17 July 2037
01:35 — Liora's Compound
Sohel walked a step behind Lee, his wrists bound tight, the coarse rope digging deeper with every movement. Behind him, two guards followed with rifles at low ready. They entered a steel lift, descended, then moved through a concrete corridor that smelt of oil and dust.
Lee stopped at a sealed door and placed his hand over the keypad. Five quick taps, each key producing a slightly different tone. Sohel closed his eyes and listened, replaying the sequence in his mind. He repeated the melody silently until he was certain it was locked in memory.
The door slid open with a hiss, and hot desert air punched him in the face. The sand was whipping under the blades of a Russian MI-08 helicopter idling on the runway. The rotor wash made his skin sting as if his face were being sandblasted.
At the ramp, ten FNA soldiers already sat waiting, armed to the teeth. Sohel walked up under prodding rifles. Lee boarded next, followed by the guards. The ramp closed, and the MI-08 lifted into the desert night.
Sohel leaned to glance at a compass strapped to one soldier's wrist. The needle pointed east — toward Afghanistan. He ran the keypad tones again in his head, imprinting the code.
02:10 — Desert Motel
The helicopter set down at a caravan stop in the middle of nowhere, its blades beating the silence out of the desert. Inside, the air smelt of smoke and roasted lamb. Soldiers sat at crude tables while waiters rushed about with trays.
Sohel's stomach betrayed him with a low growl — he hadn't eaten since the hotel dinner in Nowshahr, more than twenty-four hours ago. A waiter brought him a plate of pulav and lamb, but Lee waved it away with a smirk.
"He won't eat. Not hungry," Lee said.
Sohel's throat burnt. "Can I get some water?"
Lee filled a bowl and set it on the floor. "Here. Drink it like a dog."
Bound, Sohel lowered his head and slurped. The cold water tasted of metal and humiliation. He forced himself not to react, not to give Lee the satisfaction.
Outside, camels stood burdened with crates under the moonlight. An off-road military truck rumbled behind the motel. Lee shoved Sohel forward. "Walk."
04:24 — Outskirts of Jabol, Iran
Hours later, their convoy approached the ragged edge of civilisation. Instead of highways, Lee had chosen a route through mountains — goat trails and rocky passes designed to bypass SNA checkpoints.
As dawn threatened the horizon, the landscape shifted. Green crept into view, scattered fields and scrubby trees, a false promise of life.
The truck stopped near a dirt road. Waiting there: ten open jeeps, engines idling.
The group split up. With the drivers, soldiers, Lee, and Sohel, the count rose to twenty-two. The big army truck stayed behind, too conspicuous for a border town.
The jeeps moved out one by one, each spaced three minutes apart — a smuggler's trick to look like separate travellers. Sohel bounced in the last jeep beside Lee, every bump jarring his ribs.
05:10 — Jabol, Iran
The city appeared exactly as Sohel remembered from satellite feeds in Tehran. Dust-covered, flat, colourless. Houses that looked abandoned yet weren't. Narrow streets choked with stalls selling everything — cigarettes, perfume, fake IDs, car engines, and stolen tech. No trees, no greenery.
Sohel noticed more Afghans than Iranians and not a single trace of police or SNA patrols. A border city adrift from law.
Lee ordered him out of the jeep. The driver peeled away, leaving Sohel with Lee's pistol pressed against his back.
They walked through the market. Vendors barely looked at them, accustomed to armed men in black. Lee led him to a warehouse on the outskirts where the other jeeps were already waiting.
Inside, FNA soldiers stood guard. Workers — ragged, sweat-stained men — began loading heavy crates onto the jeeps. The clatter of wood against metal echoed in the cavernous space.
Sohel's eyes scanned the stacks: dozens of crates, far too few for the monstrous appetite of Liora's factory. Even so, each crate meant more weapons, more chips, and more slaves.
When the last crate was tied down, Lee gave a sharp nod. Engines rumbled to life. The jeeps lined up and rolled out of the city.
This time they took the paved road.
Lee spoke low so only Sohel could hear. "Can't go off-road with the cargo. Too risky."
Sohel stared out into the fading night. His mind wasn't on the road or the cargo. It was on the keypad tones, the factory workers, and the vow he had made: When the time comes, I'll kill you myself.
After a few miles driving out of the city, the caravan stopped. Sohel looked around and just saw a paved road with naked, greenery-less mountains on both sides. Lee took out a knife from his pocket and cut free Sohel's hands. Lee said with a cruel smirk, "This place is called the Pulsirat, or the bridge of judgement by the Iranians. You know why? It's cause during the Third World War, when Israel had invaded Iran, the Iranian military used this place to ambush the Israeli convoy. Although not confirmed, it is said that a 5,000-man unit entered the pass; only 500 got out on the other side. I bet they'll use the same tactics again. So… You'll drive the first jeep from now on. Go, get in."
The FNA soldiers laughed. Sohel got into the jeep, a left-hand drive car. Driver's seat on the left side, Sohel got on. He knew he had to do it; there was no escape. He started the car and slowly drove forward. Even though the road was paved, no one really cared about the maintenance of this remote border road. So, the road was full of cracks and potholes. Sohel was having a hard time keeping the jeep in control while driving at the speed Lee had ordered him to drive in. He was hearing the crates behind him moving from side to side violently. He cursed under his breath as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, the pass closing in around him like a trap.