The Throwaway

by Michael Moreci

  Mark’s grip on the phone slackened with the fifth ring, and he felt a wave of despair and sadness crash into him. He was tired—so tired—but he could endure more fighting, more running, more of anything that was thrown at him. What he couldn’t take, though, was the idea that something had happened to Sarah. That the Americans, the Russians, or whatever bastards were behind everything had gotten to her, too.

  But then, the phone clicked.

  “Hello?” came Sarah’s voice, soft and apprehensive, through the other end of the line.

  “Oh my god—Sarah.” Mark heaved a pent-up sigh, and he emptied so much of himself that his body nearly collapsed on itself like a Murphy bed folding into a wall. He pressed the phone to his ear, ensuring he could hear every sound, every syllable, that came through the receiver. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? Mark, what’s happening to you? The news, the government, they—they…”

  Mark could hear the tears Sarah was fighting to hold back and felt conflicting emotions well within him. He wanted to comfort Sarah, he wanted to allay all of her concerns and tell her everything would be all right; but, at the same time, he wanted to find the people responsible for filling his wife with such profound worry and rip their throats out.

  “Sarah, honey, you have to believe me. You have to know that I’m telling you the absolute truth … none of the things they’re saying about me are true. I’m not a spy. I haven’t betrayed anything or anyone. I have no idea why this is happening.”

  “I never doubted that for a second, Mark,” Sarah replied without hesitation, and now Mark was the one fighting back tears.

  “Listen—I’m coming home. Okay? They had me, but I got out, and now I’m coming home. But Sarah, with me out of custody, they’re going to come for you. I have no doubt they’ll try to use you as leverage to get to me. You need to hide, you need to disappear.”

  “Disappear?” Sarah asked, incredulous. “I—Why? To where?”

  “It doesn’t matter—anywhere you can’t be found or traced. Anywhere that—”

  Before Mark could utter another word, he was thrown forward, propelled off his seat by the momentum created as something smashed into the back of the car. The impact nearly sent him crashing face-first into the windshield.

  Mark turned to find another black sedan—same model as the one that had been chasing them before—on their tail. Its grill was smashed from being used as a battering ram, and it was speeding toward Ania’s car again. The sedan smashed into the rear end once more, and their car rattled and swerved with the impact.

  “Damn it,” Ania hollered, “they’re going to be all over us.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mark admitted. “I shouldn’t have called, I should have—”

  Ania shook her head. “No, there’s no way they got us through the phone that fast. They’re just following our trail, and soon enough they’re going to have every nearby agent on our asses.”

  “What do we do now?” Mark asked as Ania swerved between cars, trying to stay separated from the sedan that was somewhere behind them.

  “Now? Now we have to get to the embassy. Whoever these agents are, they wouldn’t dare come after us and risk causing an international incident. We’ll just have to hope the Americans don’t shoot us on the spot.”

  Mark turned his attention back to the phone. He wanted to implore Sarah, one last time, to stay hidden, to not do anything reckless. He knew his wife, knew that she’d do anything to protect the people she cared about. Mark could only hope she had better sense than to get involved in the mess he was in.

  But all the things he wanted to tell her would be left unsaid. The phone was smashed and nearly broken in half. It was beyond repair, dead and gone. Mark could only hope that Sarah caught enough of what he’d said and would act accordingly.

  “I love you,” he whispered to the busted phone that he cradled in his lap.

  “You’re sweet,” Ania said, “but not my type.”

  Mark looked at Ania, and she winked at him. But when she turned her attention back to the road, her playfulness disappeared.

  “Hang on to something!” Ania yelled, and Mark quickly did as he was told. He grabbed onto the passenger door’s handle with one hand and gripped the seat cushion with his other. Even braced, Mark was still jolted forward, again, as Ania’s car was nailed from behind. This time, the battering car must have gained some momentum because it felt like a garbage truck had smashed into them; Mark’s body whiplashed forward so hard that his head smashed into the dashboard.

