Chapter 1347
City-wide manhunt
Chapter 1347 City-wide manhunt
14:07, Office of the Minister of the Interior.
Tarik Hussein drew a line on the map with a red pen, pressing the pen so hard it almost tore through the paper.
“Here, at border checkpoint number 14, the amount of smuggled weapons seized last week has tripled. I suspect there are insiders facilitating this.”
His fingers moved along the border line.
"And here, at station number 22, there were two 'equipment malfunctions' last week, causing inspections to be suspended for two hours. Too many coincidences are no longer coincidences."
The head of the border control department, Mahmoud, sitting opposite him, had sweat dripping from his forehead.
"Minister, I've already launched an internal investigation..."
"After a week of investigation, what were the results?"
Tariq interrupted him: “You’ve arrested a few low-ranking officials, but the real fish are still swimming in the water. Mahmoud, I’m not blaming you, I’m telling you that if we don’t clean house, the enemy will break us down from within.”
The phone on the table rang.
Tariq glanced at the caller ID—it was the Secretary General's office.
He made an apologetic gesture and answered the phone.
"Minister Tariq, the 2:30 meeting of the Security Committee has been cancelled."
The secretary-general's voice sounded strange, more hurried than usual.
"Canceled? Why?"
"A last-minute notice, without explanation. Also... if you have time now, the Chairman would like to see you."
"Is the Chairman in his office?"
"No, at... a safe location. I'll arrange for a vehicle to pick you up."
Tariq frowned.
This is not in accordance with procedure.
If Massoud wants to see him, he usually summons him directly, rather than going through the Secretary General.
Besides, didn't Massoud go to Kirkuk?
Why did you suddenly turn back?
"Secretary-General, what exactly happened?"
There was silence on the other end of the phone for two seconds.
"Minister, please trust that this is for your safety. Please stay in your office and do not go out. Wait for backup. This is a direct order from the Chairman."
The phone hangs up.
Tariq slowly put down the receiver, a sense of foreboding washing over him.
He walked to the window and looked downstairs.
The streets were normal, with vehicles passing by, but there seemed to be a few more figures at the entrance of the autonomous committee building in the distance, their postures unlike those of ordinary security guards.
"Minister?" Mahmoud asked tentatively.
Tarik raised his hand to signal him to be quiet.
He walked to the window and observed carefully.
Several cars were parked around the committee building; they had no license plates and their windows were tinted.
Further away, at the street corner, two men in plain clothes were pretending to look at their phones, but their eyes kept glancing at the building entrance.
Surveillance.
Or blockade.
His heart beat faster.
Years of military and police service have honed this intuition.
Danger is approaching.
He walked back to his desk and opened the bottom drawer.
Besides the documents, there was also a Glock 17 pistol and two spare magazines inside.
He checked the gun's condition: it was chambered and the safety was off.
“Mahmoud, listen to me.”
Tariq's voice turned low and urgent: "Leave now, go straight home, don't go back to the office. If anything unusual happens this afternoon, take your family and leave the city for your relatives in the countryside, and wait for my news."
"Minister, what exactly..."
"There's no time to explain. Let's go."
Mahmoud was pale, but nodded and hurriedly left the office.
Tariq closed the door and locked it.
He walked to the intercom and tried to contact the security department.
busy tone.
Try contacting Masood's office.
No one heard.
Try contacting his friend at the Security Bureau.
The call was abruptly cut off.
Communication was blocked.
He walked to the bookshelf, pushed aside the third row of books, revealing a safe behind it.
Enter the password, open it, and you'll find a satellite phone and an encrypted file inside.
He started the phone and waited for a connection—the green light flashed, but there was no steady connection.
The signal is being interfered with.
Just then, he heard footsteps in the corridor.
It wasn't one person, but many people, their steps were synchronized and their rhythm was consistent.
Then came the irresistible knocking on the door.
Tariq took a deep breath, tucked the pistol back into his waistband, and covered it with his coat.
He straightened his tie and walked towards the door.
I opened the door, and there were four people standing outside.
Two men in suits and two women in civilian clothes but with pistols at their waists.
He recognized the leader.
That was Farooq, the deputy head of the counter-terrorism department of the General Security Directorate, a man he had never liked, and a staunch supporter of Barzani.
"Minister Taric, I apologize for disturbing you."
Farouk's voice was flat: "By order of the Emergency Committee, please come with us to a safe location immediately."
