Empire of Lies

32

Ramazan’s breath seized the instant the man who claimed to be Anwar Rasheed grabbed the Hafiye agent. The next few seconds were a blur of surreal noise and imagery, like nothing he’d encountered before. The violence rooted him in place, and then he snapped back to life. Just as the tattooed man’s gun pivoted toward Fonseca and spat out its rounds, he charged for the door, pushing the screaming nurse out in front of him.

Outside, in the main ICU ward, panic had already spread as nurses and doctors scurried to take cover any way they could.

“Call security,” Ramazan hollered as he sprinted away from the room in a directionless frenzy, straight at the two other Hafiye agents who were already rushing toward him, bodies coiled in low combat crouches, guns drawn.

Without stopping, Ramazan raised one arm while jabbing the air frantically with the other in the direction of the room. “He’s got a gun,” he blurted to them. “He shot the others.” And as he spun his head to glance back at the room, he saw Rasheed stumble through the door, gun raised.

Ramazan ducked to the side as one of the two agents yelled out, “Drop your weapon.” A split second later, more gunshots erupted. Ramazan dove to the ground, then twisted around quickly to see what was happening. The agents had taken cover, one behind a wheeled cabinet and the other behind a structural column, and were firing away relentlessly while bullets from Rasheed’s gun were flying past, drilling holes in the cabinet and kicking up chips of plaster from the column. He couldn’t see Rasheed at first. Then he spotted him, sheltering behind another column.

“Drop your weapon,” the agent hollered again.

Rasheed loosed off three more rounds; then Ramazan heard a quick succession of loud metallic snaps coming from his direction. He was no gun expert, but he knew enough to recognize that sound.

Rasheed’s gun was empty.

Rasheed felt debilitated before he even exited the room.

He’d moved too soon and hadn’t reckoned with how weak he still was and how much his body still needed to recover. Each step was like trudging through quicksand. He felt stabs of pain in multiple areas, with the worst in his chest, like someone was tearing his rib cage open. He was heavy-headed, his vision was woozy, and the gun in his hand felt like it weighed a ton.

He’d misread the situation, misjudged his abilities. Despite the haze, he knew it now. He’d screwed up.

And he was now out of bullets.

But there was still a way out. It was what he should have done in the first place, instead of trying to clear the mess before leaving.

It was time to go.

“Okay, okay, don’t shoot,” he yelled back, raising his gun hand while remaining hidden behind the column. “I’ll drop my gun. Don’t shoot.”

He bent down and set the gun on the floor, then gave it a good shove in the direction of the agents.

“I’m unarmed. Okay? I’m coming out,” he shouted.

Ramazan watched as Rasheed stepped out from behind the column. He had his arms stretched upward, his palms open, his fingers spread.

Twenty yards across the large room, the two agents also emerged from cover.

“Get down, on the ground. Now,” one of them roared as they advanced carefully toward him, their guns still aimed at him through extended arms and two-handed grips.

Ramazan flicked his gaze back at Rasheed. The tattooed man had stopped moving and was dropping to his knees. He also seemed disconcertingly calm. Which was when it hit Ramazan. He knew what the man was going to do.

He rose up, his eyes laser-focused on his patient, a cocktail of fear, disbelief, and anticipation crippling him, even more so when Rasheed leveled his gaze back at him and didn’t waver—then the man’s lips started moving.

Ramazan wanted to shout out, wanted to warn the agents, wanted to stop Rasheed from doing what he knew he was going to do—but his legs weren’t cooperating, nor was his mouth.

The only word it could eke out was a meek, whispered “No.”

Dizzy, in pain, his vision blurred and swirling, Rasheed fought hard to concentrate.

Time to go. Time to get the hell out of here.

He could see Ramazan Hekim’s face peering out from behind the advancing men, the doctor’s eyes wide with horror. Then he shut his eyes and started murmuring the incantation.

It didn’t take long.

And when he was done, he felt the familiar icy shiver race through his veins and the sudden prickle of thousands of tiny needles on the inside of his skull—and then he was gone.

Ramazan felt his entire body seize up.

Even though he’d heard the man tell him about it, even though he’d discussed it with Nisreen, even though he’d thought about nothing else for the last couple of days, it still shocked the life out of him.

One second, the man was there, in full view, on his knees, his arms outspread—then he was gone. Just like that.

No sound, no wind, no pyrotechnics.

He just vanished.

The agents kept advancing, slower now, scanning the room, sweeping the area for what their brains were still having great difficulty processing.

Then one clear thought burst through Ramazan’s daze and slapped him to attention.

He had to run.

He edged backward, away from them, one cautious, quiet step, then another, then a bit faster, until he was slipping through the double doors and rushing for the hospital’s exit.

As he moved, he pulled out his phone, trying to keep it in his grip, trying not to let his jittery fingers lose hold of it, and somehow he managed to hit the right speed-dial key.

Nisreen answered on the second ring.

“Where are you?” he rasped.