  Mark came up bloody, crimson running out of his nose and over his mouth.

  The sedan came in for another strike, but this time it sliced into the car’s rear quarter panel. The car began to skid, but Ania held the wheel tight and prevented them from spinning out of control.

  “How long until we get to the embassy?” Mark asked as he shoved a fresh ammo clip into his gun.

  “Two minutes,” Ania said. “We just have to hold out for a little bit longer.”

  Mark cocked back the hammer on his pistol as he watched the sedan roll up to his window.

  “Get us to that embassy’s front door,” Mark said. “I don’t care what it takes.”

  As the sedan pulled up next to Ania’s car, Mark fired. He aimed for the tires, but his shots ended up in the sedan’s wheel well. Still, it was good enough to keep the sedan at a distance—until the driver’s-side window opened and an automatic rifle came poking out.

  “GET DOWN!” Mark shouted just as a rat-a-tat-tat sound filled the air and a hail of bullets shredded Ania’s car. Mark dove to the seat, pulling Ania’s head down with him. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he could hear the automatic rifle belch bullet after bullet, each one pounding the car’s exterior and erupting the windows; cubes of glass rained on Mark’s head, and for a moment, he was convinced this barrage would never end. He thought the bullets would just keep coming and coming until he was dead.

  But a pause did come. The automatic rifle, Mark assumed, must have needed a reload. Ania used the small window proficiently. Having miraculously guided the car through traffic, Ania was now prepared to strike back. The second the onslaught stopped, she sprang up, gun in hand. She fired three determined shots across their car and into the enemy sedan. Each shot landed squarely into the gunman’s chest. He slumped over, onto the sedan’s driver, causing the car to swerve off the road.

  Mark looked at Ania. Like him, she was covered in glass and had a number of tiny cuts all over her face and body.

  “Nice shooting,” Mark said, impressed.

  “It’s all in the training,” she replied. “I’ll get you our instructional manual.”

  Mark looked at Ania, who smiled. It was the nicest moment—just that small bit of warmth directed his way—that Mark had experienced since arriving to Russia.

  And then the car began to spin across the road.

  Mark was thrown against the passenger door, fortunate that his would-be assailant had shot out all the glass. If he hadn’t, it would have been Mark’s head shattering the passenger-side window. Mark angled himself to check on Ania, who seemed to be doing just fine. She was gripping the wheel and fighting hard for control, but it was no use; a tire had been shot out, and when Mark considered everything else that had to be wrong with it, he knew their ride was hardly in condition to run a soapbox derby, let alone escape a squad of Russian agents. Ania must have realized the same thing, because she stopped fighting for control and, instead, worked on easing the car to a stop. It wasn’t easy. The car was powered by so much momentum, and as far as Mark could tell, the brakes were hardly responding to Ania’s pumping foot. The steering wheel bucked in her grip as the car jumped the sidewalk; Ania twisted and turned around fleeing civilians and brought the car to the safest stop possible, crashing it into the brick façade adjacent to a crowded bar.

  Mark hadn’t even finished huffing a breath before Ania grabbed his arm and started pulling him toward the driver’s-side door.


  “Run!” she ordered. “The embassy is straight ahead. Run, do not let them catch you.”

  Mark followed. He darted from the car right behind Ania, doing his best to hobble along at her pace. A few steps was all Mark needed to push past his body’s resistance and straighten out his gait. He was especially motivated by the sound of Russian agents yelling from somewhere in the background, hot in pursuit. Mark expected them to open fire at any moment, but Ania was right: Their proximity to the embassy kept them from such an extreme means of capturing their quarry. Their reluctance to cause an international incident brought about a change in Mark. Instead of fear and despair, he could feel a renewed sense of hope coursing in his veins. He was going to make it to the U.S. embassy; he was going to unravel this nightmare.

