Chapter 1348
A fish slipped through the net
Chapter 1348 A fish slipped through the net
14:20, West of the city, Karam residential area.
Thick blood trickled down his trouser leg, spreading out in a dark pattern on the gray cement floor.
Little Masood leaned against the cold stairwell wall, his rapid breathing echoing softly in the empty corridor.
He glanced down at his right leg.
The cut from the broken glass wasn't deep, but it was in a tricky location, right above the knee joint.
Each muscle contraction tore open the congealed scab, and fresh blood gushed out again, soaking through the khaki military trousers and forming a dark stain that kept expanding.
The pain was sharp and persistent, but what made him more uneasy than the physical agony was the approaching footsteps.
Click, click, click.
The sound of military boots tapping on the concrete stairs was regular and dense, like the second hand of a countdown.
At least six people, maybe eight, moved up from the third floor, searching each floor one by one.
The Security Bureau's action team—Rashid's hounds.
Twenty minutes ago, he was still in that mobile command vehicle disguised as a delivery truck.
The unassuming white van was equipped with Erbil's most advanced signal interception and communication monitoring equipment.
His counterintelligence team, consisting of twelve elite members handpicked and personally trained by the intelligence academy, intercepted a set of encrypted communications on an unusual frequency band.
The code pattern was unfamiliar, but the transmission frequency was unusually high, with simultaneous transmissions from the Security Bureau building to three military outposts on the outskirts of the city.
"They are mobilizing troops."
At that moment, the deputy pointed at the flickering light on the screen, his face turning pale.
“This is not a routine rotation, sir.”
Masood Jr. smelled something unusual.
He recently heard rumors that Barzani and his associates were plotting a coup, and he tried to warn his father, but his father thought it was impossible for Barzani to do so.
Therefore, he could only secretly organize his own forces to conduct the investigation.
Now, these frequently appearing secret signals seem to explain everything.
He immediately contacted his father, wanting to tell him the information and warn him to be careful.
After all, my father went to Kirkuk with Barzani early this morning.
just in case……
He didn't dare to think about it.
First, I called his personal cell phone, but it was busy; then I called the office hotline, but no one answered; finally, I tried the presidential palace switchboard, but all I heard was hollow electronic noise.
He then contacted the generals in the army who were still loyal to the Masoud family.
This includes Army General Adif, Air Force Colonel Tariq at the base, the commander of the Presidential Guard, and others.
None of the calls went through.
The signal appears to be interfered with.
“Go to the Telecommunications Authority,” he decided immediately. “If they control the communications hub, they can completely cut off our connection with the outside world.”
The truck had only driven two blocks when three black SUVs sped out from a side road, forming a wedge formation that forced them to stop.
Gunshots rang out almost simultaneously.
Without any warning, the other side opened fire.
The moment his deputy pushed him away, he was shot in the chest, and blood splattered all over the control panel screen.
"Split up! Meet at the usual spot!" Little Masood roared, tumbling out of the back door and rushing into the alley under the cover of his teammates.
Half an hour later, his group of twelve was still missing, while he was trapped alone in the stairwell of the fourth floor of Unit 3, Building 4 in the Karam residential area.
There were very few bullets left.
The Glock 19 has five rounds left, and there is also a Mini Uzi and two magazines in the backpack.
With these abilities, he could create a five-minute firefight, perhaps taking down three or four pursuers, but the outcome was inevitable.
They would surround the enemy from the stairs and end the fight with grenades or stun grenades.
Or, drag him back to the Security Bureau building like a dead dog and hand him over to Rashid to claim credit.
He remembered Rashid's eyes, which were always slightly narrowed.
Two years ago at a security meeting, this man, who was then the deputy director, patted him on the shoulder with a smile and said, "Young man, your father's era is coming to an end. You need to think about yourself."
At the time, he thought it was just ordinary hypocrisy in officialdom, but now he realizes that the glint in those eyes was a murderous intent that had been brewing for a long time.
The footsteps had reached the third and a half floor.
Masood took a deep breath and pulled the black satellite phone out of his backpack.
It is much thicker and heavier than a regular mobile phone, and its shell is made of shockproof and waterproof military-grade material. There is only one red emergency call button on the keypad.
This is a dedicated satellite phone used to maintain emergency contact with the U.S. side.
He pressed the red button.
The waiting tone was a monotonous buzzing, once, twice...
Six tones.
Every second was measured by the footsteps in the stairwell; danger was approaching at a rate of two steps per second.
“Verify.” A emotionless male voice spoke in English with a Texas accent.
"Falcon. Repeat: Falcon."
Masood answered in as steady a voice as possible.
The code name was given by the Americans; "Falcon" symbolizes Kold's freedom fighter.
Brief silence.
Indistinct conversations drifted from the background; he caught a few words: "Erbil...coup...confirmed...Barzani..."
