The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  “What is that?”

  “The Shah,” Shirazi said, as if that was all the explanation required. “I will see what they have inside. I should not be long.”

  He climbed out of the car, and Chace took the opportunity for a last look around the station, seeing it empty, before lying down again as she had in Taft, affecting sleep.

  She’d had her head down for long enough to wonder where he was, when she heard the sound of another vehicle entering the lot, the vibration from the engine strong, a diesel, perhaps. Doors slammed, and now there were voices, and Chace moved her hand to the gun at her waist, freeing it so it lay between her and the seat. Light shone in from above, began sweeping the car, and her already diminished breathing grew shorter, and she waited for the beam to hit her.

  There was another voice, a shout, and the light cut quickly away. The voices moved rapidly off, and she pushed herself up, peeking through the window, saw that the vehicle looked identical to an old American Army jeep, hardtop, so much so that she wondered if it wasn’t one, or a very precise knockoff. She counted four soldiers, rifles raised and set at their shoulders, and all of them were pointing their weapons at Shirazi, who was standing in a puddle of light from the building, hands raised. In one of them, she saw he held a small, white paper bag.

  As she watched, one of the soldiers lowered his weapon, reaching forward, towards Shirazi. Another began reaching for his radio, and Chace knew she couldn’t allow that; if the call went out, any call at all, that would be it; even should they escape it wouldn’t matter, because more would come, soldiers in trucks and helicopters and tanks if need be, and there was no way they would ever outrun or evade them.

  She brought her pistol up in both hands, aimed and fired all together through the window, trying to get up on one knee in the back of the car. The shots were devastatingly loud in the enclosed space, and she didn’t hear the window as it shattered, firing twice more, and the third shot caught the soldier with the radio in the neck, made him jerk and drop. She shifted her aim, firing again and again, managed to catch another of them, but all had begun to react, and the returning fire in her direction clattered against the car, broke glass and tore through metal. She tried scrabbling back, screamed as something ripped at her right shoulder. Her arm gave out, and she pitched to the side, off the seat, onto the floor of the car.

  There was another cascade of shots, automatic-weapons fire, and then, as abruptly as it had begun, it ended. Chace tried to push herself off the floor, found her right arm useless to the task. She fell back, chest heaving for air, and then the rear door was being torn open, and she saw Shirazi, pistol in one hand, the silly paper bag in his other. He swore in Farsi, reached into the car, not for her but for his go-bag, slinging it quickly, then a second time, now pulling her free, hands under each arm, and Chace screamed again when he did it, despite not wanting to, despite not wanting to waste the air.

  “Can you walk?” Shirazi demanded. “Can you walk, Tara?”

  She nodded.

  “Quickly, this way.” He slung an arm beneath hers, supporting her, and she bit back on another cry, managed to turn it into a whimper. Her right arm, she saw, was soaked with blood and dangling uselessly. Some distant voice, objective and all-seeing within, wondered idly if it would have to come off. She hoped not; she wasn’t certain how she’d hug Tamsin with only one arm.

  He got her to the jeep, dumping her into the passenger seat, then hurried around to the other side, climbing behind the wheel. Chace croaked at him, trying to reach for the top of the manteau with her left, clawing at it. The engine kicked alive, and then they were racing out of the station’s lot, into the darkness, just darkness all around, until Shirazi realized and switched the headlights on.

  “They didn’t call it in,” he told her. “You were just in time, they never had a chance to report it, but the station will. We have to get off the main road, we have to put distance between them and us.”

  Chace’s fingers caught the neck of the manteau, and she pulled at it uselessly, feeling the strength in her left arm fleeing, as if trying to imitate her right. She croaked at Shirazi again, trying to say his name, but he was bent over the wheel, eyes fixed ahead, barely sparing a glance to the mirrors.