  Mark turned around once and spotted a black SUV idling halfway down the block, like an invisible barrier was keeping it in place. A team of Russian agents waited idly by the vehicle, and Mark knew they weren’t going anywhere. Not yet. Like Ania, they must have known Mark’s odds of finding any kind of amnesty from the embassy were practically nonexistent. Mark shared the same analysis. And once Mark was shoved off American soil, the agents would be right back on him, and he’d have nowhere to go. But Mark was nothing if not capable of talking his way out of impossible situations, so he wasn’t ready to sign his own death warrant just yet. The power to convince people was his greatest asset. All he needed was someone—a diplomat, a high-ranking military official, even the janitor, it didn’t matter—to listen. Someone to at least entertain the idea of Mark’s innocence, especially since it meant that the real spy was still at large in the United States. The Russians had fooled the U.S. intelligence community, and Mark had to get them to understand not only the mistake that’d been made but also the implications it had for the country’s safety.

  The embassy stretched across nearly half a city block, fortified by an exterior of tan and white bricks. Upward-pointing lights gave the windows a warm glow, but they also made the building look like an American hotel. The building radiated familiarity, and it filled Mark with a sense of relief and comfort. He hadn’t felt either since this ordeal began.

  The center of the embassy opened to a brick-paved square just in front of its entrance but pushed back from the street. Mark slowed his pace as he entered the square and approached a barricade that was manned by armed guards dressed head to toe in black tactical uniforms, like they were part of a SWAT team. Even more armed guards, Mark noticed, prowled the square’s grounds, which felt smaller and smaller with every assault rifle Mark laid his eyes on.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Ania whispered into his ear as they approached.

  “Not entirely,” Mark replied. “But it’s our only chance.”

  “Your chance. I was never going to come into the embassy with you—I’m a spy, Mark.”

  “Look, if we can get our foot in the front door, we can cut a deal. I prove my innocence, with your help, and you can offer valuable information for immunity. What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve watched too many spy movies.”

  Mark cautiously approached the barricade. He knew he looked terrible—a wound had reopened on his head during the crash, and blood was caked in his hair; his clothes were too big, and his face was saturated with his own sweat. But it wasn’t like he’d had the option to clean up, so he’d have to work his magic beaten and bruised.

  Halfway through the square, Mark heard a gun’s safety being released. He slowed his steps and studied the guards that stood alert all around him. Their eyes were on him. Mark knew—even before the guard blocking the barricade yelled for him to “halt!”—what had happened:

  He’d been identified.

  More safeties were clicked off and guns were lifted, their crosshairs trained on Mark’s head. He froze and raised his hands. So much for his hope to have a reasonable conversation.

  “Please, you have to listen to me,” Mark said, enunciating each word clearly. “There’s been a mistake, a terrible mistake. I need help.”

  “There’s no mistake, Strain,” the guard positioned at the barricade said. “As a traitor to the United States, you’ve been stripped of your citizenship. You are an enemy and no longer welcome on American soil.

  “You and your friend, both of you—get out. Now.”

  Mark took a hesitant step forward. “I’m innocent. I swear—I swear—I am not a spy. I was framed, and the real spy is still—”

  The barricade guard raised his rifle and caught Mark in his sights. “Not one more step,” he ordered.

  Mark couldn’t have been squeezed tighter if he was in a vise. He had a half-dozen automatic rifles pointed at his face; he had Russian agents at his back, just waiting for him to get booted out of the embassy. And Mark knew he wouldn’t be returned to the comfortable life in a posh apartment that he’d been treated to; there’d be no museum tours, no cruising the city, no upscale dining. He had crossed a Rubicon the moment he killed Oleg, and that meant there’d be a reckoning upon his return. Knowing the impermanence of his value, Mark had no desire to know what the consequences for his actions would be, what terrible retribution would be inflicted on him for what he had done.

