Free The Natanz Directive by Wayne Simmons

“Move,” Akbari screamed. So I did, and hated myself for it.
    I sprang to my feet and ran. The sidewalks were filled with fleeing people, and I pushed a woman and her child into a nearby stairwell. I glanced back. There was a motorcycle darting down the thoroughfare, and it wasn’t the cops. I saw bullets splash around Akbari’s feet. One hit his ankle, and he crumpled to the pavement. I was raising my gun when the next bullet tore into Akbari’s leg and another ripped into his belly. His head lolled back, and the pistol spun from his hand to clatter on the asphalt. Goddammit. The man had sacrificed himself for me.
    A flood of police cars raced onto Prins Hendrikkade. The two gunmen charged around the taxi, guns raised, and paid no heed whatsoever to the police. They raced into the crowd with one aim, and that was to find and kill me. That wasn’t going to happen today. I painted a picture of both of them in my head even as I ran. The passenger: a burly Persian with a bald head and a thick nose, snorting like a bull in heat. The driver: a skinny, dark guy with spiked hair and a Hulk Hogan mustache. I wouldn’t forget them.
    I had a fifty-yard head start and dashed left into a side street, dodging pedestrians and hurdling a baby stroller. I could outrun the shooters or taken them down in a firefight, but my bigger problem was the motorcycle.
    I looked over my shoulder. On second glance, it looked more like a dirt bike as it zigzagged through the street. The rider wore a black-and-red helmet. He locked in on me. He had a very nasty-looking machine pistol dangling in front of him—probably a MAC-11 purchased from an American arms dealer—and I saw him gripping it with his right hand. All hell was about to break loose, and I had to end it fast.
    When I reached the cross street, I tucked myself around the corner of a four-story stone apartment house. I gripped the Walther with two hands, stepped around the building, and triggered three shots in less than a second, all low and aimed at that midlevel point where the biker’s knees and the bike’s gas tank came together. I didn’t wait to see the results. I dipped back behind the building and listened as the bike skidded across the pavement.
    Now I looked. The motorcycle had tumbled onto its left side, pinning the rider’s leg beneath it. He lay dead still, arms spread apart. I dashed out into the street and straight for the motorcycle. I hadn’t ridden a bike in years, but I figured it would come back to me.
    It wasn’t to be. The next wave arrived, heralded by a chorus of blaring car horns and a beat-up Renault screeching to a halt on the cross street. The right-side doors opened and the two shooters bounded out. A second motorcycle circled them. The rider goosed the throttle and pointed the wheel directly at me. I was in serious trouble.
    My one chance was straight ahead, across the street, to the canal. I had maybe three seconds. I dodged a Mercedes coupe as it swerved in front of me and braked to a halt. The driver stared moon-faced at me, fear and surprise bleaching him of color. I bounded over the hood and onto the sidewalk. I saw a houseboat cruising the canal, left to right. I was probably too old to attempt what I was about to attempt, but I didn’t stop to think about it. I grasped the steel railing that bordered the canal and launched myself toward the boat. I hit the canvas canopy dead center. The canvas ripped apart under my weight, and I fell on my ass on the deck. A dozen partygoers stared, their faces blanched with astonishment. Who could blame them. A man dropped his glass of wine. A woman screamed. Dinner plates went flying.
    I levered myself upright and shouted in my very rusty Dutch, “Get down on the deck. Down on the deck. Now!” I pulled an older couple to the deck and several others followed.
    An instant later, gunshots popped above us. Bullets punched through the canvas and raked the