The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  The car was where she had left it, her lungs aching, burning, by the time she reached the door. More voices were shouting in Farsi. She yanked the door open, and bullets crashed into the metal to her right, where she had stood half an instant before, as she dove into the car. She dropped the submachine gun, twisted the key so hard in the ignition it broke in her hand, but the engine gave life, and she stomped the accelerator, ducking her head as the windows on her side exploded in sequence, showering her with glass. The car shot forward, bumped, and Chace brought her head up, heaving the wheel to point herself back towards the road. More bullets crashed into the car, the rear window disintegrating, the front windscreen suddenly a spider’s web.

  Then she heard only the sound of the car, the cold winter air rushing in from every direction, the sound of herself sobbing for breath. She turned right, then left, then right again, driving too quickly, all the turns at random, until she saw the sign for Chalus to the west, and the symbol of an airplane on a post, an arrow directing her towards the airport, and she followed it. She tried to get her breathing back under control, and in the glare of the airport lights, she saw blood all over the steering wheel, her hands, the seat, the dashboard.

  There was a car park on the left, ahead, and she turned into it, came to a jerking halt. She pushed open the door, and a shower of broken glass fell from the still-running car onto the pavement. She followed it out, taking the gun with her, hearing more glass fall from her clothes, where it had caught in the folds of the manteau. That explained the blood, she thought, all the glass, she’d been cut, it was a miracle she hadn’t been cut to ribbons, in fact. She was still out of breath, still light-headed from adrenaline. There was another Peugeot nearby, a knockoff made by Khodro, a Suzuki, a Benz, another Samand. She began trying doors, finding them locked, until finally she used the butt of the submachine gun to shatter the driver’s window on a dark green Nasim, and then again, once inside, to break the housing over the ignition on the wheel.

  Her fingers fumbled with the wires, and by the time she managed to get the engine started she was gasping for air, and she knew that the blood still spilling out of her wasn’t from the glass. The pain came up suddenly, as she put the Nasim into gear, a kick in the back so furious and cruel it made her sob aloud, and her vision blurred with tears from the intensity of it. She managed to get the car out of the lot, back onto the road to Chalus, and every breath was a struggle between pain and pressure. Her vision fogged gray, cleared, then clouded again. She gulped uselessly for air, each attempt met with an ever-worsening agony. She was reduced to breathing through her nose, short, ineffective sips of oxygen that were only prolonging the inevitable.

  Everything had gone wrong. The boat was gone. Falcon was dead. She would never make the RZ on the Caspian. The safehouse was compromised, MacIntyre and Lewis both either arrested, dead, or escaped and heading for Tehran. She was alone in a police state, her cover blown, and certainly would be the target of a massive manhunt, if she wasn’t already.

  But the worst of it was, she knew now that she’d been shot. She was suffocating, and from everything her body was telling her, it was getting worse. At the most, she had ten minutes of consciousness left to her. Chalus was six minutes away to the west.

  If Chace could find a doctor’s office, even a veterinarian’s, she might survive.

  If she couldn’t, she was going to die of asphyxiation.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  IRAN—NOSHAHR, 2 SHIR AQAI (SIS SAFEHOUSE)

  11 DECEMBER 0317 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  Sterilization of the safehouse was completed within eight minutes of Chace’s departure, a relatively minor affair concluded in short order. Caleb took the card with Falcon’s fingerprints into the bathroom, setting fire to it over the toilet and letting the paper burn until the flames threatened his fingers, before dropping it into the bowl. The charred paper sizzled out, and he flushed what remained of it away before making a second sweep of the green-and-white-tiled room, checking the shower stall, the reservoir tank on the toilet itself, the sink, all the cabinets. He found nothing.

  He took the bedroom that Chace had used next while MacIntyre went through the other, where Falcon had slept, albeit briefly. Minder One had lain above the covers rather than beneath them, and aside from the slight crush of sheets, the memory of her body, there was no sign other than the impression her head had made in the pillow and a single blond hair. Caleb puzzled over the hair for a second, taking it with two fingers and for a moment wondering what he was meant to do with the incriminating item before accepting that he was, perhaps, being overly paranoid. He opened his fingers, watched the hair fall and float back to the bed.