Tarik's gaze swept over the four of them.
Two women stood on either side of the door, their hands on their hips; Farouk and another man stood in front of him, blocking all his paths of movement.
profession.
"Whose orders?" Taric asked, his voice calm.
"General Barzani. Chairman Massoud was assassinated by the Abuyu Brigade's special forces en route to Kirkuk. Now, there is suspicion that there is a mole within our ranks who colluded with the traitor Abuyu to leak the Chairman's itinerary. In order to ensure stability, the General has established an Emergency Committee to take over power and has begun to investigate all suspicious persons."
"Assassination?"
Tariq felt his heart skip a beat, "The Chairman, he..."
“We are also deeply saddened. But we are in a state of emergency now, and all high-ranking personnel need to be concentrated to protect us and prevent further attacks.”
lie.
Taric immediately figured it out.
If it were for protection, this wouldn't be the setup; if it were for protection, it wouldn't be carried out by the General Security Bureau, but rather by the Ministry of the Interior's Security Bureau, which he oversees.
The only explanation is a coup.
Barzani made his move.
His brain was working at lightning speed.
The pistol was on his waist, but two armed men were on guard two meters away.
There is an emergency alarm button under the table, but you have to bend over to trigger it.
The windows are made of bulletproof glass; they can't be broken.
Neither possibility is high.
"I need to contact my family."
Tarek said he was trying to buy time.
"Your family is under our protection. Please rest assured."
It's already under control.
Taric felt a spasm in his stomach.
Lyra, Karim, Rami...
If they threaten my family...
“I’ll go with you,” he said, slowly raising his hands. “But please let me get a coat. It’s too cold with the air conditioning on.”
This is a temptation.
If the other party allows him to return to his desk, there might still be a chance to trigger the alarm.
Farouk hesitated for a second, then nodded.
"Okay. Please hurry."
Tarik turned and walked toward the coat rack.
His peripheral vision swept over the edge of the desk.
The alarm button is located on the lower left side of the table; you need to crouch down to press it.
Three meters apart, with no obstructions in between, but perhaps...
He walked to the coat rack and took off his coat.
He deliberately let his coat fall to the ground as he turned around.
"Sorry," he said, bending down to pick it up.
Just as he bent down, his left hand reached under the table, his fingers groped for the small button, and then he pressed it gently.
There was no audio feedback, but he knew the signal had been sent.
The Ministry of the Interior's security bureau's emergency response team should have received the alert.
If they are not already under control.
He straightened up and put on his coat.
Farouk seemed unaware.
"Please hand over your sidearm, Mr. Minister."
Tarik took the Glock 17 from his waist and placed it on the table.
The movements were slow, but decisive.
Now is not the time to play the hero.
A woman stepped forward and handcuffed him.
It's not metal, it's a plastic cable tie, and it can cut into your skin if you struggle.
“Is this really necessary?” Taric asked.
"Program," the other party replied.
They led him out of the office.
In the corridor, the Ministry of the Interior staff were gathered in the rest area, guarded by plainclothes officers with guns.
Some people watched in astonishment as he was handcuffed and taken away, while others lowered their heads, unable to bear the sight.
Tariq saw the young girl in the secretariat sobbing and the old director of the archives shaking his head.
He worked at the Ministry of the Interior for twelve years, rising from head of the counterterrorism bureau to minister, and knew every face there.
Now, they have all become witnesses to this coup.
The elevator goes directly to the underground parking lot.
A black van without any markings was waiting there.
Tariq was put into the car and sat between two guards.
The car drove out of the parking lot and into the glaring afternoon sun.
Traffic flowed as usual on the streets, and pedestrians hurried by.
Tariq saw the familiar coffee shop where he would meet his informant every Friday afternoon; he saw the bookstore where his son Rami liked to buy comics; he saw the mosque where his wife Leila often went to pray.
The everyday world continues to function, but his world has collapsed.
The car headed west, leaving the city.
Based on his experience, Taric judged the direction to be either a safe house or a military base outside the city.
He tried to memorize the route, but the guard deliberately talked to him to distract him.
“Mr. Minister, if you cooperate, your family will be safe and you will get a suitable position in the new government.”
"What kind of cooperation?" Taric asked, his gaze still fixed on the window.
"I support General Barzani's leadership of the transitional government. You have a high reputation, and your statement is important."
"What if I don't?"
The guard remained silent for a few seconds.