  With the last of her strength, she slapped at his arm, and he looked at her then, and whatever he saw made his expression open in alarm. She motioned to the manteau, unable to speak, her fingers pawing lamely at the buttons on her front. He looked back to the road, then to her, reached out with his free hand, and she put hers on it, trying to guide his palm over her chest, trying to press it to the catheter. His hand slipped out from beneath hers, moved to her back, pushed her forward in the seat until Chace’s head was against the dashboard. She felt his hand on her back, then beneath the manteau, and then there was an incredible pain as his finger plugged the hole in her back.

  She wheezed, inhaled with a sob, exhaled, repeated, this time taking air deeper.

  “Tara?” Shirazi said. “Tara? What can I do?”

  She ground her teeth together, the pain from the wound in her back enough to eclipse the trauma from her shoulder. “Don’t … move your … finger,” she managed to say. “Catheter … has a one-way … valve.…”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod, still driving with one hand on the wheel, the other on her back. With the entry wound blocked, the catheter was allowing the air trapped in her chest to escape, but the problem, quite obviously, was that as soon as he moved his finger, it would happen all over again. She was dimly aware that the new wound was a problem as well, but wasn’t quite sure why.

  “You’re losing blood,” Shirazi said.

  That was it, she was losing blood. “Kit,” Chace whispered. “First-aid kit?”

  “We’ll need to stop.”

  “Don’t. Not. Yet.”

  He glanced at her, back to the road again, then shook his head. “No, we have to stop.”

  She tried to protest again, but the pain was simply too intense then. The jeep slewed to a side, barely slowing, and they came off paved road onto dirt, the transition rattling them both, and the movement of his finger wedged in her back made her cry out again. She bit into her lip, trying to ignore it, to feel past it, felt her teeth pop skin, tasted blood.

  Then the jeep stopped, and Shirazi was shifting carefully around, hand still anchored to her.

  “Tara, listen to me. I have to move my hand now. The kit, this is a Guard’s jeep, they have a good kit. Pressure bandages, occlusion dressings, they have all of it. But I have to have both hands.”

  Chace nodded feebly.

  “Try to remain calm. Try to stay calm.”

  The pain in her back exploded, fresh and renewed, as soon as his finger slipped from the wound. She was barely aware of his movement, of him straining around beside her, reaching into the back of the jeep. Her breathing went again, this time disappearing with terrifying speed, and Chace was aware that she couldn’t make a sound now, even if she wanted to. His hands were on her back, on her skin, and she felt something tear, a distant vibration through her flesh, and in the silence of the jeep and the night, she heard the air hissing out of her chest, from somewhere below her chin. He gently pulled her back from the dashboard, sat her upright in the seat. She heard his door open, then, a moment later, hers, and he was working at her shoulder, now.

  “Clean wound,” he was saying. “It went straight through. You saved my life, Tara. Thank you.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. It suddenly seemed like too much effort to speak. When he was finished doing whatever it was he was doing to her shoulder, he slipped his hands around her, pulled her out of the jeep. She tried walking, but her legs went boneless, and he had to drag her around to the rear of the vehicle. With some effort, he got her inside, laying her on her back. He tore the left sleeve of the manteau, exposing her arm to the elbow, and there was an almost insignificant pain, and she saw that Shirazi was now hanging an IV bag from a hook on the side of the
jeep.

  “We’ve got to keep going, Tara,” he told her. “We’ve a long way to go still.”

  She nodded at him, and he turned to climb back into the driver’s seat.

  “Youness?” Chace asked softly.

  He stopped. “Yes, Tara?”

  “Why do they keep shooting me?” she asked.

  She didn’t understand why he laughed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LONDON—VAUXHALL CROSS, OPS ROOM

  13 DECEMBER 0418 HOURS (GMT)

  “You’re either a fucking lunatic, or you’re a genius,” Julian Seale said. “I still haven’t decided which.”

  “Let’s find out.” Crocker adjusted his headset, nodded to Lex. “Go alive.”

  “Going live,” she said, fingers flying on her keyboard.

  On the plasma wall, in the upper-right quadrant, taking over a quarter of the screen in total, static lines appeared, then steadied, resolving into an image, black and white. Poole filled the screen, pulled back, adjusting the camera from his end, then his headset, and then Crocker could see Lankford seated past him in the command post, and Colonel Moss beside them both.

