The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  “Two minutes, perhaps three. If they’re heading for the airport, they’ll be there any moment!”

  Shirazi began pulling on his shoes, grateful he’d slept in his clothes. “Get Javed and Parviz over there, immediately, tell them to stay in radio contact. They’re to make no move, no effort to apprehend, without my direct order.”

  Zahabzeh was already heading to the door. “Do you want me to go with them?”

  “No, get the others down to the cars. I’ll join you there in a moment.”

  He finished pulling on his remaining shoe, got to his feet. Zahabzeh had left the door open, and he could hear him shouting orders to the men, intense and excited. Shirazi waited until the voices faded, the men rushing to do as ordered, then crossed to his go-bag and quickly unfastened the top flap. He dug in deep, beneath the change of clothes and past the papers and money, finding his pistol and the silencer that went with it. He racked the slide, tucked the gun beneath his shirt at his belly, then thrust the silencer into his pocket. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and headed out.

  Javed and Parviz had already gone in one of the cars when Shirazi stepped out the front of the hotel, Zahabzeh pulling up immediately and leaning across to open the door for him. The remaining two cars, each driven by Shirazi’s handpicked men, idled behind. Shirazi climbed inside the car, keeping his bag slung, and Zahabzeh had them rolling before the door was shut once more. Taking one hand from the wheel, Zahabzeh handed him the receiver for the tracking device they had planted inside Hossein.

  “They’re headed to the airport,” Zahabzeh said.

  Shirazi doubted that, had doubted it the moment they’d determined the location of the safehouse. It was too obvious an exfil, and too difficult to accomplish; according to all of his information, Tara Chace was many things, but she wasn’t a pilot, and neither was Hossein. Checking the receiver in his hand confirmed the fact.

  “No, they’re not,” Shirazi said. “Now heading northeast. Past us, two hundred meters.”

  Zahabzeh spun the wheel, whipping the car in a turn around Azadi Square, heading north. Shirazi had chosen the Shalizar Hotel upon their arrival in Noshahr some three hours earlier not because of its cozy décor or its beautiful daylight views of the mountains to the south and the port to the north, but for the simple reason that it had been built almost dead-center in the heart of the town. That decision was saving them right now, and as they headed up Allameh, Shirazi could see Hossein was staying a steady two hundred meters ahead of them.

  “They’re heading for the water,” Zahabzeh told him. “You were right.”

  “Yes.”

  “We checked all the piers, we didn’t find a boat.”

  “Then we clearly missed it.” Shirazi reached for the radio on the dashboard, brought it to his mouth. “All units converge at Farabi.”

  Confirmations came crackling back, including Javed. “Confirm, sir? We are to join on your position?”

  “Correct.”

  “Understood.”

  The blip on the receiver was slowing, now turning east. “Right ahead,” Shirazi told Zahabzeh. “Slow down.”

  “If we lose them—”

  “We’re not going to lose them. Slow down. This is a trap, Farzan, not a chase. Take the left.”

  Zahabzeh took the turn as instructed, and they crossed a narrow bridge, spanning one of the many canals that ran throughout Noshahr and dumped into the Caspian. They were less than two kilometers from the shore. Shirazi stared out the windows, searching for any signs of their quarry. On the receiver, he saw that Hossein’s progress had come to an almost complete stop.

  “They’re out of their vehicle,” Shirazi said, and added, to the radio, “Stop at Danesh, south side of the park, no lights on approach.”

  Confirmations over the radio, and Zahabzeh slapped the knob to his left, killing their own headlights. They slowed, turning onto the grass at the southern edge of the little park that ran along both sides of the canal here, and as soon as they had stopped, Shirazi got out of the car, the receiver still in one hand, the radio in the other. He heard the engine die, and Zahabzeh was out now, too, coming around the back of the vehicle and opening the trunk.

  The other two cars stopped on either side of them, but Shirazi kept his attention on the receiver for another moment. Hossein was still moving, but much more slowly, and he was sure that meant they were now going on foot. Wherever they had stashed the boat, it had to be close, along the canal, certainly no more than two hundred meters away.

