Scene 1 — Two Hours to Breathe
DSP Farooq Khan's Office, Islamabad Police HQ — 9:40 PM
A map of Balochistan hung on the wall behind the desk, its edges curled by the heat. The blinds were half-closed; the city's neon flickered through the slats like a heartbeat. DSP Farooq Khan stood with his palms on the table, studying satellite prints and a hand-drawn sketch of a walled compound near Qilla Abdullah, not far from the Chaman border.
Across from him, Inspector Haroon waited—fresh vest, field jacket zipped to the collar, eyes steady but tired. The last week had carved faint lines under them.
Farooq (without looking up):
"Haroon, few hours later our FC contingent will be here. Before I brief the room, I want to talk to you alone."
Haroon:
"Ji, sir."
Farooq straightened, finally meeting his gaze.
Farooq:
"You've been at this seventy-two hours straight. If you want to meet your family, I'm authorizing a two-hour break. At midnight we roll."
Haroon's first instinct was refusal. He shook his head lightly.
Haroon:
"It's okay, sir. I'll call Maryam from here."
Farooq's tone softened, but stayed firm.
Farooq:
"Phone call isn't the same. Go home. See Maryam, see the boys. Come back by 11:50. I'll consider it an order if I have to."
A flicker passed over Haroon's face. He nodded.
Haroon:
"Understood. I'll be back on time."
Farooq slid a folder across.
Farooq:
"Study this in the car. When you return, we brief the teams."
Haroon saluted, tucked the folder under his arm, and headed for the corridor at a quick clip.
---
Scene 2 — F-7, A Light Left On
Haroon & Maryam's Apartment, F-7/2, Islamabad — 10:25 PM
The building elevator hummed up in fits; the corridor carried the faint smell of detergent and someone's late chai. Haroon unlocked the door gently. Inside, the living room lamp was on—Maryam's habit whenever he was out late.
On the couch lay a folded knit blanket and a half-read children's book about rockets. From the bedroom drifted the soft white noise of a tower fan.
Maryam appeared at the doorway, dupatta loose over a simple night kurta, hair braided. Her face held both relief and the contained worry of someone who'd learned not to ask until the room was quiet.
Maryam (soft, surprised):
"Tum? Itni jaldi?"
Haroon (managing a smile):
"DSP ne bheja. Do ghante. Bas."
She read the rest in his eyes. She stepped in and hugged him, brief, firm.
Maryam:
"Ubaid so gaya hai. Irfan bhi… abhi abhi bottle li aur seedha neend."
A small sound from the bedroom; Irfan turned in his crib and settled. Haroon moved toward the doorway, standing to watch—tiny chest rising, fist tucked near his cheek. Beside the crib, five-year-old Ubaid sprawled diagonally on the bed, one sock missing, a toy car motionless on the pillow.
Haroon (whispering):
"Dekha? Hero so raha hai, gear four pe."
Maryam smiled; the kind that warms and hurts.
They returned to the lounge. She poured tea from a thermos and slid him a cup without ceremony.
Maryam:
"Mission?"
Haroon (careful):
"Balochistan side. Chaman ke paas. Qamar Yousifi ka compound. FC ke saath joint operation. Rehan likely inside."
Her fingers tightened around her cup.
Maryam:
"Noman ne jo bataya tha… uski behen Sara?"
Haroon:
"Us par bhi nazar. But primary is arrest. 'Alive' orders. Crossfire ka risk high hai."
She nodded slowly, absorbing, organizing.
Maryam (steady):
"Main dua karungi. Phone on rakhna. Agar signal na mile… bas ek message jad se bhej dena jab ho sake."
He took her hand a beat longer than usual.
Haroon:
"Wapas aaoon ga."
Maryam (half-smile):
"Woh to tumhara farz hai. Aur hamara haq."
He stood. She walked him to the door, then impulsively tiptoed to fix his collar and pat the velcro on his vest flat.
Maryam (teasing, voice low):
"Inspector sahab—ab theek."
He exhaled a quiet laugh, kissed her forehead, listened once more for the boys breathing—and left.
---
Scene 3 — Steel & Sand
HQ Motor Pool, Then Kashmir Highway — 11:48 PM → 12:37 AM
The motor pool buzzed with clipped efficiency. Matte-green FC trucks idled; two black police SUVs waited, radios squawking. A man in desert-cam fatigues strode in—broad-shouldered, beard trimmed, eyes like a rangefinder.
