Dead Man’s Pacemaker

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Chapter 39

Qeshm Coast, Iran

ISÂ STOOD IN the sand as moonlight glistened on the waters of the Persian Gulf. Evening was always the most peaceful time to look over the water. Some days, he liked to bring his boat out just to enjoy the silence, but tonight there was none.

Drums filled the air behind him, and the voice of the Baba Zaar rose, followed by many others. The Baba Zaar held his staff high as he walked across the sand, dozens of people following him. The Baba smiled at Isâ as he passed, probably to remind him that he was doing the right thing. But as he looked out at the still-calm, pristine waters, Isâ had to wonder if this was all for naught.

Where are the Americans? If the ceremony passed the beach and the soldiers weren’t ready, all of this planning would be for nothing.

People streamed from huts and in moments, the crowd doubled. Isâ had never seen so many come so quickly, especially since this hadn’t been planned. Had the Baba arranged this somehow?

The drums grew louder, the incessant, staccato beat grating against the increasing rhythm of Isâ’s own heart. The sea still sparkled, tranquil in the moonlight. But no Americans. He’d failed. No one was coming.

Someone tapped him on the back, and Isâ jumped.

“Greetings, my friend,” a man said in flawless Farsi. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

Isâ spun, holding his chest. Behind him stood the soldier named Scotty, wearing a sturdy, earth-colored shirt common amongst the men of Isâ’s village.

Isâ gaped, looking out at the sea and then back to the soldier. “How?”

Scotty adjusted something hidden under the long, loose clothing—his gun, no doubt. “A story for another day.”

Three men walked past, two beating drums, the other chanting. The one chanting was the soldier called Nichols, who’d sounded excited at seeing the Zaar ceremony. How long had they all been here?

Scotty scanned the people, including at least three more of his soldiers, walking calmly with the group—being respectful, thank goodness. “Where’s the hospital?” he asked.

Isâ pointed through the crowd. “Up that hill, then down the street and past the vendors on the left.”

A man moved behind Isâ, the one they called Techie. “I don’t like it. Not enough cover, and it’ll call attention to us if we break off this early in the ceremony.”

“What do you mean?” Scotty asked.

“Nichols filled me in. These people will stay here for the duration, which could be all night. We’d have to have a good reason to leave. Even then, it would still be odd, and anyone watching would notice.”

Isâ nodded in agreement. The IRGC looked at Zaar ceremonies as a nuisance because they couldn’t control them, and no non-believers wanted to deal with the noise that lasted through the night.

Nichols moved closer, chanting and carrying a traditional drum. His voice carried through the crowd in perfect rhythm. The ceremony was solemn, but the soldier seemed to be enjoying himself. Right behind him came the Baba Zaar.

Nichols circled them, doing a fairly good job with the chant, maybe trying to cleanse his partners of any jinn that may have attached themselves to them before the Baba Zaar tapped Isâ on the back and headed up the hill with the entire procession following.

The soldier called Scotty gaped, watching as the once-empty pathway filled with people, and more than enough cover to hide their approach. “I can’t believe it.”

Carnegie laughed. “Believe it. Nichols is a crazed bookworm, but it looks like he got them to pave our way.”

As they went up the hill, even more people joined. Voices rose, chanting into the night as the growing crowd funneled through a narrow street lined with open-air shops leading up to the hospital peeking out over a cement wall in the distance.

A small figure entered the procession, weaving in and out of the taller shadowed forms. Isâ froze, recognizing the slight limp. No. It can’t be! He pushed forward, pressing through the men banging their drums. “Mona!”

His daughter spun and smiled at him.

Isâ grabbed her shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

“The Baba Zaar called for anyone sick. He said this would be the largest healing anyone has ever seen!”

As the crowd pushed past them, Isâ had no doubt that he was right. “That’s no matter. You are too young for a Zaar! Go back to our hut.”

“But, Father, everyone is here!”

The glint in her eyes was infectious. The Zaar was lively, but it was still a solemn ceremony. It was not a place for children… especially if things went wrong.

Isâ crouched and looked into her eyes. “I’m sure the Baba didn’t intend for children to show up. Please, go home.”

She frowned. “You are here to help Dr. Zhina. I want to help, too.”

Isâ stared in shock. How did she know? Not that it made a difference—she couldn’t be there. He pointed back to the beach. “Go home.”

“But—”

“Go home now! I told you this is no place for a child.”

Mona stuck out her lower lip but nodded, allowing the crowd to pass her. Isâ wanted to give her the world, but he also wanted to keep her safe. None of these people understood that they were here to hide enemy soldiers preparing to rescue a man who their government considered a threat—being here was not safe.

As they grew nearer to the hospital, Isâ’s heart lifted. For years, he hoped for a way to repay Zhina for all she’d done for his daughter. He just hoped these Americans truly could save her friend.

The chanting increased, but other sounds filled the air—voices not in time with the music and popping sounds not in sync with the drums. Isâ frowned, craning his neck to look up the path. Light shone down the hill from the hospital, illuminating three silhouettes racing toward the procession. Two men and one woman. Behind them, lights flashed, and a faint smell of smoke carried on the breeze.

Scotty shouted something and raced ahead. Nichols handed his drum off before weaving through the crowd, following. The rest of the Americans sprang to life, spreading out among the throng and moving to the front of the crowd.

The Baba Zaar lifted his staff and turned the crowd down the last street before the hospital, raising his voice and continuing the chant. Isâ stared at the soldiers running up the hill, rapt. Scotty pulled the gun out from beneath his shirt and fired. The silhouettes ducked but didn’t slow as more light flashed behind them—Isâ realized now they were muzzle flashes. The guards were shooting at them even as they ran. Nichols fired back and the smoky smell of gunpowder filled the air. The Baba appeared again and Isâ’s breath hitched. What is he doing? It wasn’t safe!

Isâ’s gaze met one of the people coming toward him. Her eyes widened as she screamed.

Zhina!

Another round of gunfire erupted behind her. The Americans fired back over Zhina and the two men with her. Something punched Isâ in the shoulder, then the chest. He stumbled back, falling against the cold ground and stared at the distant stars above.

Copyright © 2025 by Diako Hazhir

All rights reserved.

Published by Cosmic Forge Press

League City, Texas

Buy the book HERE

About the Author

Diako Hazhir is a medical professional and a writer of gripping political thrillers. As a member of the Iranian diaspora, he brings a deeply personal perspective to his storytelling, drawing from 27 years of lived experience in Iran. Many of the events in his novels echo real-life moments he has witnessed, blending authenticity with high-stakes intrigue. Through his writing, Diako Hazhir explores themes of resistance, espionage, and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of oppression.

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Posted: May 15, 2025 at 4:53 am