  When he raised his head again, the other two men had joined them at the rear of the car, now checking the weapons Zahabzeh had handed them, a compact submachine gun for each, to accompany the pistols they carried. Zahabzeh, Shirazi saw, was offering him one, as well. He took it in his free hand with a nod, raising his radio once more.

  “Javed, where are you?” Shirazi asked.

  “Coming from the southwest of the park. Should be there in another minute.”

  “Stop before the bridge and wait for me there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He lowered the radio again, looked at the group of men, each of them attentive and focused and flushed with anticipation for what was to come. It was cold, cold enough that each breath sent clouds of condensation curling around their faces. Shirazi turned back to the north, searching the bank on either side of the canal. Somewhere in the darkness, hidden by the shadows and the night and the denuded trees, their quarry was preparing to escape.

  “Now?” Zahabzeh whispered to him.

  “Yes,” Shirazi said. “Now. Take Sina and Rostam along this side of the canal. Javed, Parviz, and I will take the other side. And remember, Farzan, we want her alive. No one shoots unless it is to return fire.”

  “Understood.”

  “I want her alive,” Shirazi repeated.

  They spread out, Zahabzeh leading the two others into the park, all of them moving quietly and quickly. Shirazi headed for the edge of the canal, jogging back down towards the bridge, and across, to where Javed and Parviz were just now pulling to a stop. He slowed long enough to give the men time to join him, turning north again, this time along the canal’s western edge. Behind him, he heard the clack of metal sliding over metal as bolts slid into place, weapons being made ready.

  He moved fast, almost faster than he dared, hearing the steady, soft crunch of his boots on dead leaves and frosted grass. Now and then he caught glimpses of Zahabzeh and the others through the trees on the opposite bank. His heart was beginning to pound, and when he checked the receiver once more, Shirazi saw that his own pulse was making it jump ever so slightly in his hand. Hossein’s progress had slowed yet further, and he thought they most certainly must have reached the boat by now.

  Clearly, SIS had set their rendezvous for the Caspian itself, somewhere out on the water. He was cutting this very close, Shirazi knew; if Chace got Hossein onto the water, his only option would be to intercept her before the canal reached the sea, either that or be forced to call out boats, and if he did that, the entire operation would fail, as far as he was concerned. But nowhere ahead could he see them, and it was agonizing; to come this far, to be this close, and to lose it all at the last minute, would be unbearable.

  Then he saw them, two figures moving through shadows, low to the canal, and he saw the boat, covered by a tarpaulin, moored against the opposite bank, Zahabzeh’s side. Chace was leading towards it, still wearing the manteau and head scarf he’d seen on her back in Karaj, Hossein lingering at the base of the wooden steps, perhaps two meters behind. Shirazi held up a hand, coming to a stop in shadows of his own. Javed and Parviz pulled up immediately behind him. Shirazi tucked the receiver into his pocket, pointed.

  “I want her alive,” Shirazi whispered, then motioned them forward, watched each of them drop into a crouch, their pistols held in both hands, low and ready before them. Shirazi looked to the opposite bank, Zahabzeh visible for an instant as he motioned his own men to spread out.

  He slung the su
bmachine gun from its strap over his shoulder, letting it rest against where he wore his bag, and from his pants Shirazi pulled the silencer to his pistol, then quickly screwed it onto the barrel of the gun. Going low himself, he moved quietly forward, Javed just visible to his left, Parviz a little further ahead on the right. He checked the water again, saw that Chace had removed the tarp covering the boat, revealing a slim and low rigid-hulled craft, perhaps only eight meters long, two large outboard motors at its stern. Small and fast and perfectly appropriate for what she was trying to do.

  They were nearly opposite her now. Shirazi scanned the far bank again, trying to find Zahabzeh, saw him for a moment between trees, and then he saw Hossein, backing up the stairs from where the boat was moored. He reached the top, Chace now ascending after him, and Shirazi couldn’t read her body language, but Hossein took a half-step back in response. She started to lunge for him.

