The sun was beginning to set as Marcus approached the outskirts of Zahedan, its fading light casting long shadows over the dusty terrain. The city sat near the Iranian border with Pakistan, a hub for smuggling, illicit trade, and shadowy figures who operated outside the law. Marcus had been to places like this before. They all stank of desperation and violence.
He drove the stolen truck carefully, blending in with the sparse traffic. The vehicle was battered and dusty, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the area. Ahead, the city spread out in a sprawling, chaotic mess of narrow streets, crumbling buildings, and crowded marketplaces. Somewhere in this maze was Reza Khalili, a man who managed to funnel money and resources for Al-Ra’ib.
Reza wasn’t the mastermind, but he was a link in the chain. And Marcus was here to break that chain.
---
By the time Marcus parked the truck, the city had come alive with activity. Nightfall in Zahedan was when the real business began. The streets were crowded with vendors hawking counterfeit goods and black-market wares, their stalls lit by flickering lamps. Marcus pulled his scarf tighter around his face, his Glock concealed beneath his jacket as he moved through the throng.
He had spent hours preparing for this moment, studying the intel he’d extracted from Khalid. Reza operated out of a nightclub near the southern edge of the city, a grimy, neon-lit establishment that doubled as a meeting point for smugglers and criminals. It was the kind of place where questions were dangerous and answers cost lives.
As Marcus approached the nightclub, the thudding bass of music grew louder, mingling with the chaotic noise of the streets. A pair of guards stood by the entrance, their rifles slung over their shoulders. They eyed everyone who entered, their expressions hard and suspicious.
Marcus didn’t head straight for the front. He slipped into an alley beside the building, moving quietly through the shadows until he found a side door. It was locked, but the mechanism was simple. A few seconds with a pick, and the door swung open silently.
---
Inside, the club was a dimly lit maze of flashing lights and thick smoke. The air was heavy with the scent of cheap alcohol and sweat, the music pounding so loudly it rattled the walls. Marcus moved carefully, sticking to the shadows as he scanned the crowd. The patrons were a mix of locals and foreigners, their conversations lost in the din. He knew Reza would be upstairs in one of the private rooms—untouchable to most, but not to him.
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A guard passed by, his back to Marcus. In a swift, fluid motion, Marcus stepped behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth and dragging him into a corner. A quick twist of the neck, and the man slumped to the floor. Marcus eased the body out of sight and continued up a staircase at the far end of the room.
---
The upper level was quieter, the music muffled but still present. This was where the real business took place, away from the chaos below. Marcus moved down the hallway, his footsteps silent. Voices drifted from behind a partially closed door at the end of the corridor.
Marcus crouched, peering through the crack. Reza Khalili was inside, seated at a table with two other men. The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a laptop illuminating their faces. They were speaking in Farsi, their tones low and conspiratorial. Marcus caught snippets of the conversation—mentions of payments, routes, and shipments. It was confirmation that Reza was deeply tied to the network Marcus was dismantling.
Marcus pushed the door open slowly, slipping inside with his Glock raised. The men froze, their eyes widening in shock.
“Don’t move,” Marcus said, his voice cold and steady.
One of the men reached for a weapon, but Marcus was faster. A single shot to the chest sent him sprawling across the table. The other man bolted for the door, but Marcus fired again, dropping him before he made it two steps.
Reza sat frozen in his chair, his hands raised. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he stared at Marcus, his breath coming in short gasps.
“Who are you?” Reza stammered, his voice trembling.
Marcus stepped closer, the Glock trained on Reza’s head. “I’m the man who’s going to tear your world apart unless you start talking.”
Reza’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape. There was none. “What do you want?”
“You work for Al-Ra’ib,” Marcus said. “You move money for him. I want names, contacts, everything you’ve got. And I want to know where he is.”
“I—I don’t know who Al-Ra’ib really is,” Reza stammered. “I just handle the transactions. He’s a ghost. No one knows who he is.”
Marcus stepped forward, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “Then tell me who does.”
Reza hesitated, but the cold fury in Marcus’s eyes broke him. “There’s a man. A courier. He handles the direct communication. His name is Abbas Darvishi. He works out of Zahedan too, but he moves around constantly.”
“Where can I find him?” Marcus demanded.
Reza shook his head frantically. “I don’t know. I swear. But he’s scheduled to pick up a shipment tomorrow night at the old freight depot outside the city. That’s all I know.”
Marcus studied him for a moment, weighing the truth of his words.
Reza flinched as Marcus leaned closer, his tone like ice. “If you’re lying, you won’t get another chance.”
“I’m not lying!” Reza cried. “The depot. Tomorrow night. Abbas will be there. I swear!”
Marcus stepped back, lowering the Glock slightly. For a moment, Reza’s hope flickered in his eyes.
“You’ve been helpful,” Marcus said coldly.
The silenced shot echoed in the room, and Reza slumped forward, lifeless.
---
Marcus stood over the body for a moment, his breathing steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. The next piece of the puzzle was Abbas Darvishi. He had a location, a time, and another lead to follow.