“That wouldn’t be good for anyone. Your son Karim… he’s taking his university entrance exams next year, isn’t he? I heard he wants to study law? That’s a very good ambition.”
A naked threat.
Taric closed his eyes.
He can take risks for himself, but he cannot risk his son's future.
"I need time to think about it."
“You have twenty-four hours. After that…” The guard didn’t finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear.
The car continued driving.
We passed through the city and left the urban area.
Forty minutes later, the car stopped.
In front of us was an inconspicuous farmhouse surrounded by high walls with barbed wire and security cameras.
A disguised safe house.
Tariq was taken off the car.
A wave of heat hit us, and the air was thick with the smell of dust and animal dung.
“Welcome to your new residence, Mr. Minister,” Farouk said. “I hope you are comfortable here.”
Tarik did not speak.
He was led into the farmhouse, which was cooler inside than outside, but the air was stuffy.
He was locked in a room: a bed, a table, a chair, and no windows.
The door closed, and the lock turned.
Tariq sat on the bed with his hands still cuffed behind his back.
The room was quiet, with only the low hum of the air conditioner and his breathing.
He began to wonder: Is Massoud really dead?
If he died, who killed him?
Barzani?
Or is it really, as they say, the Abuyu Brigade?
If he's not dead, where is he?
Will they organize a counterattack?
And the alarm button he pressed.
Will the Ministry of the Interior's Security Bureau's emergency response team arrive?
Or have they already been controlled or eliminated?
Most importantly, it's his family.
Leila must be terrified right now.
Karim would try to remain calm and comfort his mother.
Rami...
Rami might do something impulsive.
He must survive.
For the sake of my family, and to find out the truth.
If Masoud is really dead, he wants to find the real culprit.
If Massoud is still alive, he will wait for an opportunity.
He lay down and looked at the ceiling fan that was slowly rotating.
The strong afternoon sunlight shone through the crack under the door, cutting a strip of light across the floor.
The outside world is still turning.
Inside, a minister's political career had come to an end.
But perhaps this is just the beginning of another form of battle. 14:15, Old Market District, Spice Lane.
Omar Hassan felt like he was suffocating.
It's not because there's no air.
It was because of fear.
That cold, creeping fear, like a snake, coiled around his heart.
He hid in the back warehouse of Yazidi's spice shop, surrounded by mountains of sacks filled with cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg, and saffron.
The strong smell made him dizzy, but it also provided cover.
The hunters' search dogs had a hard time tracking them here by scent.
Half an hour earlier, he received that anonymous text message at a coffee shop near the Ministry of Finance:
Do not return today. A storm is brewing.
The sender was "Nightingale," an informant within the General Security Bureau, an official whose daughter he had sponsored for her studies abroad.
The text message is encrypted with a one-time password and is automatically destroyed after being read.
But this information was enough to prompt Omar to initiate his escape plan.
Without hesitation, he left the coffee shop immediately, without returning to his office or home, and went straight into the old town.
He put on the disguise he had prepared beforehand.
A plain white robe, a sun hat, and an old canvas bag.
The bag contained everything needed for survival.
$50,000 in cash, three passports under different names, and an encrypted USB drive containing years of smear material on the Barzani faction's finances—enough to bring down any government.
But his plan went wrong.
He was supposed to walk through the market, hitch a ride from the bus station in the southeast corner to Sulaymaniyah, and then head south from there to Hurmatu.
However, too many discordant elements have appeared in the market.
Young men, in groups of three or five, dressed plainly but acting cautiously, their eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
They were definitely plainclothes officers from the State Security Bureau.
They are looking for themselves.
Omar changed his route, attempting to detour through Spice Lane.
But here, he almost bumped into a group of people who were conducting a search.
He hid in Yazidi's shop.
The old man was a friend of his late father, a person he could trust.
"How many of them are there?"
Yazidi asked the question with a sharp look that belied his eighty years.
“The entire market is their people,” Omar gasped. “They’re looking for me. Barzani staged a coup.”
Yazidi didn't ask any further questions, but simply nodded, gesturing for him to hide in the back warehouse.
"Wait until dark. You can't go out during the day."
But it's only a little past 2 p.m., and there are still five hours until it gets dark.
Within five hours, the Security Bureau can search every inch of the market.
A sound suddenly came from outside the warehouse.
Omar held his breath.
"Sir, do you see a man wearing a white robe, a hat, and carrying a canvas bag? He's about this tall."