  “Icecrown, standing by,” Poole said.

  “Status?”

  Moss leaned forward. He was wearing his commando blacks, and the resolution from the satellite feed made his mustache look like a ragged smear of ink across his upper lip. “SPT stands ready. Waiting on your order, sir.”

  “Make it bleed,” Crocker said.

  “They can’t come out via air,” Crocker had told Poole ten hours earlier. “And they can’t take the Caspian route, that would never work twice.”

  Poole looked up from the map spread on Crocker’s desk, frowned. “Then the northwest routes are out for the same reason. Turkey, northern Iraq, etc.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.”

  Poole moved his finger on the map, drawing a line east. “Afghanistan’s out, too.”

  “Right.”

  “Doesn’t leave much room.”

  “It leaves the south.”

  “That’s the Persian Gulf, Boss.”

  Crocker tapped the map, southeast Iran. “Abadan.”

  “You’re sitting on the Iraqi border there, same problem,” Poole said.

  “If you go west, which is what they’ll think we’re doing. Instead, we take them south …” Crocker’s index finger followed one of the two blue lines bracing Abadan to the east and west, rivers running down into the Persian Gulf. “… by boat, have them met at the foot of the delta—say, by the SBS—transfer them to a RHIB, and then from the RHIB to a naval vessel in the Gulf.”

  “I like it,” Poole said, after a moment. “But I foresee problems, namely getting the Admiralty to commit to bringing any of its precious toy boats in that close to Iranian waters. They’ll cry ‘Silkworm’ and argue that the danger of a missile strike against the vessel is too great a risk; they’ll tell the PM that one defector and one spy versus two hundred sailors isn’t an equitable trade, and they’ll be right.”

  Crocker scowled, looked up as there was a knock at the open door, Daniel Szurko sticking his head into the office, a blue file folder in one hand. “Paul?”

  “Something I can do for you, Daniel?”

  Szurko stepped in, smiling awkwardly at Poole. “Minder Two.”

  “D-Int.”

  “Something I can do for you, Daniel?” Crocker repeated.

  “Hmm?” Szurko canted his head, looking down at the map on the desk. “Figured it out yet?”

  “Working on it at the moment,” Poole said.

  “You have to get them out via the Gulf, you know.” Szurko looked from Poole to Crocker. “It’s the only possible route.”

  “Yes, we’ve just been discussing that,” Crocker said. “The question is, how to give the exfil room to run.”

  “I’ve been wondering that, too.” Szurko smiled at them both, then remembered the file in his hand, offered it abruptly to Crocker. “Meet Hadi.”

  “Hadi?”

  “I think she can help. Let me know if there’s more I can do.”

  He left the office, humming to himself. Poole watched him go. After a second, he said, “That’s called eccentric, yes?”

  “That’s called brilliant,” Crocker said, and showed Poole what was in the file.

  “We have device launch,” Moss said. “Seventeen minutes, forty-six seconds to target.”

  “You know where to put it, Colonel?” Crocker asked.

  “We’re your Special Projects Team, sir. It’s our job to know where to put it.”

  Crocker, for the first time in ages, felt himself smile. “Keep the channel open.”

  “Confirmed.”

  The screen flickered, changed, showing an exploded close-up of the northern edge of the Persian Gulf, satellite image overlaid upon the graphic. A small green dot appeared, moving from a position south, marked HMS Illustrious, tracking quickly north, towards southeastern Iran, the large, deep delta south of Bandar-e Khomenei, the largest oil refinery in the region. A timer appeared beside the moving dot, a countdown, seconds quickly ticking past.

  Crocker watched for a moment, then turned to Seale, who was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, chin held in a hand. He slid his eyes to Crocker, grinned.

  “Special Projects Team happy to be let out of their box to play?” he asked.

  “More than you can imagine,” Crocker said.

