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To the attention of the readers who enjoy reading an intelligent main character like Miles will definitely like my original story, Arrival : Ruptures. Comments, likes and reviews are appreciated. Here are the links for : AO3, Spacebattles, Royal Road and Webnovel.
—
Iraq
Sinjar
One thing this location shared on both Earths was the presence of terrorists. Of the hundreds that hid in the mountains like rats, finding a specific one would no doubt prove to be difficult.
Which is why he was not going to the mountains first.
The town offered ample opportunities to track his target. Dressed as locals with their universal translator ready, all he had to do was to follow the chain of drugs.
Finding a consumer was easy.
"Brother," the device translated. "What happened to you?" he asked, concerned for the young man.
The young man gave a goofy grin, waving like a tree facing violent winds. "Can't you see, brother? I am flying." He opened his arms, making plane noises.
"What makes you fly?"
He was taken back, face scrunching and relaxing in a cycle. "I am not supposed to say."
"Come now, maybe I wish to fly as well. Help a brother out?" he asked, bending down to look up at the man.
"Find Jamal near the square. Tell him you want to visit the mountain," he explained. That apparently was the last shred of consciousness he had left, because he crumpled down, shaking.
"Thank you, brother."
—
"That was easy," Karen commented, depressed at the state that person has been reduced to.
Miles saw her slumped shoulders, knowing what must be going on in her head. "He is so high off his head, I could convince him that I was sent by God to set him straight."
"I'd pay to see that."
"No need. I would be all too delighted to give you a free show."
"Oh my god," Claire said, rubbing her temples. "You two, get a room."
"Later," they replied at the same time, chuckling afterwards.
—
Jamal was the only person in the square with guards keeping an eye on him. They were not near him but were close enough to act should something go wrong.
Miles approached alone, armor on. "I want to visit the mountain."
"How much is your luggage?"
"Fifty kilos."
"We don't do that."
"Then tell me who does," he said, handing over a hundred-dollar bill. With how high the inflation was following the end of the major operations by the USA, it was far more worth it to have dollars than Iraqi dinar.
Jamal reached for the bill, but he pulled it back.
"I can arrange a meeting, but I'll need more."
Miles pulled out a thousand dollars in total. "Arrange the meeting, and this is yours as a start. I am looking for a long-term business. You will get your cut too."
"Wait here," the man said. He left for a quick call, coming with two burly men at his sides.
"They'll take you to the big man, Marouf."
He handed over the money and pulled the keffiyeh higher. He turned to follow the guards, while his companions trailed them, invisible.
The scans suggested Jamal was being honest. He did not detect any sign of duplicity either. Having a promised cut was what sold the deal to him most likely.
The men sent for him were carrying concealed pistols, covered from head to toe with only the eyes visible. Karen, Claire, and Baraka were in the air a couple of feet back, ready to act.
They walked through the twisting streets for a good while, circling around several buildings. No doubt they were checking to see if anyone was following. A prudent security measure, but useless against the tech he had brought into the field, though.
Electricity outages were the norm in this little town. The building they were heading for, as old as the rest, did not seem to suffer the lack of such crucial utility. The reason was the generator beneath the house. A makeshift system carried the CO₂ to the chimney through large pipes, covering it as the stove.
Inside, however, the lights were bright.
He was forced to a chair before a balding man with a goatee and a few extra pounds. Not Hassan Rashidi, but his contact in the town, the middleman.
"Fifty kilos of goods, American? You know what that sounds like?" Marouf asked, chuckling at him.
"A trap." Only a fool or one blinded by greed would believe otherwise.
Marouf chambered a round into the gun on the table and placed the barrel right on Miles' head. "It does. So why shouldn't I just shoot you here?"
"I am looking for Hassan Rashidi."
"Rashidi?" the man guffawed, lowering his gun. "Half the American army is looking for him. You look just like another one. What are you, special forces?"
"We checked him for trackers, and no one followed us." One of the men, the one who patted him down, said.
He had no intention of spending time convincing Marouf to speak. "You don't know where Rashidi is. Can't believe I wasted time by coming to the wrong man. Figures someone as paranoid as him wouldn't trust you to keep his location secret."