It was the voice of a young person, but with an official tone.
“There are a lot of people in the market today,” Yazidi said calmly. “White robes, hats… half the men are dressed like that. Be more specific.”
"He may be in hiding. We have reason to believe he is... a dangerous individual."
“Dangerous elements?” Yazidi laughed, a dry laugh. “Young man, I’ve been in this market for sixty years, and I’ve seen more dangerous elements than you’ve eaten naan bread. Real dangerous elements don’t dress conspicuously. You’re looking in the wrong direction.”
There was a brief silence.
Then the young security officer said, "We need to search your store."
“Search it,” Yazidi said, “but be careful with my spices. Some are very valuable, and you can’t afford to pay for them if you break them.”
Footsteps entered the shop.
Omar's heart was pounding.
He looked around the warehouse: besides sacks, there were only a few wooden crates, nowhere to hide.
The shop is just outside the curtain; all they have to do is lift the curtain...
He touched the gun at his waist.
He bought a Czech CZ75 rifle privately and never registered it.
Fifteen bullets.
If discovered, he could kill two or three people, but would eventually be shot or captured.
not worth it.
Those accounts must be taken out; they are Barzani's Achilles' heel, containing the amount of money he has embezzled from American aid over the years.
That's more important than his life.
His gaze fell on an old carpet roll in the corner of the warehouse.
The carpet looks heavy, but perhaps...
He quickly moved over and lifted a corner of the carpet.
The bottom is empty; there's a hidden compartment!
As expected, old man Yazidi was well-prepared.
Omar crawled into the partition and had just covered himself with the carpet when the curtain was lifted.
The beam of a flashlight swept across the warehouse.
What is this place?
“The warehouse. The place where spices are stored.” Yazidi’s voice was close. “Be careful, those sacks are full of saffron, a kilogram costs more than your annual salary.”
Footsteps echoed through the warehouse.
Omar huddled in the darkness, but could sense someone standing beside the carpet.
Sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping into his eyes and stinging, but he dared not move.
"What's down there?" The flashlight beam stopped on the carpet.
"An old carpet, about to be thrown away. Do you want to check it? It's very dirty and has a lot of fleas."
Another brief moment of hesitation.
Then I heard the young official say, "Never mind. Let's go to the next one."
Footsteps faded away.
The curtain was lowered.
Omar continued to wait, counting to one hundred, before gently lifting a corner of the carpet.
The warehouse was empty, but there were still voices coming from the shops outside.
He heard Yazidi say, "...Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help."
“We can’t disclose that number. But if you see someone suspicious, call this number.”
Then came the sound of the tip of a nose rubbing against paper.
"I will."
The shop door opened and closed again.
The footsteps fade away.
A few minutes later, Yazidi lifted the curtain and came in.
"They're gone, but there are still many outside. The market is sealed off, and every exit is guarded."
Omar crawled out of his hiding place, covered in sweat.
"Thank you, Uncle Yazidi."
The old man waved his hand. "Your father saved my life; I owe him that. But the problem is, how are you going to get out?"
Omar pondered.
The market is blocked, and we can't get out.
But he can't hide here forever; the Security Bureau will conduct a more thorough search sooner or later.
"I need a car. Or a motorcycle."
“Maybe there are motorcycles,” Yazidi thought for a moment. “My grandson has an old Honda in the backyard. But the brakes aren’t very good.”
"It's okay. Where's the key?"
"Inside the shop. But you can't ride out from here, they'll hear you. You have to push it, go through the alley behind, and start it up in the next block."
Omar nodded.
"that's it."
Yazidi went to get the key, and Omar checked the backpack: cash, passport, and USB drive were all there.
The pistol has fifteen bullets left.
The old man returned and handed him the keys and a bottle of water.
"and this."
It was an old motorcycle helmet. "Put it on and cover your face."
Omar accepted it and nodded gratefully.
“If I get arrested, I will say you forced me…”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Yazidi interrupted him. “Go quickly. May God bless you.”
Omar left the shop through the back door and entered a small courtyard.
Sure enough, there was a dilapidated Honda motorcycle parked there, covered in scratches.
He checked it.
There's still half a tank of gas left, enough to drive at least another 100 kilometers.
He pushed his motorcycle through the back gate of the courtyard and into a narrow alley.
The alleyways were winding and the ground was uneven, making it difficult to push the cart.