  That was when Zahabzeh and his men opened fire.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  IRAN—NOSHAHR, JAME CANAL

  11 DECEMBER 0258 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  Something was wrong.

  Chace had seen hints of it at the safehouse, before Falcon had gone to take his lie-down. It wasn’t so much that the man was nervous or even afraid; those were to be expected, those were basic human emotions, and if a man fleeing for his life from the country of his birth didn’t exhibit them, that would have been beyond suspicion, that would have been confirmation, and Chace would have known just what to do; she’d have broken his neck and dumped him on the side of the Chalus-Tehran Road, and damn to his family name and his potential value to SIS and the CIA and the Parks and Rec Commission and all the rest.

  But it wasn’t just that he was scared.

  It was that he was the wrong kind of scared.

  Caleb Lewis woke her with a gentle touch on the shoulder, bringing her instantly and fully awake. She’d been asleep for less than forty minutes.

  “London,” the young man said. “Timetable’s moved up, they’re saying you have to go now.”

  She sat up, began pulling on her boots, asking, “Did they say why?”

  “They’re worried about the weather tomorrow night.”

  “Get Falcon.”

  He left the room without another word. Chace got to her feet, tying her hair back beneath her silk scarf. She smoothed her manteau, checked her pockets, making sure she knew where everything was. Papers, cash—rials and Euros—the GPS unit, sat phone, and her little folding knife. From the next room, she heard Caleb’s voice, speaking Farsi, and Falcon answering. The older man’s words were coming fast, and she could hear the anxiety threading each of them, didn’t need to understand the language to guess at his meaning.

  MacIntyre was standing in the main room when she emerged.

  “Get the car ready,” Chace told him.

  She took half a moment to find her smile, then brought it with her into Falcon’s bedroom. As much as the GPS unit and the knife in her pocket, the smile was another tool, to be used with the same precision. Whether he liked it or not, Falcon had already defected, had done so the moment he left Karaj with Chace. He had left his own country and moved into hers, and so she smiled to let him know that he was welcome, that he was safe, that she would care for him.

  Falcon was still speaking in Farsi, but he switched to English when he saw her. “You said we would be able to rest here. You said we would have time here.”

  “Yes, I did say that. But it’s better this way. The sooner you’re out of the country, the less chance of discovery. You’ll have to trust me, Hossein.”

  “I need my clothes, my things.”

  “Everything’s in your bag,” Chace told him. “Come along, sir, we’ve got to get moving.”

  She took his elbow the way she had several times already, and guided the man out of the bedroom. Caleb went ahead, picked up Falcon’s small duffel, and the front door opened, MacIntyre returning. Along with the breath of cold air, she could smell the exhaust from the car idling out front.

  “Do we have a coat?” Chace asked. “It’ll be cold.”

  MacIntyre pulled a parka from the peg by the door, helped Falcon on with it. Chace motioned to Caleb to follow her, then stepped outside, to the car. She waited while he shoved the duffel into the backseat.

  “His clothes,” she said. “Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing. Nothing in the bag.”

  Chace chewed on her lip. Through the open door, she could see MacIntyre zipping the parka closed, as if dressing a child. Falcon wasn’t looking at him, nor was he looking out, at her, and that struck her as odd, as well. She was his lifeline now, she was the one who would keep him safe. In her experience, defectors subconsciously fixated on the first ally they encountered during their escape, rarely letting them out of their sight. She wondered if the business with the manteau had been too much, if she had offended him so deeply by showing skin that she’d destroyed his trust in her.

  “You know what to do now?” she asked Caleb.

  “We’ll sterilize the house as soon as you’re gone,” he told her. “Our initial plan was to head back to Tehran as soon as you two cleared out, but given the hour I’m having second thoughts. We may push out departure until morning. Less suspicion, I’d think, if we’re driving in daylight.”

  Chace considered, remembering the checkpoints she and Falcon had passed on their way north. “Probably wise.”

  The young man looked relieved. “I’ll be glad to be out of here, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “I don’t mind you saying it at all.” She offered him her hand, and he seemed surprised by that, needed a half-second before shaking it. “You’re ever in London, let me know, I’ll take you round the pub.”

  “That’d be wonderful.”

