There is no other way from here," Farsi said grimly. "We're committed to this path now."
They pressed on, the tunnel beginning to slope upward. The air grew fresher, suggesting they were nearing an exit. Alex checked her watch—they'd been moving for nearly twenty minutes, which meant they should be close to the exit point Farsi had described.
The sound of the helicopters had faded somewhat, but now new noises reached them—voices, faint but distinct, and the crackle of radio communication.
"They're at the exit point," Nadia said, her voice tight. "They've anticipated our escape route."
Farsi halted, and Alex nearly collided with him in the narrow passage. He turned, his face a mask of controlled urgency in the beam of the flashlight.
"There's a side tunnel about fifty meters back," he said in a low voice. "It's partially collapsed, rarely used. It will be a tight squeeze, but it leads to a different exit point. One they might not know about."
"Might not?" Alex questioned, always attuned to qualifiers in statements.
"It's an older tunnel," Farsi admitted. "Not on any modern maps. But we can't guarantee they don't have the same historical knowledge we do."
It wasn't much of a choice. Forward led to certain capture. Backward offered at least a chance.
"Lead the way," Alex decided.
They retraced their steps, Farsi counting under his breath until he reached what appeared to be just another section of rock wall. But when he pressed against a specific point, a narrow opening became visible—a gap barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
"I'll go first," Farsi said, already moving into the gap. "Then you, Ms. Chen. Nadia will bring up the rear."
Alex nodded, waiting until Farsi had disappeared into the darkness before following. The passage was even narrower than it had appeared, forcing her to turn sideways and still scraping her back against the rough stone. Claustrophobia threatened to rise, but she pushed it down with practiced discipline. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford right now.
The side tunnel seemed to go on forever, twisting and descending deeper into the mountain. At times the ceiling dipped so low they had to crawl, the stone cold and damp beneath their hands. The air grew stale, suggesting this passage wasn't connected to the same ventilation system as the main tunnel.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, they emerged into a slightly larger chamber. Farsi's flashlight revealed ancient stone walls carved with symbols Alex didn't recognize.
"A sacred site," Farsi explained, noticing her interest. "From before the arrival of modern religions. The locals believed this mountain was inhabited by spirits who guarded the valley. They would come here to make offerings, to seek guidance."
"Fascinating as the history lesson is," Nadia interjected, her tone betraying her tension, "we need to keep moving."
"Of course," Farsi agreed, pointing his flashlight toward an opening on the far side of the chamber. "That passage leads to the surface. It emerges in a grove of ancient oak trees considered sacred by the local villagers. Few outsiders know of its existence."
They crossed the chamber, Alex noting the small alcoves carved into the walls that might once have held offerings or relics. Despite the urgency of their situation, she couldn't help the journalist's instinct to observe, to record details for later use.
The passage upward was steeper, requiring them to use handholds cut into the rock. Alex was grateful for the fingerless gloves she habitually wore in the field—they provided some protection against the rough stone as she pulled herself upward.
The first indication they were nearing the surface was a subtle change in the air—fresher, carrying the scent of growing things. Then came filtered light, a faint greenish glow suggesting they were indeed emerging into a grove of trees as Farsi had described.
Farsi paused just before the final ascent to the surface. "I'll check if it's clear," he whispered, handing his flashlight to Alex. "Wait here until I signal."
Alex and Nadia watched as Farsi climbed the remaining distance and cautiously poked his head above ground level. Long moments passed, tension mounting with each second of silence.
Finally, Farsi's head reappeared at the opening. "It seems clear," he reported in a hushed voice. "But we need to move quickly. I can hear vehicles on the main road to the east."
One by one, they emerged from the tunnel into what was indeed a grove of ancient oak trees, their massive trunks and dense canopy providing excellent concealment. The ground was soft with centuries of accumulated leaf litter, muffling their footsteps as Farsi led them toward the edge of the grove.
From their elevated position, they had a clear view of the valley below. What they saw stopped them in their tracks.
