Nir slapped Gil’s side, then held on for dear life. The engine throttled up and Nir felt the g-force trying to pull him off the back of the bike. Over the din, he could barely hear the panic as the passengers attempted to escape the SUV. But that wasn’t the sound his ears were tuned for. A crack sounded through the air, followed two seconds later by a second.
“Target is down,” said Liora. “Confirmed, target is eliminated.”
Across the street from the traffic jam stood the multistory Etka Store. While a department store for the families of armed forces would not normally be the best sniper lair, there weren’t a lot of options on Emad al-Natsheh’s route home. So, in the middle of the previous night, Yaron had climbed up the outside stairs of the building to the roof carrying a long case, a camouflage tarp, a full water flask, and an empty water bottle for when his body processed the contents of the full water flask.
In the case was a gray Barrett MRAD bolt-action rifle chambered in 338 Lapua Magnum. Nir knew how much Yaron loved that gun. He had often seen him on the range hitting long-distance targets dead-on using an MRAD. There may have been more expensive guns available, but to ensure he made this shot, Yaron needed the gun that he knew best. After prepping the gun and arranging his camouflage against the side of the roof, the old man had settled in for what turned out to be a 14-hour wait.
Nir and the team at CARL knew that using real mines was out of the question. In a traffic jam on a busy street, there would have been at least a dozen unintended casualties. And when it came down to it, most of the people outside al-Natsheh’s SUV hated the people inside the SUV as much as they did. Making civilians pay for the sins of their governmental tyrants and the regime’s toady militias was a nonstarter. They had to flush the terrorist out into the open.
It was Avi Carmeli who came up with the idea to use dummy mines. There had been enough real-life stories and movie scenes of bikers blowing up vehicles with magnetic explosives that no explanation would be needed for what was happening. A bike rides up, attaches two devices, then speeds off—your car is about to crack open like a tin can. So what do you do? Get out while you can.
The plan had apparently worked to perfection, as Liora had confirmed when she reported that al-Natsheh was no longer among the living.
That’s one more we’re sending to you, God. Give him what he deserves. And please help Yaron to get away.
The hope was that in the confusion, Yaron would be able to quickly slip down the back of the Etka building and into his nondescript Saipa Tiba and roll away. But Nir couldn’t worry about his old partner now because as they wove through the accident site Nurettin’s Kurd friend had created, a police officer was rolling up. Neither Gil nor Nir looked at the man, but he had obviously spotted them. He turned his lights on and angled his vehicle to block their path.
Skirting around him was no problem. But as Nir looked back, he could see the officer on his radio even as the man punched his accelerator. Racing up Imam Khomeini Street for a few blocks, they neared a major intersection with Valiasr Street. But from that intersection, two police cars rounded the corner and aimed directly toward them. Gil clamped down on the brakes, skidding around the first car, then the second. Twisting the throttle, he brought them back to speed before turning right onto Valiasr. On their left were the grounds of the Quran Museum and the Iran Art Museum. On the right were office buildings. And on the sidewalks were dozens of pedestrians pausing their commute, watching and wondering what was going on.
Two blocks up, Gil slammed the brakes and turned right. Half a block more, he cut into an alley.
Nir had already begun unzipping his jacket by the time Gil came to a stop. Over behind a dumpster waited two other motorcycles. Unlike the high-end TVS they were riding, these were designed to blend in. Gil stripped off his black leathers and helmet, leaving him in jeans and an olive-drab T-shirt. He jumped onto the nearest bike—a scaled-down Bajaj Pulsar with a 150cc engine. Pressing the starter, it jumped to life.
Nir, now in jeans and a black T-shirt, straddled what was supposed to be his Honda CD 100, but which he greatly suspected was some other off brand onto which someone had slapped a Honda label. He kicked down on the starter, and nothing happened. Gil looked back at him impatiently. Nir kicked the starter again. A little sputter, then nothing.
Suddenly, up at the entrance to the alley, two police cars turned in.
“Get on,” yelled Gil.
“No! Go! Now!”
It was evident by Gil’s look that he was not happy with Nir’s order, but he was a military man. So he gunned it and drove out the alley’s exit. Nir cranked the starter two more times. Not even a sputter. The police cars were almost to him. Rolling the bike so it blocked the center of the alley, he ran.
Behind him, he heard tires screech to a halt and words yelled in Farsi. Ignoring them, he ran up to a row of doors and tried the handle on one, then another. The third handle turned as he heard gunshots behind him. They pinged off the metal door.
He found himself in a kitchen with five sets of surprised and hostile eyes on him.
Thinking quickly, Nir shouted, “Gasht-e Ershad! Gasht-e Ershad!” He knew very few words of Farsi, but he did know the name of the guidance patrol or morality police. Again, few Iranians had any love for the Islamic regime. And for most, the lowest of the low were the morality police, who made it their duty to punish people, mostly women, for perceived slights against the Quran. It had been only a year and a half since the Kurdish Mahsa Amini had been arrested by the religious thugs for not wearing a hijab properly, and she had died in custody after a beating. Huge protests had swept the nation before being violently put down by the regime. Nir had no idea who the officers were that were after him, but the only way to get these people on his side was to make them think it was the hated guidance patrol.
When they heard the words, all five snapped to action.
“Bodo! Bodo!” said an older man dressed like the head chef. He waved Nir through to the dining room and pointed to the front door.
Behind Nir, there was a crash and a very angry exchange. It sounded to him like maybe his kitchen friends were buying him time. He came out on a main street. Sirens sounded to his left, so he ran right. He had made it only half a block before two more police cars rounded the corner ahead.
“Cross the street and enter the building directly opposite you.” It was Avi’s voice. He was so in the moment that he had forgotten that there were eyes watching from overhead. “Gil is clear. So is Yaron. You’re the only one left, and we’re going to get you out.”
“You’re on now, Avi? What have you been doing?” Nir called out as he ran, relieved to hear his friend’s voice.
“Sorry, just warming up my coffee. Do you know how hard it is to open those sugar packets with just one hand?”
Gunshots cut through the din of the street and a windshield next to Nir shattered.
“If I make it back, I’ll buy you one of those sugar dispenser thingies and have your name stenciled on it. Just get me out of here now.”