The store's door opened and closed again.
Footsteps receded into the distance.
A few minutes later, Yazidi lifted the door curtain and entered.
"They've left, but there are still many outside. The market is locked down, and every exit is guarded."
Omar crawled out from his hiding place, drenched in sweat.
"Thank you, Uncle Yazidi."
The old man waved his hand. "Your father saved my life; this is the debt I owe him. But now the question is, how will you get out?"
Omar pondered.
The market is locked down; there's no way out.
But he couldn't stay here indefinitely; the security bureau would eventually conduct a more thorough search.
"I need a vehicle. Or a motorbike."
"There may be a motorbike." Yazidi thought for a moment, "My grandson has an old Honda in the backyard. But the brakes aren't good."
"It's fine. How about the keys?"
"In the shop. But you can't ride out from here; they'll hear the sound. You'll have to push it, go through the back alley, and start it in the next block."
Omar nodded.
"Let's do it."
Yazidi went to fetch the keys, and Omar checked his backpack: cash, passport, and USB drive were all there.
The handgun had fifteen bullets left.
The old man returned, handing him the keys and a bottle of water.
"Take this too."
It was an old motorcycle helmet, "Wear it, cover your face."
Omar took it, nodding gratefully.
"If I get caught, I'll say you were forced..."
"Stop talking nonsense." Yazidi interrupted him, "Hurry up. May Allah protect you."
Omar left the shop through the back door, entering a small courtyard.
Sure enough, there was an old Honda motorcycle parked there, covered in scratches.
He checked it.
The gas tank was half full, enough for at least a hundred kilometers or so.
He pushed the motorcycle through the courtyard's back gate, into a narrow alley.
The alleyways were winding, the ground uneven, making pushing the bike a difficult task.
The afternoon sun, after two o'clock, was shining directly down, the heat rising from the ground, and he was soon drenched in sweat again.
After pushing about two hundred meters, he estimated he had left the market area, reaching a relatively quiet residential neighborhood.
He put on the helmet and started the motorbike.
The engine roared loudly, the exhaust pipe belching black smoke, but at least it could run.
He rode onto the street, deciding to head south.
To the south was the Arab quarter, chaotic and easy to hide in, but also dangerous.
The motorbike navigated the streets.
Omar did his best to avoid Main Street, taking the alleys.
In the afternoon, around two-thirty, when the sun was at its harshest, the streets were sparse with pedestrians and vehicles.
This made him conspicuous, but also made the pursuers conspicuous.
In the rearview mirror, he saw that black SUV.
They had found him.
Omar twisted the throttle, the motorbike accelerating with a roar.
The old bike's top speed was only eighty kilometers, but it was enough on narrow streets.
He veered into a one-way street, going against traffic, causing an oncoming truck to brake hard, the driver sticking his head out to curse.
The SUV stuck close behind.
The distance was closing.
Up ahead was an intersection, a red light.
The cross traffic was dense.
Omar didn't slow down; instead, he sped up, weaving through the traffic, nearly getting hit several times.