Then, Major General Duke's voice cut in.
"Little Masood, report your status and location."
Duke spoke a beat faster than usual.
“I’m trapped in the Kalam residential area in the west of the city, but I’m not sure which building it is. The Security Bureau’s action team is searching floor by floor, and they are about thirty seconds away from me.”
Massoud lowered his voice, listening intently to the sounds coming from the stairwell, "Where's my father? What happened at the presidential palace? I can't get in touch with anyone—"
“Listen to me,” Duke interrupted him, his voice heavy. “The coup happened forty-five minutes ago. Rashid has now taken control of the presidential palace, the Ministry of Defense, and the communications hub. Your father was attacked on his way to Kirkuk and is now seriously injured and unconscious.”
Masood felt as if all the blood in his body had instantly frozen.
"he……"
His voice was stuck in his throat.
“He’s still alive,” Duke immediately replied, “but unconscious, though he still has vital signs. Our men pulled him out at the last minute.”
Where is he now? In the hospital? Which hospital?
Masood gripped the satellite phone tightly, his speech involuntarily quickening.
“Your father is on the helicopter now, almost at Bakda.” Duke paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully, and then said, “The person in charge of the escort team is Song Heping.”
The name eased my tense nerves a little.
Song Heping.
He knew this guy.
A legendary figure from northwestern Ilig, he is also known as the King of the Northwest.
He supported and controlled many tribal armed groups and militias in the northwest, including Samir and Abuyu, behind the scenes.
In particular, the 1515 armed forces in the Northwest region have suffered heavy losses in the past six months, all of which were orchestrated by Song Heping.
If his father were in his hands, there would at least be a glimmer of hope.
“Listen,” Duke’s tone hardened again. “Rashid won’t let you go. Your survival or that of your father is extremely detrimental to their coup. If you are captured alive, he will publicly try you and charge you with treason; if you are killed on the spot, he will say you are an extremist who resisted arrest. We, the U.S., have not supported this coup and will not recognize the Rashid regime, but we cannot intervene directly now because that would escalate the situation into an international conflict, giving Persia, Turkey, and Russia an excuse to intervene.”
"So you just stood by and watched?!"
Massoud's suppressed anger finally erupted, his voice rising involuntarily: "My father provided you with ten years of military cooperation! The Kurds were your most stable allies in the Middle East! Now he's been shot and is critically injured, I'm being hunted down, and you're discussing 'escalating the situation'?!"
There was a half-second silence on the other end of the phone.
Masoud could hear Duke take a deep breath.
“If you rush out now, you’ll be riddled with bullets, and your father’s sacrifice will have been meaningless.”
Duke's voice was as cold as ice.
"If you die, Rashid will purge all those loyal to your father and then seize the throne for himself. Is this the ending you want?"
The footsteps in the stairwell stopped at the fourth-floor landing.
Masood heard the sound of the doorknob turning.
They are checking if the door leading to the corridor is locked.
"Then what do you want me to do?" His voice was almost squeezed out through clenched teeth.
“Survive,” Duke said, emphasizing each word. “Find a place to hide and protect yourself. We have your satellite signal, but it will take time to mobilize resources. Song Heping will come back for you after he gets your father to safety. He’s the best at working in this kind of environment. But you must survive until Song Heping arrives.”
"I need time..."
“Then let’s buy some time,” Duke said quickly. “You’ve been operating in Erbil for so many years, you should have your own safe house and people you can trust. Go find them, hide, and wait for us to contact you. Keep your phone on silent, but don’t turn it off. Turn it on briefly for thirty seconds every three hours so we can confirm your survival and approximate location. Now, hang up and move immediately.”
"General Duke," Massoud asked in his final moments, "you swear on your military honor that my father is truly still alive?"
There was a momentary pause on the other end of the phone.
"I assure you with my 23 years of military service and the lives of my two sons that your father is alive and will soon receive the best possible care."
Duke reiterated: "For your father's sake, you must live now."
The call was disconnected.
Masood switched the satellite phone to silent mode and tucked it back into the backpack compartment.
Duke's assurance acted like a powerful tranquilizer, finally putting his mind at ease.
My father is still alive.
This means there is still hope.
What he needs to do is live until the moment his hope is fulfilled.
The door to the stairwell was pushed open.
Masudra disengaged the safety on the micro Uzi, resting the butt against his shoulder.
But he didn't shoot.
Gunfire would reveal the exact location, attracting a siege of the entire building.
He gently pushed open the door in the stairwell leading to the fourth-floor corridor, slipped inside, and used a piece of chewing gum to jam the latch before the door closed automatically.
The fourth-floor corridor has eight doors, four on each side.
Most of them were closed, except for two doors that were ajar, namely the doors to rooms 403 and 407.
He chose the innermost 407 because it was located directly opposite the emergency exit, and the entire corridor could be seen through the peephole.