Military vehicles—at least a dozen—were positioned along the main road. Three helicopters circled overhead, their searchlights sweeping the terrain. And teams of soldiers were spreading out in a coordinated search pattern, working their way methodically up the slopes.
"This isn't just a capture operation," Nadia said, her voice hollow. "This is a full-scale military deployment."
"They must know about the courier," Farsi murmured, his composed demeanor finally showing cracks. "About the evidence from the Interior Minister's office."
Alex's mind raced, calculating angles, possibilities, escape routes. "How far to the village where your contacts are?"
"Too far to reach without being spotted," Farsi replied, gesturing toward the open terrain between their position and the distant cluster of buildings. "We'd be exposed for at least thirty minutes of travel."
"Then we need a diversion," Alex decided, already reaching into her backpack. Among the evidence and her journalistic tools was a small emergency kit—standard equipment for anyone who reported from conflict zones. It contained, among other things, a compact flare gun.
"What are you thinking?" Nadia asked, watching as Alex assembled the flare gun.
"A distraction," Alex explained. "If I fire this toward the eastern ridge, it will draw attention. Give you two a chance to move toward the village while they're focused elsewhere."
"And you?" Farsi asked, concern evident in his voice.
"I'll head west, circle around using the tree line for cover," Alex replied. "We'll meet at your contact's village. If either of us doesn't make it within two hours of the other, we proceed independently to the extraction point in the capital."
Farsi looked like he wanted to object, but Nadia placed a hand on his arm. "It's a good plan," she said quietly. "The evidence is what matters. We need to maximize its chances of getting out."
"The evidence and the people carrying it," Alex corrected. "No story is worth a life."
"Some stories are worth many lives," Farsi replied, his gaze intense. "This one could change the course of this country's history."
Alex couldn't argue with that. The evidence they carried could indeed topple a government, bring war criminals to justice, reshape an entire nation's trajectory. But her journalistic ethics were clear—no story, no matter how important, justified sacrificing lives.
"Two hours," she reiterated. "Then we move independently."
Farsi nodded, accepting the plan. "Be careful, Ms. Chen. They will not take kindly to foreign journalists interfering in state matters."
"I've dealt with hostile regimes before," Alex assured him. "This isn't my first time evading capture."
She positioned herself at the edge of the grove, aiming the flare gun toward the eastern ridge—far from either their current position or their intended escape route. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the trigger.
The flare shot high into the air, its brilliant red light casting an eerie glow over the valley before it began its descent toward the eastern slopes. The effect was immediate—the helicopters banked sharply, redirecting toward the flare, and several of the search teams on the ground changed direction as well.
"Now," Alex hissed, pushing Farsi and Nadia toward the thin cover of scattered trees that led down toward the village. "Go quickly but stay low. Use every bit of cover you can find."
As they moved off, Alex turned in the opposite direction, westward, where the forest was denser, offering better concealment for her solo journey. She'd barely taken three steps when a sound froze her in place—voices, close by, speaking in the clipped tones of military communication.
She dropped to the ground, crawling behind the massive trunk of the nearest oak. Through the underbrush, she could make out two figures in tactical gear, moving cautiously through the trees not twenty meters from her position.
Not random searchers, she realized with a sinking feeling. These were positioned sentries, probably part of a perimeter established around the entire area. The flare might have drawn away the active search teams, but these watchdogs remained.
Alex weighed her options. She could try to backtrack, follow Farsi and Nadia instead. But that would only endanger them further, potentially leading pursuers directly to the evidence. She could attempt to circle around these sentries, but the risk of discovery was high.
Or she could create a more direct diversion.
With a journalist's instinct for calculated risk, Alex made her decision. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her satellite phone and quickly tapped out a pre-composed message—a distress signal with her coordinates and a brief summary of the situation, addressed to her editor and a contact at the U.S. Embassy. If things went sideways, at least someone would know where to start looking for her.