The sun was shining directly down at around 2 p.m., and the heat was rising from the ground, and he quickly broke out in a sweat again.
After pushing it for about two hundred meters, he estimated that he had left the market area and reached a relatively quiet residential area.
He put on his helmet and started the motorcycle.
The engine was very loud, and black smoke was coming out of the exhaust pipe, but it could still run.
He rode onto the street and decided to head south.
The area to the south is inhabited by Arabs, which is relatively chaotic and offers easy hiding places, but it is also dangerous.
Motorcycles weave through the streets.
Omar tried to avoid main roads and take the alleys.
At 2:30 pm, when the sun is at its strongest, there are few pedestrians and few vehicles on the street.
This made him conspicuous, but it also made his pursuers conspicuous.
He saw the black SUV in the rearview mirror.
They found him.
Omar twisted the throttle hard, and the motorcycle roared as it accelerated.
The old car has a top speed of only 80 kilometers per hour, but that's enough for narrow streets.
He turned into a one-way street and drove against traffic. A truck coming from the opposite direction braked suddenly, and the driver leaned out and cursed.
The off-road vehicle kept close behind.
The distance is shortening.
There's a crossroads ahead, and the light is red.
There is heavy cross-traffic.
Instead of slowing down, Omar accelerated, weaving through traffic and nearly getting hit several times.
He heard the sound of screeching brakes and a collision behind him.
The SUV was blocked by traffic.
They've temporarily shaken off the situation.
But then the phone vibrated.
unknown number.
Omar hesitated for a moment before answering.
Wear Bluetooth headphones and keep your hands on the handlebars.
“Minister Omar,” it was Rashid’s voice: “Why go through all this trouble? We just want to have a word with you.”
“What are we talking about? How I’ll help you launder money?” Omar sneered, turning into another street.
“Those are all misunderstandings. The situation is complicated now. Chairman Masood has suffered a misfortune, and the country needs stability. An economic expert like you is exactly what the transitional government needs.”
"Is the Chairman really dead?"
"This is the intelligence we received."
"Whose intelligence? Barzani's?" Omar scoffed. "No bodies, no independent verification, and you launch a coup?"
“The situation requires a swift response,” Rashid said without wavering. “Omar, stop the car. You can’t go far. We can provide security guarantees.”
"What if I say no?"
“Then I’ll be very sorry. Your wife, Leila, and your two sons… they are currently under our protection. Do you want them to be safe?”
Omar felt his blood rushing backward.
He slammed on the brakes, and the motorcycle came to a stop on the side of the road.
A wave of heat hit me, and sweat blurred my vision.
"Shameless! You touched my family!"
“They are safe. Mrs. Leila is very worried about you. Your youngest son asked, ‘When is Daddy coming back?’”
Anger and fear exploded in my chest.
Omar gripped the handlebars tightly, veins bulging on the back of his hands.
He can take risks, but not his family.
“I need to speak with them,” he said hoarsely.
“It can be arranged. But first, please go to the nearest safe house. The address is: 47 Old Town Street. You will see your family there.”
Omar knew it was a trap.
But he also knew that if he didn't go, his family would be in danger. If he went, perhaps they could still negotiate.
"If I go there and find out you lied to me..."
“Then you can use my head as a football,” Rashid said. “But you have to decide now. Every minute you delay, your family is in more danger.”
Omar looked in the rearview mirror.
In the distance, the black SUV reappeared, slowly approaching.
He hung up the phone, turned off his cell phone, and removed the battery.
Then he made a decision: he wouldn't go to 47 Old Town Street. That was definitely a trap. But he couldn't keep running either, or his family would be in trouble.
He needs a third way.
He restarted his motorcycle, but not to the address Rashid had given him, nor to leave the city, but towards a place he had never imagined he would go: the U.S. office in Erbil.
If he hands over those accounts, he might be able to get protection.
This is a crazy gamble.
But the daytime coup was itself insane, and he could only respond with insane measures.
The motorcycle accelerated and headed towards the US office.
In the rearview mirror, the SUV accelerated and caught up.
The buildings on both sides of the street rushed past.
The sunlight was blinding, and the world was distorted by the heatwave.
Omar didn't know if this choice was right or wrong.
All he knew was that, in broad daylight and under the watchful eyes of everyone, a race concerning life and death and loyalty was underway.
He was both the prey and the hunter.
Second update. 10,000 words complete. Requesting monthly votes!
(End of this chapter)