He turned the doorknob.
No lock.
Gently push the door open, lock it from the inside, and hang the security chain.
This is an unfinished house that has not yet been renovated. The cement floor is exposed, the walls are only plastered, and the air is filled with the smell of dust and paint.
The room was empty except for a few scattered newspapers and several empty mineral water bottles.
But the window was a perfectly intact double-glazed window. He quickly walked to the window, which faced the balcony of the adjacent building, about two meters away, with a drop of more than one meter.
The sounds of a search downstairs grew closer.
He heard instructions coming through the walkie-talkie: "Fourth floor, check both sides in groups. Group A, left; Group B, right."
There was no time to hesitate.
Little Masood opened the window, and hot air rushed in.
He first threw his backpack towards the opposite balcony, where it landed precisely next to the clothes rack.
Then, enduring the tearing pain in his right leg, he climbed onto the windowsill.
The wound reopened, and warm blood flowed down his calf.
Two meters is usually just an easy jump.
But now, the blood loss, pain, and the exhaustion from the adrenaline rush make this distance seem like an insurmountable chasm.
He glanced back at the door.
The doorknob is being turned. Jump.
The moment your body is airborne, time seems to slow down.
He saw the peeling blue paint on the balcony railing across the street, a child's shirt hanging on the clothesline, and an old man selling roasted chickpeas from a cart in the alley downstairs.
Then his feet landed, and the enormous impact sent waves of pain through his body. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through the wound on his right leg, almost causing him to kneel down.
He staggered a couple of steps before grabbing the railing to steady himself.
Almost at the same time, the door to room 407 was kicked open.
The violent impact echoed between the buildings.
Little Masood crouched behind the balcony railing, holding his breath.
Through the gap in the railing, he saw a figure flash past the window across the way and heard angry curses:
"Nobody's here! The window's open!"
"Check the balcony! See if there are any marks!"
He slowly moved backward, retreating to the inside of the balcony, his back against the wall.
This is a blind spot in the other side's field of vision; as long as you don't peek out, you won't be spotted.
"There are footprints on the balcony! And blood! Fresh blood!"
Damn.
His footprints, where he had just landed, were still visible on the dusty balcony, and blood was still dripping from them.
"He jumped over! Notify Team B to seal off the area between buildings three and four! Deploy the drones!"
Masood's brain was working at lightning speed.
It is no longer possible to go directly down to the ground from the balcony.
They would wait downstairs for their prey.
The only way out is to move upwards.
He looked up at the rooftop. The apartment building had only six floors, and the rooftop was a flat terrace, usually equipped with solar water heaters and satellite dishes.
If you can reach the rooftop, you might be able to leave through the maintenance passage connecting to the adjacent building.
But how do we get up there?
The balcony does not have a direct door leading into the building.
This was designed for security; the balcony is only connected to the living room, and he is now trapped outside the balcony.
unless……
His gaze fell on the drainage pipes on the outside of the balcony.
White PVC pipes extend vertically from the rooftop, with fixed rings on every other floor.
The pipe is about ten centimeters in diameter, barely enough to support the weight of an adult.
The noise downstairs grew closer.
He heard a new instruction coming through the walkie-talkie: "Drone has taken off. All personnel, be alert. The target may be attempting to climb the outer wall."
There was no other choice.
Massoud slung the Mini Uzi over his shoulder and tightened the sling.
Glock was tucked into his waistband.
He spat and rubbed his hands together, then grabbed the first retaining ring on the drain pipe.
The PVC pipe makes a slight creaking sound in your hand.
He gave it a test pull—it was fairly secure.
He took a deep breath and began to climb.
With each meter I ascended, the wound on my right leg felt like it had been branded with a hot iron.
Blood flowed down his calf, leaving a dark red trail on the white tubes.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to ignore the pain and focus on every gripping point.
When he reached the fifth-floor balcony, he heard a sound coming from below:
"There's blood here! On the pipes!"
"He's climbing the pipe! Open fire!"
The sound of bullets hitting the wall followed immediately, and cement fragments splattered onto his face.
Little Masood struggled to climb upwards, his arm muscles trembling from the excessive effort.
Another shot rang out, and the bullet grazed his left arm, leaving a bloody gash in his skin.
Two meters short.
one meter.
His hand finally reached the edge of the rooftop.
Using the last of his strength, he did a pull-up, pushed off the wall with his right leg, and tumbled onto the concrete floor of the rooftop.
He lay on the ground, panting heavily, his chest heaving violently.
The sky was leaden gray, with low-hanging clouds that seemed to press down.
The buzzing of a drone came from below; it was rapidly approaching.
Little Masoud struggled to his feet and looked around the rooftop.
As he expected, there were more than a dozen solar water heaters and several rusted satellite antennas piled up there.