Then, taking a deep breath, she emerged from her hiding place and walked directly toward the sentries, her hands raised in a universal gesture of surrender.
"American journalist!" she called out in the local language, then repeated it in English. "Associated Press! I'm unarmed!"
The sentries reacted with professional speed, weapons raised, shouted commands overlapping as they ordered her to freeze, to get on the ground, to keep her hands visible.
Alex complied, kneeling slowly, hands still raised. As they approached, weapons trained on her, she allowed herself a small smile. Farsi and Nadia were moving in the opposite direction, with the majority of the search teams now focused on both the flare's location and this new development.
The mission might still succeed, even if her personal role in it ended here.
One of the sentries reached her, roughly pushing her all the way to the ground and binding her hands behind her back with plastic restraints. He barked questions at her—who she was, what she was doing here, who she was with.
"I'm Alex Chen, Associated Press," she replied, sticking to the truth where possible. "I was investigating reports of human rights abuses in the region. I'm alone. My driver left me on the main road hours ago."
The sentry didn't seem convinced, speaking rapidly into his radio as his partner kept his weapon trained on Alex. She caught fragments of the conversation—"American journalist"... "possibly connected"... "bring her in for questioning."
As they hauled her to her feet, Alex caught sight of something that made her blood run cold—a small tactical team emerging from the trees to her right, led by a man who moved with the fluid confidence of someone extremely dangerous. Something about his bearing, his alertness, marked him as different from the regular military personnel surrounding him.
NKVI Special Operations, she guessed. The operative Nadia had warned her about. The one sent specifically to retrieve Farsi and his evidence.
Their eyes met briefly across the distance—hers defiant, his unreadable. Then he was moving toward her, purpose in every step, and Alex knew with certainty that her ordeal was just beginning.
Gul's Perspective
Gul recognized the woman immediately—the American journalist he'd observed through Farsi's window. Alex Chen, Associated Press. Her presence in NKVI custody complicated an already chaotic situation.
"Captain Nazari," the team leader called out as Gul approached. "We've secured a prisoner. Claims to be a journalist."
Gul maintained his professional demeanor, though his mind was racing. The arrival of the strike team had forced him to adapt quickly. When they'd intercepted him near the shepherd's hut, he'd made an instantaneous decision to play along, to pretend his solo mission had been proceeding as planned. Tamir, thankfully, had disappeared into the undergrowth before the team spotted him.
"She is," Gul confirmed, studying Chen with calculated detachment. "I observed her meeting with Farsi yesterday. Associated Press."
"You want to question her here?" the team leader asked.
Gul shook his head. "No. Too exposed. Secure her in the transport. I'll interrogate her once we're mobile."
The soldiers nodded, dragging Chen toward the waiting vehicles at the base of the slope. Gul watched them go, then turned to the team leader.
"Status report."
"No sign of Farsi or his associate," the man replied. "We've secured the hut and recovered some documents, but it looks like they cleared out most of the evidence before escaping."
"The tunnels," Gul suggested, testing how much the team already knew.
"We've got teams at all the known exit points," the leader confirmed. "They won't get far."
Gul nodded, maintaining his confident exterior while inwardly calculating his next move. His original mission had been compromised beyond repair. Whether Farsi was telling the truth about Azadi Square or not, the fact remained that Vasiliev had lied to him. Had sent him in as a stalking horse, with no intention of letting him—or anyone else involved—survive to tell the tale.
That changed everything.
"I'm going to question the journalist," he announced. "She may know Farsi's escape route. Have your men continue the search pattern focusing on the eastern slopes."
"The flare came from that direction," the team leader agreed.
"Exactly," Gul said, not bothering to explain that this likely meant Farsi had gone in the opposite direction. Let them waste time searching the wrong area. It might give him the window he needed.
He made his way down to the transport vehicles, a collection of military SUVs parked in a defensive formation. Chen had been placed in the rearmost vehicle, guarded by two soldiers who snapped to attention as Gul approached.
