Signals in the Dark: "Storm Tide"
Chapter Four of Signals in the Dark, a novella serialized by Political Tips. Beginning in Ukraine and moving through Iran, Turkiye, Georgia, Russia, and Belarus, you are invited into a world on fire.
(Signals in the Dark is my way of presenting my fact-infused fiction to readers who understand the world is on fire and wish to immerse themselves in it. I ask that if you appreciate my work, please help contribute to my writing through PayPal or by subscribing now. - Please like, share, and comment on this story and every chapter from Signal's in the Dark. Your feedback matters.)
Chapter 4 - Storm Tide
Batumi, Georgia
It was a brutal, bone-rattling gauntlet—the escape from Tbilisi a five-hour slog along the Black Sea coast, Luka's driver weaving a battered Kamaz truck through backroads past Adjara's pine-clad hills. Checkpoints loomed every few miles, Georgian border guards slouched under flickering lanterns, Kalashnikovs dangling as they waved the truck through with a grunt at crumpled lari tucked into a cigarette pack, their shouts—"Shemogvdeg! Keep moving!"—lost to the gusts as they pocketed their earnings.
Beyond the end, past the cliffs, where the sea twisted into knots, the sky turned black as storm clouds invaded. The throaty roar of thunder and sharp cackle of lighting ripped through the night. Agnes braced herself in the cargo hold, floorboards snapping and creaking under her. Her fingers gripping at a coarse strap, each jolt of the chassis over a pothole added to the harshness of her predicament. Fumes from a gas can seeped up from a forgotten corner, mingling with the damp canvas tarp overhead and the briny tang slipping through a cracked slit—the Black Sea's breath pressing close, a relentless drumbeat beneath the storm's howl.
Crates shifted beside her, wooden edges scarred from rough handling, a faint Cyrillic stamp—Kavkaz Trans—peeking through the tarp's frayed hem, a thread tying Bandar Abbas's rail yard to Tbilisi's chaos and now coiling here in Batumi's rotting port. She traced the splintered grain with a gloved hand, mind flicking to Rustaveli's flares—protesters choking on tear gas, Kozlov’s dual hand steering Iranian arms and cracking skulls.
Ziyad sat across, arms folded tight, his patched jacket—frayed from Tehran's lockdown days—damp from Tbilisi's downpour, creaking as he shifted. His left eye twitched faintly—a flinch from protest cells where batons cracked bone, sharper now as tension climbed. He stared past the slit at pine shadows whipping by, fishing boats bobbing offshore like fireflies snared in the wet, jaw clenched hard.
"He’s strangling Tbilisi," he said, voice low, roughened by sleepless nights and Isfahan's shadow. "Protests—kids bleeding—and he's still moving crates. My parents—if Tehran's feeding this—"
"Focus," she cut in, tone steady despite the ache in her legs, coat stiff with dried salt and rain. Giorgi's frayed page burned in her pocket—Kavkaz Trans routes, Iranian drones, and shells for Georgian Dream, not Ukraine's fight. "He's not here—Batumi's his choke point. We find the trucks, we find him."
The truck slowed, tires crunching gravel as it rolled into Batumi's port outskirts. A warehouse district slumped along the docks, where waves slammed the break wall, shaking the air and drowning the groan of rusted cranes swaying like skeletal arms in the wind. The driver cut the engine, his notched ear—scarred from a Poti bar fight—catching faint light as he lit an L&M, exhaling a plume into the hold.
"Off here—don't linger," he growled, his eyes flicking to the rearview before turning away. The ember was a lone spark as he muttered, "Batumi's got ears, and they don't sleep."
Stepping onto the slick pavement, the sea's crash swallowing their footsteps. Their steps bringingt them across gravel strewn with broken glass, splintered crab traps, and abandoned fishhooks. The air stung with brine and rust, cargo containers stacked like decaying sentinels—faded reds and blues peeling into the night, seaweed clinging where tides had crept in, the reek of rotting kelp mixing with diesel from idling rigs. The warehouse sagged ahead, its roof buckled by years of storms, corrugated steel warped where salt spray gnawed it raw, a floodlight flickering over puddles rippling with oil slicks.
Giorgi leaned against a desk inside, exhaling smoke toward a cracked skylight, letting in slivers of rain. His scar introduced itself under the dim bulb—a holdover from Sukhumi's fall when the civil war turned his village to ash. His leather jacket hung loose, patched from Caucasus runs, rakı dripping anise onto concrete littered with fish scales and ash.
"Thought Tbilisi's dogs chewed you up," he rasped, voice rough with tobacco, dark eyes narrowing as he straightened, the desk creaking like a ship settling in the tide.