On the other side of the rooftop, he saw what he wanted—a maintenance access road connecting the adjacent buildings.
It was a metal bridge less than half a meter wide, connecting the roof of this building to the roof of a commercial building next door.
He rushed toward the iron bridge.
The drone's buzzing was almost upon him. He glanced back and saw a quadcopter drone rising from the side of the building, its camera glowing red.
Masood Jr. raised his gun and fired.
Three bursts of fire later, the drone emitted a plume of black smoke and plummeted off the building at an angle.
But the gunshots also completely revealed his location.
A shout came from downstairs: "He's on the rooftop! He's on the rooftop!"
He rushed onto the iron bridge.
The iron frame shook violently underfoot, and the rusted bolts groaned in a way that made your teeth ache.
The bridge is six stories high; falling from it would be certain death.
Halfway through the run, the rooftop door of the commercial building across the street was suddenly pushed open.
Two armed men rushed out.
People from the State Security Bureau?
Have they already surrounded us?
Masood raised his gun and aimed, but in the instant before pulling the trigger, he saw the other man's face clearly—
They are not from the security bureau.
It was Adnan, a former subordinate of his father, who served in the presidential guard for ten years and is now the owner of a private security company in Erbil.
Last year, Masoud also attended his daughter's wedding.
"Young Master!" Adnan called out in a low voice, waving him over quickly, "Over here!"
As Masoud rushed across the last few meters of the iron bridge, Adnan reached out and pulled him across.
The other person is relatively younger.
Masood recognized him as Adnan's cousin.
He immediately closed the rooftop door and used an iron rod to hold the doorknob shut.
"How did you..."
Little Masoud asked, panting.
"The whole city knows about the coup, and many people have been arrested. My old friend in the Ministry of State Security told me that his people are searching for you everywhere."
Adnan spoke quickly, while checking his wound.
“I heard you were around here, so I came to check it out. I saw the drones and the pursuit team, and I guessed it might be you. Come with me, we need to get out of here right away.”
They ran down the emergency exits inside the commercial building.
This is an old four-story building. The first floor houses a textile store that has already closed down.
Adnan led him out the back door, where an unmarked gray van was waiting in the alley.
Masoud climbed into the van, Adnan started the engine, and the van slowly drove out of the alley and merged into the traffic on the main road.
"Where to go?"
As Masoud asked, he used the first-aid kit that Adnan handed him to treat the wound on his leg.
“I have a safe house in the old city that Rashid’s people don’t know about.”
Adnan glanced at him in the rearview mirror.
“But you need to contact your people, young master. The security bureau is searching the entire city; they can find all the properties, vehicles, and businesses related to the Massoud family. You need a place that is completely off the list.”
Masood leaned against the carriage wall, closing his eyes in thought.
Adnan is right.
He does indeed have his own influence in Erbil.
Moreover, these were not official networks, but rather private networks built up during the father's thirty years in power.
Merchants, tribal elders, veterans, and even some figures from the gray area.
They may not all be loyal to the Massoud family, but most owe favors or share common interests.
He thought of Fatima.
Fatima Khalaf, 52, is a veteran of the Socialist Party and the founder of the Erbil Women's Federation.
She is not a member of the Masood family and has even publicly criticized some of the policies of the elder Masood on several occasions.
But she didn't like Barzani.
Fatima has a girls' school in the south of the city, which is nominally a vocational training center, but in reality it is a secret meeting place for the Socialist Party.
There was a basement, independent power and water supply, and most importantly, the security bureau would never search a girls' school, as that would violate the most sensitive religious and traditional taboos of Kolmar society.
“Go to Bazar Street.” Little Masood opened his eyes. “The Women’s Vocational Technical School.”
Adnan raised an eyebrow: "Ms. Fatima? Are you sure she'd take that risk?"
“She will.” Masood’s voice was calm.
The van drove through the streets at dusk.
Masood looked out the window at the city skyline flashing by.
As dusk fell, the crowds hurried past as people left work, while vendors hawked baked flatbreads and tea on street corners.
Everything was as usual, as if the gunshots, coup, and chase that afternoon were just happening in another parallel world.
But he knew it wasn't.
His father was still lying in the ambulance on his way to Bakhta, his life hanging in the balance, his loyal followers were being purged, and the city was about to fall into the hands of Rashid and his supporters.
Duke is right.
Death is the easiest choice; living requires true courage.
He took out his satellite phone from his backpack, turned it on for thirty seconds, saw the message "Signal has been received" on the screen, and then turned it off again.
Song Heping is on his way.
My father is still holding on.
He, however, must live until dawn.
The van turned into a narrow alley and stopped in front of an inconspicuous iron gate.
The sign on the door reads – Erbil Women's Vocational Technical School.
Masood pushed open the car door and walked towards the iron gate.
The game is far from over.
The counterattack hasn't even begun yet.
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(End of this chapter)