1:30 PM, Erbil City, Salah al-Din Street.
The heat enveloped the entire city.
Amir Kadri sat in his taxi driver's seat, the windows fully rolled down, but there was almost no breeze.
Sweat soaked his cheap shirt, forming dark stains on his back and underarms.
The radio was broadcasting an afternoon music program, a female singer's husky voice singing old breakup songs, mixed with static hissing.
He stared at the meter, having waited for an hour with no passengers.
This was always how afternoon business was.
People were either in offices with air conditioning or napping at home.
Only those who couldn't afford parking fees, like him, would endure the scorching sun.
His phone vibrated.
It was his younger brother, who worked at a car repair shop in the north of the city.
"Amir, have you heard?"
His brother's voice was low, as if speaking a secret.
"Heard what?"
"I have a customer who is a driver for the Security Bureau's logistics. He said all personnel on leave were urgently called back this morning, and a large amount of ammunition and equipment was taken out of storage. He also said he saw people from 'Grey Wolf' loading vehicles, fully armed but in civilian clothes."
Amir frowned. "Maybe it's an exercise."
"An exercise on a weekend, suddenly? And I heard that General Barzani suddenly went to Kirkuk yesterday, and there's no word from Chairman Masoud. Something's not right."
"Stop speculating." Amir cut him off. "We're just ordinary people, what does this have to do with us? Just fix your cars."
After hanging up, Amir felt a vague unease.
His gaze involuntarily turned outside the window.
The Autonomous Committee Building stood a few blocks away, its white walls reflecting the blinding sunlight.
At the building entrance, security stood as usual, but there seemed to be one or two more than usual.
Maybe his brother was right.
The atmosphere in this city was indeed strange.
Could something really be about to happen?
He started the engine, deciding to try his luck in the Old Market District; there's always someone needing a ride there.
The car slowly merged into the traffic.
While waiting at a red light, Amir noticed three black Toyota Land Cruisers parked by the roadside, unlicensed and with dark-tinted windows.
Such cars were not commonly seen in the city, but today he had already seen several.
The red light turned green.
He pressed the accelerator, seeing from the rearview mirror that those three cars moved too, maintaining a not-too-distant distance.
Must be a coincidence.
He told himself.
But his palms began to sweat on the steering wheel.
1:40 PM, Old Market District, second floor of the spice shop.
The Yazidi elder sat cross-legged on a cushion, a heap of cardamom, cinnamon, and little cardamom spread on the copper plate before him.
His eyes were closed, but his fingers skillfully sorted the spices, a muscle memory formed over sixty years.
From downstairs came the sound of his grandson bargaining with customers, the smoke from grilling meat across the street wafting in through the window, mixed with the scent of spices.
This was the world the Yazidi elder knew, a world built on smells, sounds, and the rhythm of daily life.
But today was different.
He opened his eyes and looked out at the narrow street.
The market was still crowded, but there were some discordant figures among the crowd.
About a dozen young men, gathered in groups of three or five, dressed normally but moving cautiously, their gazes continuously scanning around.
There were unnoticed bulges at their waists.
The Yazidi elder had lived through two coups.
1963, 1968, 1973.
Every time before a coup, such people appeared in the market.
They were the vanguard, the scouts, the first drops of rain before the storm.
He slowly stood up and walked to the window.
At the end of the street, two off-road vehicles without license plates were parked there, with people inside but not getting out.
"Grandfather?" Grandson poked his head out at the top of the stairs, "Do you need anything?"
"Close early today." The Yazidi elder said.
"But it's only past one..."
"Listen to me!"
The elder's voice left no room for doubt, "Tell customers to leave, lock the store. Then you and your wife and children go to the basement, bring water and food, and don't come out."
The grandson's face changed.
"What's happening?"
"A storm is coming." The Yazidi elder looked outside the window, "This time during the day. Daytime storms either come and go quickly, or... they're particularly fierce."
He turned and walked towards the small prayer room inside the house. On the wall hung an ancient Kurdish proverb embroidery:
"When eagles fight eagles, sparrows must lower their heads."
He knelt down and began to pray. Not for any side, just for those ordinary people doomed to be crushed in this power game.
Outside the window, the city's noise remained unchanged.
But there was a tension in the air, like the silence before a bowstring is drawn to its limit.
1:45 PM, Security Bureau Building, seventh floor command center.
Rashid felt his heart pounding behind his ribs, a speed that didn't seem fit for a forty-seven-year-old's heart rate.
In the command center, forty staff members were at their posts, the tapping of keyboards and the hum of equipment interweaving into a tense white noise.
On the huge curved screen, sixteen surveillance feeds were transmitting real-time images from every corner of Erbil.
Everything seemed terrifyingly normal.
In the top-left screen was the B2 level of the underground parking at the Autonomous Committee Building.
Three black off-road vehicles were parked in the shadows, with personnel inside waiting.
Rashid could imagine their state - adrenaline surging, breathing rapid, repeatedly checking their equipment.
The "Grey Wolf" team members were personally selected by him, each aware of the significance of today's operation.