Miles pushed the chair back, ready to leave, but the men inside turned their guns on him.
"I know where Rashidi is, but since you are going to die, it won't matter to you. You were a fool to come here alone."
He sat back down, putting his feet on the table. "I did not."
Karen kicked the door off its hinges, sending it crashing to two of the gunmen. The guards near the entrance were too stunned to reach when Claire and Baraka barged in, each taking one. Karen slid on the ground, dodging the weapon fire from the last desperate goon to keep the full extent of her powers secret.
She gently launched herself up and landed a punch on the man's liver, slow enough to only knock him out.
Baraka's enthusiasm got the better of him. He caught the bald man's wrist, squeezing it, forcing him to drop the pistol. He held the man by the back of his head and smashed it to the table.
"Now, now. If you crack his head open like this, he won't be of any use to us," he said to Baraka. They were all smiling as the man groaned on the floor.
"Sorry," Baraka muttered. He pulled the man up by the shoulder, forcing him to sit down, while Karen and Claire tied the rest up.
He put his feet down, leaning forward. "It is fascinating how the tables could turn so quickly, isn't it?"
Marouf was moaning in pain, still trying to stem the flow of blood.
"Where is Rashidi?" he asked.
"I don't know."
"You just said you did. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" Baraka held Marouf by the back of his head again.
"I meet his men once a month to hand over the profits and take new shipments."
"When was the last time you met this man?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Then call him. Say there is a trustworthy trader looking to buy all the goods Rashidi has."
He reached across, holding the phone before Marouf could press the call button. "And no funny business."
—
"What about his nose?" Claire asked. They had the man change his clothes to not look like a mess for the meeting, but his nose looked like a giant, angry,
"He hit his face on the door, nothing else. Isn't that right?" Miles said, while Baraka glared at their prisoner. He seemed to be especially furious at the dealer, most likely from seeing the state that young man has been reduced to.
Marouf nodded slightly, shying away from Baraka. "If Rashidi comes, it will be with a lot of men."
"No. He will send a right-hand man to determine if we are actually here to do business. Once we pass his little test, he will take us to Rashidi."
"How do you know?" Karenn asked. Not that she disagreed with his reasoning; she just wanted to know his thought process.
"That's what I would do if the US government put a reward on my head. Rashidi hasn't been caught yet; it is safe to say he is not a fool. Even for such a potentially valuable deal, he won't come in person."
—
They took one of Marouf's pickup trucks. Baraka was on the wheel, driving as directed.
Marouf kept glancing at his captors, dressed as his men, unaware that they had shapeshifted to look the part.
"Stop. This is the place," Marouf said, pointing at a wooden post that showed directions.
"They are between the trees, watching us."
"Remember, Marouf, no funny business, or that nose will be the last of your problems."
They left the car to stand next to the sign, waiting.
Five men moved out of the trees, weapons pointed at the group, except for the tall, well-built one with a long black beard.
"Marouf, what happened to your nose?" The
"It's nothing, Zaeed. A small accident."
The now-named Zaeed approached Miles, circling him like a vulture. "This is the buyer then.
"He wants fifty kilos and is paying in dollars."
"Fifty kilos, you say? Is he clear?"
"He is."
"Did you come here alone?" he asked Miles and barked orders to two of his men to scout the area.
"My guards are in the town. I didn't want to give anyone a reason to shoot."
"Why come to Iraq? There are plenty of drug makers in America already."
"It's closer to Europe."
Zaeed huffed. "Do you have the payment on you?"
He opened the briefcase, displaying the bills bound together in thick stacks. Zaeed nodded appreciatively, waving at his men. They lowered the weapons and their guards.
"You can leave. We'll take the American to Hassan."
He patted Miles on the shoulder, pushing him forward. "Hope you've got a strong pair of legs, American. You are going to have to walk a long way."
—
Once more, he was alone with the enemy, though this time, he was just walking. Zaeed and his men had mules to transport them, but he was content with following on foot. The armor kept him going through the mountain path.
He checked his watch, realizing two hours had passed as they approached a cave entrance.
The landscape fit what he had seen in the show. Which meant they could skip the pleasantries. He gave the signal, and three of the men around him fell as his team literally landed on them.