Captain Syed Abdullah Habib, Frontier Corps.
He and Haroon shook hands, a solid, professional grip.
Abdullah:
"Captain Abdullah. You must be Haroon."
Haroon:
"Ji. Welcome."
Inside the briefing room, the last chairs filled—25 FC commandos, six plain-clothes Islamabad Police operators, a medic, a tech. DSP Farooq stood at the projector.
Farooq (pointer tapping the screen):
"Objective is here—walled farm compound, south of Qilla Abdullah, dirt approach from the west, dry streambed to the east. Estimated 15–20 armed. Rooftop sentries confirmed. Possible cellar. Sniper overwatch essential. We need Qamar and Rehan alive."
He clicked—thermal stills, a crude floor layout, entry points marked in grease pencil.
Abdullah (taking over):
"Team Alpha (my lead) breaches south gate. Team Bravo wraps the east wall via nala bed—cut off egress. Snipers, call signs Falcon-1 and Falcon-2, neutralize rooftop threats on my mark. Inspector Haroon leads Arrest Cell inside the main block. Rules of engagement: positive ID before shots. No blue-on-blue."
He eyed the room, letting the plan settle.
Abdullah:
"Questions?"
Haroon:
"Generator house?"
The tech flipped to a photo—tin-roof shack near the west wall.
Tech:
"Likely backup power. Kill it, we buy darkness."
Abdullah:
"Good catch. Bravo will carry bolt cutters and a charge for that if needed. Move at 00:45. Wheels now."
Engines barked to life. The convoy rolled into the night, headlights hooded, radios turned to whispers.
---
Scene 4 — Approach
Outskirts of Qilla Abdullah — 1:42 AM
The convoy stopped a kilometer out; engines cut. Wind slid over the scrub like a hiss. Above, a hard quilt of stars.
Haroon checked his earpiece, touched the talisman habit of every cop—shirt pocket, phone on silent, magazine seated.
Abdullah (on comms, low):
"Falcon-1, Falcon-2, eyes?"
Falcon-1 (whisper):
"Visual on two rooftop sentries—north corner and central hatch."
Falcon-2:
"Thermal shows three heat signatures near south courtyard. Rifle slung."
Abdullah:
"Copy. Bravo, on me to east wall. Alpha, stack south gate. Haroon—hold behind Alpha."
They moved—disappearing shapes, boots memorizing the ground. Bravo ghosted along the dry streambed, mud flaking under their knees. Alpha flattened to the south wall; a commando set a breaching strip softly against the gate's hinge seam.
Abdullah (breath a fog):
"Falcons, two-count, then send it."
Two heartbeats.
Two suppressed thunks—pfft, pfft—and two distant thuds like sacks dropped. Rooftop rifles clattered on concrete.
Abdullah (hand chopping):
"Breach."
A muffled blast puckered the gate inward. The wall shivered. Alpha flooded the gap, shouldering through smoke.
From inside, a shout cracked the quiet.
Guard (in Pashto):
"Hamla! Bandook lao!"
The compound woke like a struck hive.
---
Scene 5 — The Courtyard
Inside the South Gate — 1:50 AM
Muzzle flashes strobed behind low planters. Alpha took a knee, returning disciplined bursts—tap-tap, tap-tap—glass shattering in the main block's windows. Bravo's first pair crested the east wall and dropped in, cutting the angle.
Abdullah (calm under fire):
"Alpha hold and fix; Bravo hook left!"
A round snapped brick near Haroon's ear. He flinched, checked his men: Rashid, Hamza, Zakir—all green, all breathing, eyes white in the dark.
Haroon (comms):
"Arrest Cell—on me. We use the right flank veranda. Avoid open court."
A shadow broke from the main block—sprinting. Bravo stitched the dirt at his feet; he dove back, swearing.
Falcon-2:
"Movement on roof ladder—neutralized."
Pfft. A figure collapsed across the hatch.
Abdullah:
"Generator?"
Bravo Lead:
"Eyes on shack—two guards outside."
Abdullah:
"Take them silent. Kill power."
Two silhouettes glided; two whispered impacts; a third turned, too slow—caught with a baton strike to the throat. The shack door kicked; wire cutters hissed. The compound sagged into deeper dark as the generator coughed and died. Only stars and muzzle flare remained.