"Leave us," he ordered. "Secure the perimeter."
The soldiers complied without question, exiting the vehicle to take up positions nearby. Gul climbed into the back seat beside Chen, closing the door to ensure their conversation wouldn't be overheard.
She watched him warily, her posture defiant despite the restraints binding her wrists. Up close, he could see the intelligence in her eyes, the calculating gaze of someone accustomed to dangerous situations.
"I assume you're going to tell me I have no rights here," she said in lightly accented but fluent Farsi. "That the Geneva Convention doesn't apply, that my government can't help me."
"Actually," Gul replied in English, keeping his voice low, "I'm going to tell you that we have about two minutes before my men get suspicious. And in those two minutes, you need to convince me that Farsi's evidence about Azadi Square is legitimate."
The surprise that flashed across her face was quickly replaced by suspicion. "Why would an NKVI operative care about that?"
"Because I was at the border when Azadi Square happened," Gul said, the words coming more easily than he would have expected. "Because my division is being implicated in a massacre I know nothing about. Because my superiors have been lying to me, and I want to know why."
Chen studied him, clearly trying to determine if this was some kind of interrogation tactic. "If what Farsi has is correct, your division was used as scapegoats. The actual order came from much higher up—the Interior Minister himself."
"Do you have this evidence?" Gul asked, cutting to the chase.
"Some of it," Chen admitted. "But not all. Farsi and his associate have the rest."
"And where are they heading?"
Chen's expression hardened. "I'm not telling you that."
"I'm not asking so I can intercept them," Gul said, frustration edging his voice. "I'm asking because I need to know if they have a realistic chance of getting that evidence out. Because if they don't, if they're captured or killed, then you're the only backup plan."
The journalist's eyes widened slightly at his implication. "You're defecting?"
"I'm choosing a side," Gul corrected. "The side that doesn't massacre children to justify political crackdowns."
Before Chen could respond, a sharp knock on the window interrupted them. One of the soldiers was signaling urgently.
"What is it?" Gul demanded, rolling down the window.
"Sir, we've got movement on the western ridge," the soldier reported. "Two figures, moving fast toward the village. The team is mobilizing to intercept."
Gul's mind raced. Farsi and Nadia, obviously. The diversion—likely Chen's flare—hadn't worked as well as hoped.
"I'll join the pursuit team," he decided aloud. "Prepare the prisoner for transport back to headquarters."
"Yes, sir," the soldier acknowledged, moving off to relay the orders.
Gul turned back to Chen, speaking rapidly in a low voice. "They're going to take you to an NKVI black site. The questioning there won't be pleasant. Your diplomatic status will buy you some time, but not much."
"I've been in worse situations," Chen replied, though Gul suspected that was bravado.
"Listen carefully," he continued. "When they transfer you to the transport helicopter, create a distraction. Anything. Fall, scream, whatever it takes. I'll handle the rest."
Chen's expression was skeptical. "Why should I trust you?"
"Because right now, I'm the only chance you've got," Gul replied bluntly. "And you might be the only chance I've got to learn the truth."
He exited the vehicle before she could respond, striding toward the command post with the confident bearing of a man in complete control of the situation. Inside, he was anything but. For the first time in his career, Gul was operating without a clear plan, without orders, without the safety net of institutional backing.
All he had was his instinct that something was deeply wrong with this mission, with the story he'd been told about Azadi Square, with the entire structure of the regime he'd served for years.
That, and a desperate journalist who might or might not choose to trust him when the moment came.
The command post was a hive of activity, officers coordinating the pursuit of the figures spotted on the western ridge. Gul integrated himself seamlessly into the operation, offering suggestions, relaying orders, all while mentally plotting his next move.
If Chen created the distraction as he'd asked, he might have a chance to get her away from the transport team. But then what? They'd be fugitives, hunted by the full might of the NKVI. They'd need transport, resources, a safe haven.
And most importantly, they'd need to connect with Farsi and his evidence before the professor was captured or killed.