Karen was quick to strike the last guard in the forehead. He was out before hitting the ground.
Claire tore Zaeed's weapon out of his hand, slamming a palm on his throat. Zaeed gagged, hands instinctively covering his throat. She brought the pistol down on his head.
Miles did not even stop, walking over the unconscious man, the visor scanning the cave to detect Hassan.
He found more than he bargained for.
The cave entrance led to an entire complex. Living quarters, a mess hall, and of course, an entire section solely for the production of narcotics.
No wonder the US forces couldn't catch Rashidi. He had no reason to leave the cave, and they could not afford to search every inch of the mountains for him.
"You guys clear the inside. I'll contact our handler and have him send forces to take custody of this place."
"Got it."
He called the number given to him during their last meeting, and they were quick to answer. "Agent Carter, I hope I am not disturbing you."
"Mr. Reddington, of course not. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"I found Rashidi. He was hiding in an underground complex. A part of it includes a drug production center. Sixty-two prisoners in total," he said as the scanners counted everyone. "I'll need you to take them off my hands along with Rashidi."
"That is…great. You work really fast," Carter said, his hesitation not lost on Miles.
"Thank you."
"Send me your coordinates. I will contact my superiors and have the nearest base send troops immediately."
—
Sixty people lived in the cave complex, and not all by choice. Six females were given by various terrorist groups to Rashidi as payment for the narcotics. Three were from Eastern Turkey, having joined the PKK, while the rest were from various places in Iraq.
The USAID was their best chance now.
Once he was sure the prisoners could not escape, he left to search for the crystal.
—
With distances he could only cover through flight, he searched for a lone human lifesign. Away from Rashidi's location by at least three days on foot, he found an exact match of what he had seen in the show.
He landed, still invisible, and searched for the warning engraved on stone.
Cave.
His steps were loud on purpose to draw Mophir out. The tribal warrior would no doubt greet him soon.
He stopped, eyes on the crystal in all its dangerous glory. The armor's systems could not make sense of the scans, but he didn't need it to.
The proximity sensors warned him about the approaching individual, flagged with a high probability of being hostile. He ignored it, letting Mophir's flying kick connect with his head.
It did nothing.
Undeterred, the tribal warrior struck with his sword in a flurry of attacks, slashing for vital parts.
"When you are finished, let us speak in peace."
Mophir leaped back, brows furrowed. "What are you saying? I don't understand."
Miles blinked inside the armor. Of course Mophir wouldn't know how to speak English for the sake of plot, unlike in the show. Good thing his armor could translate.
The universal translator activated again. "I wish to speak in peace."
"Speak in peace, metal man?" he said, voice light and, more importantly, not hostile.
"If you swear not to attack, I will remove my armor," he offered. It was best to speak face to face with Mophir.
He frowned but agreed. "I swear."
The armor broke down into nanobots, flowing back into the watch. He was left in the cave in his suit, raising his arms. The apparent sorcery made Mophir wary.
"Not a metal man," he said, giving the tribal warrior a once over. Old and weathered, dressed in his tribal armor that reminded him of the ancient Roman lorica hamata in shape, though not in the material composition.
"You should leave this place. It is dangerous," Mophir warned, standing between the crystal and Miles.
"I assume you are the protector of the Heart of Darkness?" At the nod, he continued, "I came here to destroy it."
"If it could have been destroyed, I wouldn't be here."
"I have a way. Throw it to the sun."
Mophir looked at him for a second, eyes blank, and burst into laughter. "Throw it to the sun?!"
His voice echoed in the cave, but he eventually began to calm down once his belly ached too much.
Miles stood there cleaning his fingernail, waiting.
"You are serious." Mophir realized, all mirth gone from his body.
"I am." He pressed the watch, materializing armor outside his body.
"This armor can fly and throw the crystal to the sun," he began, explaining how the armor worked as best as he could.
—
In the next chapter:
Convincing Mophir was an exercise in futility. Instead of wasting any more breath, he decided on a different approach.
"Why don't you go with the armor? If you think it is a trap, it will be best for you to follow," he offered with a strained smile. There was no other way he would agree to this proposal.
The guardian of the Heart of Darkness began to pace around the cave, mumbling in low tones.
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