  But Mark couldn’t go forward, either. He could beg the embassy guards. He could plead, he could explain, he could cry for their mercy. It wouldn’t matter. There was nothing he could do to get one foot past the barricade; Mark was a traitor, a man guilty of the ultimate crime against his nation, and not a single United States citizen—something Mark no longer was, on paper—owed him the time of day. At best, they owed Mark one thing: a bullet. And if Mark did anything to provoke the guards further, he was certain they’d be happy to zero out that balance.

  The guard at the barricade spoke something into the radio strapped to his right shoulder, then walked forward. “I hope you realize how serious my order is,” he said, standing over Mark. “I’ll explain it to you one more time: You are an enemy combatant standing on American soil. If you do not evacuate the premises, we will be forced to act.”

  Ania tugged at Mark, drawing him back. “Come on, they’re not going to listen to you.”

  “I just need a chance,” he contested, holding his ground. “If someone would just listen to me, I could—”

  “Mark,” Ania said as she gently turned his face to hers, “they’ll kill you. They’ll kill both of us.”

  Mark turned to face the guards. They hadn’t moved; all of them still had their guns at the ready, just waiting for a reason to fire.

  Mark began to backpedal, taking the smallest of steps toward the entrance. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “One day, the truth will come out, and you’ll regret what you did here.” He turned and looked at the haunting chiaroscuro of the crowded street behind him, the dim streetlights casting only the faintest of illumination on the faces of passersby who paid no mind to Mark or the embassy. The courtyard’s entrance was like a dark, open mouth waiting to swallow him whole. And that’s exactly what would happen if the Russians recaptured him. He’d be swallowed, absorbed, and never heard from again.

  Plan A—convincing the U.S. embassy to hear his case—was a dud. And Plan B—turning back to the Russians—wasn’t a plan at all. What Mark needed, and fast, was Plan C. But this is what Mark did. In life, in his work, Mark excelled at thinking on the fly and creating his own opportunities. Mark wasn’t going to let the Russians take him and Ania and have their way with them, and he certainly wasn’t going to be gunned down by his own country. That’s not how this night was going to play out. So, Mark improvised.

  “Help me!” he yelled, the decibel of his voice as it pierced the still night air, surprising even himself.

  Ania grabbed Mark by the crux of his elbow and yanked him a step back. “Are you crazy?” she asked.

  “Probably,” Mark replied. “But I’d rather be crazy and alive than sane and dead.”

  Mark screamed again. He looked over his shoulder; a few people—young people, presumably
out for a night at the nearby clubs—took notice of his yelling and were reluctantly inching closer. It was exactly what Mark wanted.

  “What are you doing?” the guard asked, agitation lacing his words.

  Mark knew panic and stress—he lived and breathed them both nearly every day—and he knew how to control them both. But what he’d considered to be life and death situations in his past life as a lobbyist was nothing compared to what he was going through now. Appropriately, Mark couldn’t pull off the same measure of composure under fire. The embassy guards at his front and the Russian agents at his rear, Mark wasn’t in control; in fact, he was scared out of his mind, and he had to fight back against his own growing anxiety before it suffocated him.

  “Hey!” the guard barked. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

  Alex and Oleg weren’t exactly ambassadors to Mark, but they did leave him with one valuable nugget: a protocol in the event things went bad. Enemies were everywhere, Oleg had grimly remarked on one of their drives around Moscow, and you never knew who might strike, or why or when. It just so happened that Oleg was paranoid for good reason. But in the mania of their car being shot at and batted around a busy Moscow street like a pinball, Mark was too disoriented—his brains scrambled—to put the one thing Oleg had taught him to use.

  How to call for help.

  “Pogomi mne!” he yelled, his calls directed at the growing crowd of onlookers at the mouth of the embassy’s courtyard. “Pogomi mne!”

  Mark took Ania’s hand and staggered toward the street, shooting glances between the guards and the gathering crowd.

  At the very least, no one could put a bullet in Mark with this many eyes on him. A couple of the onlookers had already whipped out their phones and were recording the scene. Which was good, but he needed more—and it only took a moment to get what he was looking for.