  He was back in the main room, packing up the laptop, when MacIntyre emerged from the other bedroom, saying, “Clear.”

  “Then I think we’re good,” Caleb said.

  “We’ll be good when we’re back in Tehran, sir,” MacIntyre said, and then, as if fearing there’d been too much reproach in his voice, added, “I was thinking of putting on the kettle.”

  Caleb snapped the clasp on the laptop bag closed, set it beside the chair, was about to agree that, yes, a cup of tea would be nice about now, when he heard the echo from outside. He looked to MacIntyre, already halfway to the kitchen, saw that the other man had stopped, hearing it as well.

  “Helo,” MacIntyre said, his voice dropping. “Two of them, sounds like.”

  “What do you think?”

  MacIntyre shook his head, still listening, and Caleb listened, too, then tugged at his left cuff, exposing his watch. Thirty-three minutes past three in the morning, and two helicopters flying overhead, already the Doppler echo fading, maybe heading north, to the water, though with the foothills bouncing the echo he couldn’t be sure.

  “They’d be on the water by now,” Caleb said.

  MacIntyre waited until the sound faded, then looked at him, not needing to say what both were thinking. They’d be on the water now if everything had gone right.

  And two helos flying overhead at half-past three in the morning meant that things had certainly not gone right.

  “I should inform London,” Caleb said. “Barnett, at the very least.”

  “And say what? That we just had an overflight by two helicopters? That maybe it’s gone tits up?”

  “We should do something.”

  “There’s nothing we can do, Mr. Lewis,” MacIntyre said. “You want to go out there, do a recce? If they’ve brought in helicopters, they’ve damn well turned out the police and the local militia, as well. We stomp around in that, we’re going to get done for ourselves. Nothing we can do.”

  “We can’t just sit here. If she’s in trouble, if she’s running—”

  “We let her run. Nothing we can do.”

  They stared at each other for several seconds. There was no flaw in MacIntyre’s logic, Caleb knew that, but the frustration rose in an overwhelming crest all the same. The only benefit to it that Caleb could find was that it was such a strong sensation, it consumed the lead pill of fear in his stomach.

  Then they heard the sound of cars racing down the road, coming their way.

  “Fucking hell,” MacIntyre muttered. “Motherfucking hell.”

  The cars stopped, engines dying, and from outside Caleb heard multiple doors slamming, but no voices, no orders. No question at all that they were about to have company, and very little question as to the nature of that company, as well. Militia or police about to knock on the door, and he wondered how they had found the safehouse so quickly, and his mind flashed on the idea that Chace had somehow been taken alive, that she had given them up, but as soon as he thought that he disregarded it; the timing was wrong, it didn’t make sense, not unless Minder One was precisely the devout coward that Caleb feared he himself was, and maybe he was, but she certainly wasn’t.

  But they were here, they were knocking on the door of the safehouse, almost pounding, and how no longer mattered, only why. MacIntyre was beginning to move, to answer, a
nd Caleb stepped forward quickly, ideas, realizations, plans all swimming, half-created, in his mind.

  “Me,” he told MacIntyre. “Let me talk. Follow my lead.”

  MacIntyre hesitated, and another battery of fist meeting door filled the brief pause. Caleb reached out, unlocked the door.

  Two men stood there, with another one visible just at the edge of the light’s reach, and Caleb counted three cars, and he understood that there had to be others, most likely circling around to the back of the house, to cover any possible exits. Three men he could see, and the one waiting by the car had a submachine gun in his hands, now aimed at the ground, but that could quite obviously change, and change quickly.

  They don’t have her, he realized. They think she’s here.