"We're not here for tea," Ziyad snapped, boots scuffing the floor, tension coiling as he squared his shoulders, jacket creaking. "What's loaded—give it up before Moscow's enforcers kick in the door."
Giorgi's smirk expanded. His gaze locked onto Agnes, and he approached her with grudging respect. "He's got spine now—might keep him breathing," he said, stubbing his cigarette slowly, embers hissing in rakı. Are you vouching for him, Schmidt, or is he just baggage?"
"He pulls weight," she said, nodding curtly, shadow stretching as rain tapped the skylight, coat dripping onto concrete. "You're here, not Istanbul—chasing what?"
"My brother's routes," he said, voice hardening as he slid a manifest across, tapping it with a calloused finger scarred from wrenching crates. "Kavkaz Trans shipments—stalled here since Tbilisi's protests clogged the roads. Iranian haul—drones, shells—bound for Georgian Dream's hands, Russian agents tailing him tighter each trip—if they grab him, I'm burying the last of my kin."
Her gut twisted—a dual game: arms from Bandar Abbas to Tbilisi's regime and the crackdown choking Rustaveli's streets. "He's cracking heads too?" she asked, leaning in, the paper's ink smudged under the bulb—Kavkaz Trans routes east, heavy specs.
"Whispers," Giorgi said, pouring rakı, glass clinking as he slid it over—a test she ignored. "Tbilisi's riots—riot gear, hired fists—his style, keeping the regime's grip while his crates roll. Oil's part of it—gray market crude from Russia, slipping sanctions through here."
Ziyad snatched the manifest, breath catching as he scanned it, phone trembling in his other hand. "Crypto ties it— Euros bind it, Tehran to Tbilisi. Oil from Russia. My family's in the crosshairs if this blows back to Isfahan."
"From Russia?" she pressed.
"Tankers out of Rostov—crude rerouted here, then south," Giorgi said, sipping rakı, anise cutting the air. "Georgian Dream skims it—and then the payouts commence. Tehran's drones piggyback the chaos."
"Where's the stack?" she asked, rising, coat brushing the desk's edge.
"Dockside, third row past the trawler hulks," he said, boots scuffing as he stood, unease flickering in his eyes. "My brother's hauling tomorrow—if those shadows sniff it, he's in a ditch," and with levity added, "and I really don't hate him that much."
The storm's fury intensified as Agnes led them toward the docks. Rain lashed in horizontal sheets, driven by winds whistling through the crevices between and around the stacked containers. Floodlights flickered, threatening to surrender to the gale, their uncertain glow turing shadows into threats. Waves crashed over the break wall with ever mounting violence, soaking containers two dozen meters inland.
Agnes crouched behind a trawler hulk, its weathered hull a jagged shield, eyes scanning the cargo stacks. Three Kavkaz Trans rigs stood exactly where Giorgi had pointed in the back row, their tarps whipping loose, steel casings glinting beneath. A broad-shouldered figure in a dark coat circled the nearest rig with practiced calm. He paused, flicking on a flashlight. The tool's beam penetrated the elements to inspect the load.
"Kozlov’s agent," Ziyad whispered, his eye began twitching, the pace quickening as he pulled his phone out. "Crypto transfers spiked ten minutes ago. They're moving tonight."
Headlights blazed at the dock's far end, a sedan easing through the storm with deliberate slowness. Its beams swept the loading area, briefly pinning them in harsh light before continuing their scan.
"Down!" Agnes hissed, yanking Ziyad behind a crate stack as a shot pinged off metal nearby, the echo sharp over the sea's roar. She shoved Giorgi toward the dockside door—"Split—now!"—weaving through the container maze, waves drowning their sprint across wet concrete strewn with fish bones and broken nets.
Ziyad hacked his phone as he ran, breath ragged. "Tracking's jammed—rerouted north," he gasped, stumbling over a cable, sleeve snagging before he tore free. Agnes looped a rusted chain around a loose container door, yanking hard—Iranian drone parts spilled, wings clattering in the wet—a decoy to slow the pursuit. Shouts in Russian—"Gde oni?"—faded as shadows tripped over the scatter, pursuit faltering in the storm's din.
She dragged Ziyad under a crane's arm, its rumble cloaking their halt. Her pulse was steady despite burning cramps coursing in both her legs. Still, she cradled her knife, holding it firmly—another of Laszlo's lessons entrenched in, guiding her during moments of stress. Giorgi vanished left, wrench glinting as he waved, "Dock end—go!"—slipping behind a rust-red container.