---
Scene 6 — The Corridor
Main Block, Ground Floor — 1:58 AM
Haroon slid to the main block's side door, shoulder to jamb.
Haroon (murmur):
"Zakir, latch. Hamza, flash on my mark. Three, two… now."
The door swung. The flashbang bounced once—whump—a painless white sun. Haroon rolled in, rifle up.
A narrow corridor: closed doors left and right, a stairwell at the end. Someone scrambled at mid-hall, hand jerking for a sidearm. Haroon's burst caught the plaster beside him; the man flung the pistol and raised hands, choking.
Haroon (to Rashid):
"Zip him. Move."
Footsteps upstairs—frantic. Then a glimpse—a gaunt face, sweat-slick, eyes too bright: Rehan Malik.
Haroon (shout):
"Rehan! Police! Neeche aao—hands up!"
Rehan bolted for the landing.
Haroon:
"Rashid—stairwell, right!"
They stormed. At the landing, Rehan grabbed a metal bar—swung wild. Rashid ducked; the bar pinged off rail. Haroon slammed him into the wall; elbows trapped, wrists wrenched, cuffs kissing metal.
Rehan (spitting):
"You don't know who I work for—"
Haroon (breath hard, even):
"I do. He's next."
Rashid frog-marched Rehan down. Haroon keyed his mic.
Haroon:
"Arrest Cell to command—Rehan in custody. Repeat, Rehan secured."
A brief cheer crackled on net, cut quick by more gunfire.
Abdullah:
"Good work. Push to central hall. Qamar is not down."
---
Scene 7 — The Hall & The Hold
Main Block, Central Hall — 2:06 AM
The central hall bloomed with firelight—someone had kicked over a lantern. Through wavering heat, Qamar Yousifi appeared: thickset, beard trimmed close, a black waistcoat over tactical slings. An AK in his hands, steady as a handshake. Two bodyguards flanked him; another pair took the balcony above.
He raked the hall with a burst. Wood splintered off doorframes. Alpha flattened, returning measured fire. A commando on Haroon's left cried out—leg hit—then clamped his jaw and rolled out of the lane.
Abdullah (radio calm):
"Falcon-1, balcony two o'clock—can you thread it?"
Falcon-1:
"Negative—too many friendlies in spill."
Abdullah:
"Bravo, ladder to mezzanine—smoke cover."
Two canisters arced—pssshh—white curtains boiling up. The balcony guards fired blind; one stumbled coughing and tumbled down the stairs.
Haroon (to his three):
"Left pillar to planter—on my go. Go!"
They bounded. Rounds chewed the pillar's corner as they dove. The air tasted of cordite and dust. Haroon peered, found angles: one guard's knee, exposed; a flicker of Qamar's shoulder.
Haroon (to mic):
"Can't drop Qamar—need him breathing."
Abdullah:
"Copy. Pin him. Bravo will wrap the rear corridor."
The firefight stretched into slow seconds. Then a crack different from the rest—Falcon-2 had an angle—one balcony rifle clattered and a body went still.
Qamar (shouting, thick accent):
"You won't leave with me! You hear? You'll carry your dead!"
A beat later, the cost came due. At the hall's far arch, an Alpha man leaned a hair too far—Qamar's burst found him. He fell on his side, motionless.
Silence punched Haroon's ribs; then the training returned, cruel and automatic—keep moving. He toggled his radio.
Haroon (flat, controlled):
"Medic to arch two. Smoke on arch."
Hamza popped a smoke; the medic slid low, hands already working.
Abdullah (low growl):
"Enough. Bravo, breach rear door now."
A muffled thump from the back rooms. Shouted Pashto. Qamar glanced over his shoulder—half a second.
It was all Haroon needed.
He surged from behind the planter, crossed five meters in three strides, and drove into Qamar mid-torso. The rifle barked upward, harmless. They crashed to the floor, trading elbows and fists at suffocating range. Qamar reached for a pistol at his belt; Haroon trapped the wrist, slammed it twice to tile until the gun skittered away.
Alpha piled in—three bodies pinning limbs, one wrenching Qamar's arm behind with a zip-cuff's ratchet zzzzt.
Abdullah (over them, breath controlled):
"Qamar Yousifi—under arrest."
Qamar's chest heaved; his eyes burned like coals.