  The shorter of the two men was also the elder, perhaps in his late forties, neatly trimmed beard, balding, wearing glasses, and Caleb knew he was looking at Youness Shirazi. His companion, at his shoulder, was at least ten years younger, taller and broader, but with the same clean lines of facial hair, and if the one was Shirazi then this had to be Zahabzeh, his deputy, though Caleb couldn’t be certain; of the two, Barnett had only ever shown him photographs of Shirazi.

  “You were awake,” Shirazi said in Farsi. He had been looking past Caleb from the moment the door opened, only now blinking slowly up at him. “There’s been an incident, we have reason to believe an enemy of the State may be taking refuge inside this house. We require entry to make a search.”

  The man standing at Shirazi’s shoulder, presumably Zahabzeh, took a step forward. There were grass stains on his trousers, damp spots on the knees, and a smear of dirt at his elbow, and now, in the illumination that spilled from the front door, Caleb could see a sheen of perspiration on the faces of each man, despite the cold.

  “I’m sorry,” Caleb said, and he surprised himself by the firmness in his voice. “I’m afraid I can’t permit that.”

  Zahabzeh moved closer, the physical threat implicit. “We are State Security, we have reason to believe—”

  “This building is attached to the British Mission to Iran. As such, it enjoys the same diplomatic protections as any consular or embassy structure.” Caleb looked from Zahabzeh to Shirazi. “My apologies, gentlemen, but I cannot grant you access.”

  Behind him, Caleb felt more than heard MacIntyre shift, coming in closer behind him.

  Shirazi blinked again, then offered a thin smile. His hands, at his sides, clenched into fists before relaxing again. “Mr. Lewis, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If the British Government is harboring an enemy of the State, you will be initiating a gross diplomatic incident, Mr. Lewis. Your refusal to grant us entry has the appearance of guilt. Is this something you wish? Or do you not think it would be wiser to permit us to come inside and perform our search?”

  “I’ve no desire to antagonize your government, sir. But I simply don’t have the authority to waive diplomatic protocol.”

  “Then may I suggest,” Shirazi said drily, “that you contact someone who does?”

  Zahabzeh, who had been glaring at Caleb, now looked sharply at Shirazi, then touched the man’s shoulder and bent to whisper in his ear. Whatever it was he said, he said it too softly to be overheard, and Shirazi’s expression didn’t alter, remaining as placid and reasonable as from the start. The smaller man turned to his deputy, returning an answer just as softly, or almost, because this time Caleb caught two words distinctly. “Wounded” and “bleeding.”

  Shirazi turned his attention back to Caleb. “We will wait.”

  “Just a moment,” Caleb said, and he shut the door, felt it latch beneath his hand, felt his hand begin trembling the instant after. His heart was racing, and he needed a moment to collect himself, a moment that MacIntyre didn’t give him.

  “What do they want?” MacIntyre whispered. “They want to search the house? That it?”

  Caleb stepped away from the door, reaching for the phone in his coat. “You don’t speak Farsi?”

  “My Farsi’s shit, Mr. Lewis. You’re refusing the search?”

  “Technically the house is an extension of the mission.” Caleb looked at the phone in his hand, the glow of the screen, at a momentary loss as to who he should call. “They’ve got no evidence anyone is here aside from us, no reason to force a search, which means it’s at our discretion.”

  “Then they don’t have them.”

  Caleb looked up, to MacIntyre. “Doesn’t seem like. Though Shirazi said someone was wounded.”

  MacIntyre turned his attention back to the front door, reacting. “That’s Shirazi?”

  “Yes.” Caleb stared at his phone again, then stabbed in a number with his thumb. “I’m calling Barnett.”

  “Caleb?”

  “Sir, we’re still in Noshahr. Package went out under an hour ago, but something’s fouled up in transit, and we’ve got company wants to come inside and take a look around. I’ve told them we’re part of the mission, and that’s holding them off for the moment, but they’re still asking to come inside.”

  There was a moment’s pause, and Caleb heard the click of a lighter as Barnett fired up one of his Silk Cut, then coughed. He’d probably been sitting up all night, chain-smoking, waiting for the phone to ring.

  “Is it clean?”

  “We’d just finished when they arrived, yes, sir.”