  Caleb smiled awkwardly, and Chace again thought how very young he looked. She opened the passenger’s door, motioned for Falcon to come and join them. MacIntyre followed him out. She got him into the car, closed the door, then climbed behind the wheel herself, rolling down the window.

  “Straight up Shir Aqai,” Caleb told her. “Then right on Farabi. The road will curve northeast along the park. Mooring point is in your GPS.”

  Chace nodded, put the car in gear.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” she said.

  “Godspeed,” MacIntyre told her.

  The road signs were marked in both Farsi and English, and Chace found the park without difficulty, stopping on the northeast corner. There had been almost no traffic on the roads, only distant headlights that had turned away before she could even see the cars that made them. She checked her mirrors again, and again didn’t see anything that alarmed her. Beside her, in his seat, Falcon was doing the same thing, but more obviously, twisting around, trying to look in every direction at once.

  She killed the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition, then reached around to the backseat for Falcon’s bag and set it in his lap. “We’re on foot now.”

  “Is it a boat? We’re taking a boat?”

  “This way, sir.”

  She climbed out of the car, pulling the GPS from beneath her manteau and switching it on without looking, instead watching as Falcon came around to join her. There was a street lamp some two meters away, and in its illumination she could see the shine of sweat on the man’s face, despite the cold. She checked the GPS, got her bearings, and, putting one hand on Falcon’s shoulder, began leading him through the park.

  They moved in silence, just the sound of their steps and Falcon’s heavy breathing as they threaded their way through the trees. They passed a picnic area, then a small gazebo, and when the GPS told her that she was only eight meters from where she wanted to be, Chace saw the canal and stopped them both in the shadows. She switched the device off, stowed it away once more, checking the terrain, straining to hear anything other than the slight rustle of the wind and the water. Still nothing.

  A wooden platform had been constructed on the side of the canal, ahead, and
as she led Falcon forward she saw the steps running down, perhaps no more than eight feet, to a small landing. The RHIB, covered, was tied up against it, rising and falling ever so slightly on the swell. She led him down carefully, scanning the opposite bank before looking back to check their own. No one and nothing. The wooden stairs were slick with frost, and Falcon moved painfully slowly, as if afraid he might fall.

  She had to let go of him at the base to uncover the boat. She freed the tarp, bundling it up and stuffing it beneath the wheel, at the bow, and when she turned back to Falcon, she saw that the man had retreated, now backing up the stairs. Chace hissed at him to get down, starting up after him, and suddenly the thing that had been wrong all along, the thing she had missed, struck her, as clear and cold as the night itself.

  She was supposed to be Falcon’s savior. She was supposed to be his protector. He had abandoned everything to fly with her to safety. By all rights, he should have been sticking to her like a shadow. Yet whenever he could, he would put as much distance between them as possible. It wasn’t because she was a woman.

  It was because he had no intention of leaving with her at all.

  “You son of a bitch,” Chace said.

  She pushed hard off the last step, nearly slipping, reaching for him. He tried to turn away, to run, but she caught him at the collar, and to her right Chace saw a muzzle flash, heard the air rip. Falcon screamed, went dead-weight in her grip, and she stumbled forward as another chatter of shots rang out, nearly falling, and this time the flash was almost directly ahead of her, perhaps ten meters away. The air shivered and sung around her head. Movement, now to her left, and shouting from behind, a man’s voice screaming in Farsi from the opposite bank. All in an instant Chace realized Falcon was dead, that she had been boxed, that if she went for the Zodiac their crossfire would chew her apart. As ambushes went, it had been perfect, leaving her with only two choices: she could surrender or she could die.

  Even as she understood all of this, she realized she was moving, heard herself screaming filth and obscenities, and there was a man directly in front of her, a strobe-light impression of a narrow, clean-shaven face and eyes open too wide, whites bright in the darkness. She grabbed the barrel of his gun with her left hand, twisting and pulling, as she ran into him, through him, punching straight into his trachea with her right, feeling her fingertips crush and shatter cartilage. He went down choking on his own blood, backwards, and Chace did, forward, tumbling over him, saw the grass and soil bursting around her as she regained her feet. She had his submachine gun in her hand, pointed it left, heavy on the trigger and firing blind, running for her life. Shots followed her.