Gul checked his watch, calculating times and distances. The figures on the western ridge were still ahead of the pursuit teams, but that wouldn't last. Military helicopters could cover ground far faster than people on foot. Farsi's only chance was to reach the village and whatever support network he had there before the net closed completely.
"Sir," a communications officer called, "Colonel Vasiliev is on the secure line. He's requesting an update on the operation."
Gul's blood ran cold at the name. Vasiliev himself was monitoring the operation, evidence of just how important it was to the regime. He took the proffered handset, retreating to a quiet corner before answering.
"Nazari," he said, keeping his voice neutral.
"Captain," Vasiliev's voice was smooth as ever. "I understand we have a prisoner. The American journalist. Excellent work."
The praise sent a chill down Gul's spine. How did Vasiliev know already? Unless he had someone else on the ground, someone reporting directly to him.
"Thank you, sir," Gul replied, choosing his words carefully. "We're preparing to transport her to headquarters for questioning."
"Change of plans," Vasiliev said. "I want her eliminated. An unfortunate casualty of the operation. Foreign journalists should know better than to meddle in state security matters."
The order struck Gul like a physical blow. Eliminate Chen? In cold blood? Without even the pretense of interrogation or legal process?
"Sir," he began, fighting to keep his voice steady, "that could create significant diplomatic complications. The Americans—"
"Will protest, file complaints, and ultimately do nothing," Vasiliev cut him off. "As they always do. The decision has been made at the highest levels, Captain. Carry out your orders."
The line went dead before Gul could respond.
He stood there, handset still pressed to his ear, as the final pieces clicked into place. This wasn't just about silencing Farsi or suppressing evidence. This was about eliminating everyone who might know the truth about Azadi Square. Including American journalists. Including NKVI operatives who asked too many questions.
Including him.
Gul replaced the handset, his decision made. Whatever consequences came, whatever price he paid, he could not—would not—be part of this. Not anymore.
He strode toward the transport area where Chen was being prepared for evacuation. The time for half-measures and caution was past. If they were going to act, it had to be now.
As he approached, he saw Chen being led toward the waiting helicopter by two guards. Her hands were still bound behind her, her expression defiant despite the rough handling. She caught sight of him, and something in her eyes changed—a question, a decision.
Then she stumbled, fell to her knees with a cry of pain that seemed overly dramatic to Gul's trained ear. But it had the desired effect. The guards hesitated, momentarily distracted.
Gul didn't hesitate. His training took over, muscle memory guiding his actions with lethal precision. Two quick strikes and the guards were down, unconscious but alive. He preferred to keep it that way—these men were just following orders, as he had been hours ago.
"Can you run?" he asked Chen, pulling a knife from his boot to cut her restraints.
"Yes," she replied, rubbing her wrists as soon as they were free. "But where? We're surrounded."
"Not completely," Gul said, leading her toward a secondary vehicle—a smaller, more maneuverable SUV parked at the edge of the perimeter. "There's a patrol gap on the southwestern edge. If we move fast, we can break through before they realize what's happening."
"And then?"
"Then we find Farsi before they do," Gul said grimly, helping her into the vehicle before sliding into the driver's seat. "And we make sure the truth about Azadi Square sees the light of day."
He started the engine, accelerating smoothly toward the gap in the perimeter he'd identified during his initial approach. Behind them, shouts of alarm began to rise as the unconscious guards were discovered. Ahead lay uncertainty, danger, and the possibility of redemption.
For the first time since the border war, since the nightmares began, Gul felt a strange sense of clarity. Whatever happened next, he was finally acting according to his conscience, not his orders.
The first shots rang out behind them as they broke through the perimeter, bullets pinging off the armored exterior of the SUV. Gul accelerated harder, the vehicle bouncing over the rough terrain as they fled into the wilderness, enemies at their backs and unknown challenges ahead.
The first blood had been drawn. There would be more before this was over, Gul was certain of that. But whose blood—and for what cause—remained to be seen.