The store's door opened and closed again.
Footsteps receded into the distance.
A few minutes later, Yazidi lifted the door curtain and entered.
"They've left, but there are still many outside. The market is locked down, and every exit is guarded."
Omar crawled out from his hiding place, drenched in sweat.
"Thank you, Uncle Yazidi."
The old man waved his hand. "Your father saved my life; this is the debt I owe him. But now the question is, how will you get out?"
Omar pondered.
The market is locked down; there's no way out.
But he couldn't stay here indefinitely; the security bureau would eventually conduct a more thorough search.
"I need a vehicle. Or a motorbike."
"There may be a motorbike." Yazidi thought for a mont, "My grandson has an old Honda in the backyard. But the brakes aren't good."
"It's fine. How about the keys?"
"In the shop. But you can't ride out from here; they'll hear the sound. You'll have to push it, go through the back alley, and start it in the next block."
Omar nodded.
"Let's do it."
Yazidi went to fetch the keys, and Omar checked his backpack: cash, passport, and USB drive were all there.
The handgun had fifteen bullets left.
The old man returned, handing him the keys and a bottle of water.
"Take this too."
It was an old motorcycle helt, "Wear it, cover your face."
Omar took it, nodding gratefully.
"If I get caught, I'll say you were forced..."
"Stop talking nonsense." Yazidi interrupted him, "Hurry up. May Allah protect you."
Omar left the shop through the back door, entering a small courtyard.
Sure enough, there was an old Honda motorcycle parked there, covered in scratches.
He checked it.
The gas tank was half full, enough for at least a hundred kiloters or so.
He pushed the motorcycle through the courtyard's back gate, into a narrow alley.
The alleyways were winding, the ground uneven, making pushing the bike a difficult task.
The afternoon sun, after two o'clock, was shining directly down, the heat rising from the ground, and he was soon drenched in sweat again.
After pushing about two hundred ters, he estimated he had left the market area, reaching a relatively quiet residential neighborhood.
He put on the helt and started the motorbike.
The engine roared loudly, the exhaust pipe belching black smoke, but at least it could run.
He rode onto the street, deciding to head south.
To the south was the Arab quarter, chaotic and easy to hide in, but also dangerous.
The motorbike navigated the streets.
Omar did his best to avoid Main Street, taking the alleys.
In the afternoon, around two-thirty, when the sun was at its harshest, the streets were sparse with pedestrians and vehicles.
This made him conspicuous, but also made the pursuers conspicuous.
In the rearview mirror, he saw that black SUV.
They had found him.
Omar twisted the throttle, the motorbike accelerating with a roar.
The old bike's top speed was only eighty kiloters, but it was enough on narrow streets.
He veered into a one-way street, going against traffic, causing an oncoming truck to brake hard, the driver sticking his head out to curse.
The SUV stuck close behind.
The distance was closing.
Up ahead was an intersection, a red light.
The cross traffic was dense.
Omar didn't slow down; instead, he sped up, weaving through the traffic, nearly getting hit several tis.
He heard the screech of brakes and the sound of collisions behind him.
The SUV got blocked by the traffic.
Temporarily shaken off.
But at this mont, his phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
Omar hesitated for a mont, then answered.
He put on his Bluetooth headset, his hands not leaving the handlebars.
"Minister Omar," it was Rashid's voice: "Why struggle so much? We just want to have a talk."
"Talk about what? About how I can help you launder money?" Omar sneered, simultaneously turning into another street.
"Those are misunderstandings. The situation is complicated now; Chairman Masoud has encountered misfortune, and the country needs stability. An economic expert like you is exactly what the transitional governnt needs."
"Has the Chairman really died?"
"That's the intelligence we've received."
"Whose intelligence? Barzani's?" Omar snickered, "Without a corpse, without independent verification, you launched a coup?"
"The situation requires a quick response." Rashid's tone was steady, "Omar, stop the vehicle. You can't get far. We can offer a guarantee of safety."
"What if I refuse?"
"Then I'll be very sorry. Your wife Laila, your two sons… they are under our protection now. Do you want them safe?"
Omar felt his blood run cold.
He slamd the brakes, the motorbike stopping by the roadside.
The heat wave hit him in the face, sweat blurring his vision.
"Shaless! Did you touch my family?"
"They are in a safe place. Mrs. Laila is very worried about you. Your youngest son is asking: 'When will daddy co back?'"
Rage and fear exploded within his chest.
Omar gripped the handlebars tightly, the veins on the back of his hands bulging.
He could take risks, but he couldn't risk his family.
"I want to talk to them." he said hoarsely.
"That's possible to arrange. But first, please arrive at the nearest safe house. The address is: Old City Street No. 47. There, you will et your family."
Omar knew it was a trap.
But he also knew if he didn't go, his family would be in danger. If he went, perhaps he could negotiate.
"If I arrive there and find out you lied to ..."
"Then my head will be yours to kick around like a ball." Rashid said, "But you must decide now. Every minute of delay ans another minute of danger to your family."
Omar looked through the rearview mirror.
In the distance, the black SUV appeared again, slowly approaching.
He hung up the phone, turned it off, and removed the battery.
Then he made a decision: not to go to Old City Street No. 47. It was surely a trap. But he couldn't continue running either; otherwise, his family would suffer.
He needed a third way.
He restarted the motorbike, but not heading towards the address Rashid gave, nor outside the city, but towards a place he never imagined he would go: the U.S. Consulate in Elbil.
If he handed over those accounts, perhaps he could exchange them for asylum.
It was a crazy gamble.
But the coup by day was insanity itself, and he could only counter madness with madness.
The motorbike accelerated, heading towards the U.S. consulate.
In the rearview mirror, the SUV accelerated in pursuit.
The buildings on either side of the street sped past.
The sunlight was blinding, the world distorted in the heat waves.
Omar didn't know if this choice was right.
He only knew, under the bright daylight, under countless eyes, a race concerning life, death, and loyalty was underway.
And he was both the prey and the hunter.
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