A second agent emerged from the sedan—lean, radio crackling at his hip: "Tam kto-to!"—Makarov drawn, barrel glinting as he aimed toward the rigs. Agnes edged forward, ten meters off, mist and rain her shield. "Ziyad—net," she ordered, nodding at a frayed tangle by his feet. He hurled it—scarred strands arcing through the drizzle, snagging the agent's legs as he stumbled, pistol skidding across slick concrete, a curse—"Chert!"—lost to the waves.
Giorgi's brother burst from the warehouse, cap low, wrench in hand, staggering toward the rig as headlights swept him. The first agent spun, flashlight jerking, barking into a radio: "Gruz gotov—dvigat'sya." Cargo's ready—move it. Agnes lunged right, kicking a loose net into his path—frayed strands tripping him as his shot cracked wide, splintering a crate. Ziyad tossed a broken plank—its edge smashing the agent's knee, flashlight shattering against a stack.
"Drive!" Agnes barked, yanking Giorgi's brother up—his face pale, wrench clattering as he stumbled to the cab. The engine coughed to life, a roar against the storm's wail, the tarp flapping loose to expose steel casings—shells, not drones, Tehran's lethal hand. Ziyad stomped the radio—static dying in a crunch—breath heaving as he gasped, "They're blind—go!"
Headlights flared—the sedan reversing, tires spinning on wet gravel as agents scrambled back, shouts swallowed by the din, pursuit faltering. They darted behind the trawler's wake, weaving to and fro, the sea bellowing as Agnes scanned the haze—Volgodonsk's echo ever louder, Kozlov’s game tightening, a thread she'd sever or die chasing.
The rig rolled out, tarps sagging, casings clinking faintly, Agnes steadying Ziyad in the cab as Giorgi's brother gripped the wheel, the night's chaos a jagged shroud behind them.
They lurched west along Batumi's coast road, the engine’s guttural growl against pushing back against the storm's wail. Tires grinding over wet gravel, windshield smearing with grit as the wipers threatened to give way.
"Never, they're never done," the brother muttered, knuckles digging into the wheel. His voice was tight as he nudged the rig around a bend, pine branches scraping the cab. A wrench lay wedged next to the seat.
Ziyad leaned forward, phone trembling as he scrolled, his eyes squinting under the flare of the screen's light. "Monero's spiking—the cash, pooling south. They're close.”
"Steady," Agnes cut in, clamping his wrist, eyes locked on the road ahead—the sea's edge a gray blur below. "Jam it again—buy us time."
He swiped frantically, breath hitching. "Rerouting north—false ping's fading, but it'll hold a minute." A casing clanked loose behind, thudding against the rig's frame, its tarp sagging under the gale.
Headlights flared closer, and the sedan surged through the mist, its bulk steady on the narrow track beams, catching the rig's edge as gravel sprayed under its weight. A shadow leaned from the passenger side, pistol glinting, a sharp crack splitting the night—glass shattered above Agnes's head, the side mirror exploding into shards.
"Left!" she barked, shoving Giorgi's brother's arm—the rig veered onto a fisherman's path, tires skidding as it hugged the cliff's drop, sea foam streaking the dark below. The sedan followed, engine roaring, a second shot pinging off the cab's frame.
Agnes kicked the door open, wind tearing at her coat as she leaned out. A knife slashing a frayed tarp tie—canvas flapped free, whipping into the sedan's path, tangling its wheels. The vehicle swerved, tires screeching, headlights jerking wild as it fishtailed toward the cliff's edge.
Ziyad hurled a loose plank from the cab—its scarred edge arcing through the rain, smashing the sedan's windshield with a crack. The driver cursed—"Chert!"—as the vehicle spun, gravel flying, then stalled, beams askew in the fog.
"Floor it!" Agnes snapped, slamming the door as Giorgi's brother gunned the engine. The rig surging forward, chassis groaning under the load—shells too heavy for drones, Tehran's steel tied to Rostov's crude, a haul Kozlov wouldn't let slip. The track shrank, pine brushing the sides, the sea's hum a steady drone as headlights faded behind, pursuit swallowed by the storm.
She steadied her breath, knife still in hand, mind racing—the agents, they would regroup, but the rig was theirs for now. "Where's this headed?" she asked, voice low, eyes on Giorgi's brother.
"Poti—safe drop if we make it," he rasped, glancing at the rearview, the night's chaos a jagged shroud receding. "That guy got eyes everywhere—won't stop 'til he buries us."
"Or we bury him," she said, tone a blade, Volgodonsk's echo pulsing louder in her skull—a thread she'd sever or die chasing.
Please don’t forget about Gaza