Qamar (hoarse):
"You close one door. Ten more open."
Haroon (voice level):
"Tonight, we closed yours."
---
Scene 8 — The Sweep
Compound, Multiple Rooms — 2:23 AM
Gunfire dwindled to the occasional pop and the tiny metallic clinks of cooling brass. Teams flowed room to room—"Clear… clear…"—unhooking padlocks, checking cupboards disguised as walls.
A small prefab on the north side revealed a cramped office: ledger books, a satphone, a scale with residue, numbered polybags. Evidence techs started their quiet industry—photos, tags, seals.
In a rear storeroom, Bravo found three men zip-tied, bruised—local drivers who'd refused a run. They blinked at the light like cave fish, thankful and stunned.
Haroon (to Bravo lead):
"Sara?"
Bravo Lead (shaking his head):
"Not here. One women's shawl in a corner room, but that's it. Might've been moved."
Haroon's jaw worked once. He nodded.
Haroon (radio):
"Command, site secure. Qamar in custody. Rehan in custody. Casualties to update."
Farooq (voice filtered, tight):
"Copy, Haroon. Hold perimeter. Evac inbound. Good work."
---
Scene 9 — Names and Numbers
Courtyard, Under the Stars — 2:40 AM
Bodies were counted and covered. Two of theirs were zipped into black—faces now memory, not problem set. Three wounded sat propped against a wall, bandages white against field grime; the medic moved like a metronome.
Haroon took a step back from the noise and dialed his phone. Bars wavered, then held.
Maryam (picking on the second ring, voice small with waiting):
"Hello?"
He exhaled, some coil unwinding.
Haroon (quiet):
"I'm okay."
A pause, then a wet laugh that wasn't quite a laugh.
Maryam:
"Alhamdulillah. Ubaid ne kaha tha 'Abbu Superman hai.' Main ne kaha—'Superman bhi dua mangta hai.'"
He smiled, and the night softened by a degree.
Haroon:
"Main subah tak HQ par hoon. Bachon ko mera pyaar."
Maryam:
"Sabr se drive karna. Aur… thank you."
Haroon:
"Kis liye?"
Maryam:
"Wapas aane ke liye."
He ended the call before his throat closed.
Behind him, Qamar sat cuffed on a camp chair, two FC rifles shadowing him. Rehan crouched on the ground nearby, eyes flicking anywhere but toward Haroon.
Abdullah walked over, helmet dangling from his hand.
Abdullah:
"We lost two. Three wounded stable. Your arrest pair are intact. Islamabad will want them last—Commissioner's signatures, you know the drill."
Haroon (nodding):
"I'll ride with the prisoners. Your men…?"
Abdullah (a small, tired smile):
"My men know their jobs. Tonight they did them."
They shook hands, no flourish. Just the weight of work done right and dearly.
---
Scene 10 — The Long Road Back
Convoy, Dawn Skimming the Hills — 4:58 AM
First light brushed the ridges pink. The convoy rolled slow over rutted tracks, dust lifting in trailing veils. Inside the transport, Qamar stared through Haroon as if the inspector were a pane of glass. Rehan kept his eyes on his cuffed hands, thumb rubbing a nervous groove.
Rehan (sudden, low):
"You think this ends me? There are others. Karachi, Quetta, even here—"
Haroon (cutting, quiet):
"Save it for your statement."
From the front bench, an FC commando began a soft recitation under his breath, a prayer for those who didn't make the ride. No one told him to stop.
Haroon let the rhythm fill the spaces not touched by radio hiss and suspension squeaks. He pictured a crib, a toy car on a pillow, a woman's practiced, brave smile.
He looked at Qamar once more, not with hatred—just with the flat certainty of a ledger balanced.
Haroon (to himself):
"Next, we find Sara."
The hills unspooled. Islamabad waited with its lights and questions.
---
After-Action Tally (internal, not announced)
Primary Targets:
Qamar Yousifi — arrested, alive
Rehan Malik — arrested, alive
Friendly Casualties:
2 KIA (names withheld pending notification)
3 WIA (stable; evac to CMH Quetta, then transfer)
Enemy Combatants:
7 neutralized, 5 detained
Evidence Seized:
Ledgers, satphone, packaging gear, small arms, photographs of cargo lots
Unresolved:
Sara (Noman's sister) — not located on-site; probable movement within last 24–48 hours