  It took thirty-six minutes exactly from the time Daniel Szurko stepped out of Crocker’s office to the time that Colonel Richard Moss, the head of the Special Projects Team, stepped into it. He arrived the way he always did when asked to report to D-Ops, snapping to attention and offering a crisp salute, even though, technically, there was no need for it. SIS fell outside of the Ministry of Defense, and thus was not a military institution.

  That said, the SPT existed in the gray area between the two, the unit primarily comprised of combat engineers and military-trained technical specialists in a variety of fields. Theoretically, the unit existed to supplement D-Ops’ operational capabilities, to take on those jobs or mission-related aspects that required specialized knowledge. If an operation required a dam breached, or a bridge blown, or power to a certain section of a certain city in a certain country cut at exactly the right time, it was the SPT that would make it happen. Moss was proud of his team’s abilities, but as jealous of his men as Crocker was of his Minders.

  “Paul,” Moss said.

  “You know Nicky Poole,” Crocker said.

  “Of course, good to see you, Nick.”

  “And you, Colonel.”

  Moss nodded, looked from one man to the other, then settled, as appropriate, on Crocker. “And what can the SPT do for you today, sir?”

  “You’re going to put a hole in a boat,” Crocker said. “A reasonably sized hole, in a very big boat.”

  Moss’s military bearing cracked as he smiled with pleasure.

  “Live for it, sir,” he said.

  At two minutes, Crocker put his headset back on, signaling to Lex. The screen flickered, the satellite transmission resuming. On the screen, Poole, Lankford, and Moss were all in profile, watching a separate monitor, and past them, Crocker could see at least two other members of the SPT who were aboard HMS Illustrious in the Persian Gulf. He slid his eyes up the clock, saw that it was less than ten minutes to eight in the morning in Iran.

  “Closing to target,” Moss said, glancing to the camera. “Awaiting the order to arm, sir.”

  “Arm,” Crocker said.

  “Arm, arm, arm,” Moss repeated, turning away, and the command echoed again, distant. “Would you like to see it, sir? We’ve got a nice visual on her.”

  “Safe?”

  “As houses, sir.”

  “By all means.”

  One of the SPT technicians moved, sliding back in his chair, and the screen flickered, went dark, then lit again, displaying the live feed from the torpedo speeding through the water. Another flicker, and now a new
image, morning sunlight shining off the Gulf water, and the image magnified once, twice, again, bringing the view of a massive oil tanker closer and closer to the camera. Two pilot boats were running alongside it, escorting it out of the delta channel.

  “One minute to impact, standing by.”

  “Hello, Hadi,” Seale said from behind Crocker. “Good-bye, Hadi.”

  “She’s the same tanker the Somalis tried to hijack back in ’07,” Crocker told C. “Iranian Navy managed to arrive in time before she could be boarded. It is conceivable that an action against it could be taken as the Somalis seeking revenge.”

  “The Somalis hijack ships, they don’t sink them, Paul.” She looked up from the photographs that Szurko had supplied to Crocker, staring at him as if not entirely certain he was joking. “You want to blow it up?”

  “Not precisely,” Crocker replied. “The problem is that both Chace and Cougar are being actively hunted. We have to find a way to clear a route for them, to open a passage through which they can make their exfil. Nothing overland is viable, and Chace can’t fly. The water is the only option left to us, but we still need a distraction.”

  “Meaning you want to spill oil into the Persian Gulf.”

  “The Iranians are practiced at cleaning up their spills,” Crocker said, quickly, trying to diminish the indictment. “They’ll respond immediately, and the damage will be relatively minimal. But it will justify foreign interest, bringing ships in closer. And it will divide their attention—no matter how badly they want to find Cougar, they won’t be able to ignore this.”

  Gordon-Palmer frowned, studied the photographs again. “It’ll have to go to the Prime Minister for approval, and the only way I can see him allowing it is if he can maintain deniability.”

  “I’ll take responsibility.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “I’m sending Poole with the SPT to Iraq within the hour,” Crocker said. “Lankford will rendezvous with them, but they’ll need to proceed to one of our ships in the Gulf for this to work.”