  Barnett swore. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barnett swore again, more vehemently, and Caleb empathized. Waiving diplomatic immunity would set a bad precedent, one that Barnett certainly didn’t want to take the responsibility for doing. At the same time, antagonizing the Iranians was never a good idea, and now all the worse of one, especially if Chace was still running, with or without Falcon. Ideally, Caleb knew, Barnett would want to check with London, get some direction from Crocker or, better, the FCO itself.

  “All right,” Barnett said bitterly. “Grant them access. The FCO and the Ambassador will both have fits when they find out, but I can’t see another way. I’ll call London, give them the bullet. Call me back as soon as you’re clear.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caleb closed the phone, tucking it away again as he told MacIntyre, “Let them in.”

  The front door opened once more, MacIntyre stepping out of the way, and Caleb turned to face Shirazi and Zahabzeh, only to discover that they were no longer waiting, but instead were heading back to the parked vehicles. MacIntyre shot him a puzzled look, and Caleb shook his head, stepping out into the now-frigid night air.

  “Sir?” Caleb called out. “I’ve been told to grant you access to the house.”

  Two other men were emerging from the darkness at the side of the house, moving to one of the cars. The remaining men were climbing into their vehicles, including Shirazi, who now paused at the passenger door of his car as Zahabzeh slid behind the wheel.

  “Perhaps later,” Shirazi said.

  Caleb felt his throat tighten. “You found what you’re looking for?”

  The question was clumsy, inelegant, unsubtle, and Caleb hated himself for asking it. The engines were starting up again, including Shirazi’s car, but Shirazi himself hadn’t moved. Light from the house reflected on his glasses, hiding his eyes, and Caleb was certain they were fixed on his own, that the Head of Counterintelligence for VEVAK was staring at him now, taking his measure, and finding him lacking.

  “Some advice for you, Mr. Lewis,” Youness Shirazi told him. “I would stay away from Chalus tonight. I would stay inside. Yes, that is what I would do, if I were you.”

  Shirazi disappeared into the car, the door slamming closed, and then all three vehicles were moving, one after the other in a tight turn, accelerating away from Caleb, down the road. Taillights faded, vanished, and there was a fraction of silence before that, too, was broken by the sound of rotors, of helicopters, flying west, towards Chalus.

  Caleb thought of the single blond hair on the pillow in the bedroom.

  “Run,” he w
hispered.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IRAN, CHALUS, SHAHRIVAR STREET

  11 DECEMBER 0320 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  There was no doctor’s office, and there was no veterinarian’s, and damned if she was going to roll up into a hospital with her last breath and surrender her liberty for her life. Her vision was swimming, graying at the edges, threatening to wash white, then clearing briefly as she sucked weakly, quickly, trying to bring air into her body from her nose and mouth. Lights along the street flashed past her at inconstant intervals, patches of darkness, headlights, then street lamps, white and bright, faint and ghostly, cycling, and Chace didn’t know what she was looking for, the same way she was no longer aware that she was driving the Nasim, everything now reduced to instinct and a desperate, hungry need to survive.

  There was only that, and the absurd, pathetic sound of her wheezing, as each breath became more painful even as it became more and more pointless.

  She caught the sign out of the corner of her eye, to her left, just after she’d crossed the bridge into central Chalus, a flickering green glow that registered deep, and she spun the wheel hard about, and the pain it caused in her chest made her expel precious air in a weak scream, enough to shock herself back to her senses, if only for the moment. The Nasim squealed, tires breaking from pavement, and Chace ground gears, found the green light again, the glowing sign, and there were cars parked on the street here, in front of the pharmacy, but there was a gap, and she pointed the nose of the car towards it and floored the accelerator. The engine growled feebly, popped over the curb onto the pavement, and then shattered its way through the storefront. Shelves, boxes, bottles flew and crashed, and Chace was fumbling open the door before the car had stalled, toppling out of the vehicle, dragging the submachine gun behind her with a free hand, a sick toddler pulling along its favorite toy.