8./4

"You fool!" Serhat let rip at Commander Zahid Abid over the trunked system. 

Designed with frequency hopping to prevent interception, the trunk system cut out voices that ruffled Serhat's feathers even further. 

"How can you let him get away?" he snapped, bulging his eyes, his breath shaky. Should Warshond get away this time, what would he say to old Qusbecq? What would he do to him? 

"Well, he's clever," Zahid replied with a flippant snort, his voice ragged over the receptor. "Don't worry, my elite squad is hot on his tail…"

"I hand him to you on a silver platter!"

"Too bad it fell," jested the other, whose loud cackle nearly deafened Serhat. 

Stifling the impulse to smash the wonky gadget into the wall, he shut his eyes, his hands coiling. He drew a deep breath. His eyes popped open. "Did you find anything at the refinery?" 

"Nah, but we're still looking…"

Serhat punched his fist into the back of the turquoise couch. How could it be? No reason Warshond should make all the effort to deliver the phenylacetone if it wasn't for Ice. Or could it be a ploy? Ghashing his teeth, he commanded himself to breathe, to think, to see through all the obscure, the uncertain and the damned that had him for a loop. 

"How far behind is your elite squad?" 

"Not far, and looks like he seeks to escape from the Port."

The Port? Serhat splayed his fingers pulling his hair. "Shoot him!" he yelled, a shudder coursing down his spine hearing himself. "He's gonna get out of the car. Once he does, shoot him!" 

A tentative pause came over the receptor. 

"What if he's really your brother?"

"Better a corpse to find out than not knowing, eh?" he spat, his breath rattling in his throat. "Mustafa will be very disappointed, don't you agree?"

In a few short moments came staccato barks of firearms. 

Bacing his hands on the floor-to-ceiling window, Serhat let his head hang between the two arms and heaved. "Well?"

"He's shot!" 

"Dead?"

"Not yet, but we've shot him in the back. Son of a bitch ain't going nowhere."