The Last Run

by Greg Rucka

  “I don’t know.” Crocker shook his head again. “It’s not … something’s not right. Shirazi was on the ground in Noshahr. The Head of Counterintelligence doesn’t go into the field, he has a deputy for that, he has men for that. Why was he there?”

  “I think it’s clear,” C said. “Your initial assessment of the situation was the correct one. Falcon was never more than bait, the object of the exercise was to lure and then capture an SIS officer. The object of the exercise was to capture Chace.”

  “But there were other opportunities. When she made the pickup in Karaj, for instance. The safehouse. Anywhere along the Karaj-Chalus highway. If they were watching Falcon, they could’ve picked their moment. Why did they wait?”

  “You’re overcomplicating it, Paul.” C rose, picking up her coat. “And now I have to go and brief the Prime Minister. They’ll need to begin formulating a response.”

  Crocker stood, waited until C had donned her coat. “Which will be?”

  “Denial,” C said bluntly. “We’ll deny all of it.”

  “Even Chace?”

  C stopped, looked at him. “Will she let them take her alive, do you think?”

  “If she’s been wounded, she may not have a choice.”

  “Hmm.” C turned away, opening the door. “Unfortunate. It would make things much easier for us if she died.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IRAN—CHALUS, NAMAK-CHALUS MANUFACTURING

  11 DECEMBER 0423 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  “More blood.” Zahabzeh shone the beam from his flashlight slowly over the driver’s seat of the abandoned police car, lingering at a point high on the upholstery, roughly shoulder level to where the driver would have been seated. “Hers?”

  “Probably.” Shirazi held up a palm, shielding his eyes, and the beam dropped. Zahabzeh slid back, out of the car, clicking the light and straightening up, his expression as pinched now as it had been half an hour earlier, outside of the pharmacy on Hasankeif.

  “What now?” Zahabzeh asked.

  Shirazi turned away, not bothering to answer, thrusting his cold hands deep into his pockets. It was always coldest before dawn, and tonight, for so many reasons, had been very, very cold. Around him, local militia scurried through the lot, checking cars, overseen by a middle-aged commander who was far too excited to have his men mobilized by VEVAK. Another police car sped past on the road, Route 22, heading north, and Shirazi watched its progress. The road ran northwest out of Chalus before curving to run along the Caspian shore, west for almost two hundred kilometers before it would begin curving southward, towards Rasht.

  It wasn’t the best place to have dumped the vehicle, Shirazi decided. Only two directions in which Chace could have gone, east or west, and heading east, back the way she came, would have been an act of madness. West, Rasht, her choices would be limited again, north to continue following the Caspian, to Arbadil, or south and over the Alborz once more, down into the plains. Both routes would take her towards Tabriz, and from there she could have her choice of any of three borders. Well-guarded, well-monitored borders, but there were always gaps.

  She was in a car, Shirazi was certain of it, her third in the last ninety minutes as far as he knew, this one another Samand. Had that been intentional, too? Chace could hardly have done better in pursuit of anonymity; the Samand was as ubiquitous in Iran as a mosque. And the license plates, that she’d had the presence of mind to take several of them, made him admire the woman all the more. One car, one plate, that would be easy enough for a roadblock or a checkpoint or a patrol to remember. But ask the militia to remember five or seven different ones? Better to not even ask them at all.

  Zahabzeh had moved off, speaking into his radio, and Shirazi heard Faradin’s reply, that they were finished at the pharmacy, coming to join them now.

  “No,” Shirazi interrupted. “We will meet them at the airport.”

  The order was relayed without comment, and Shirazi motioned for the militia commander, speaking on a radio of his own now, to join him. “We have the roadblocks?”

  “Yes, sir, at Mo’allem Square and again at the foot of the highway, before it climbs into the mountains. Another east of Noshahr, and two more along the Beltway.”

  “And the boats are still out, you’re still patrolling the water?”

  “They can stay out for another three or four hours, if you need. But the helicopters are low on fuel, they need to land.”

  “Soon as they can, put them up again. I want them to the west.” Shirazi pointed, sweeping his hand to follow the curve of the roadway, up towards the water. “Careful attention along the sides of the road. She’ll need to pull off someplace, somewhere. She needs to rest.” Shirazi put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your involvement in these efforts will be noted. As will your discretion.”

  “You may rely on me.”

  Shirazi nodded, turning away and moving back to his car, where Zahabzeh was waiting for him. They started out of the lot, turning back towards the heart of Chalus, and Shirazi sank back against his seat, removed his glasses, and closed his eyes. A wash of fatigue ran down his back, made him shudder involuntarily, though he doubted he could sleep, even if he wished to.

  The pharmacy had been informative, he reflected. The desperation apparent at the scene, and the murder of the two policemen. Clearly, Chace had been wounded, badly enough that she had been willing to crash her Nasim through the front of the store. Yet her behavior at the plant had been anything but, which could only mean that, whatever the injury, she was now managing it. He wondered at the nature of the wound, if it would slow her down appreciably.

  Too many variables.

  Shirazi had worked so hard to limit variables, and all it had taken was one fool who had thought Hossein’s life was in danger to destroy months, even years, of planning. That Chace hadn’t been murdered as well was small consolation to him. She had been so close, she had almost been in his hand, and at the last moment, he had lost her. The taste was still bitter in his mouth, as bitter as it had been when they had reached the safehouse in Noshahr. Even before Caleb Lewis had answered the door, Shirazi had known she wasn’t there.

  A blond, Western woman, injured and fleeing in Iran. How hard could it be to find her?

  And they had to find her, there was no question of that. Even if everything that had come before this night had been in pursuit of Shirazi’s agenda alone, Hossein’s death implicated them all.

  The situation had, to say the least, changed.

  Hossein Khamenei had lain dead on the ground, his upper torso on its side, his hips turned so that his lower body lay skyward, his mouth open, the wound that had killed him shining black in the side of his neck. Steam had still been rising from the blood leaking out of his body when Shirazi had reached him. More shots had rung out amongst the trees, and he’d heard the car, seen Zahabzeh with one of his men attempting to chase the vehicle down even as it fled. Zahabzeh’s other man lay on the ground, only eight, perhaps ten meters from Hossein, his face swollen, eyes wide in death.

  “Enough!” Shirazi shouted. “Enough! Regroup on me!”

  “The spy—” Zahabzeh yelled back.

  “On me!”

  Javed and Parviz had caught up to Shirazi by then, breathless from their sprint, clouds of mist every time they exhaled, and Zahabzeh had returned with the other, Kamal, each still holding his weapon. Zahabzeh was reloading the small pistol in his hand, the little Russian PSM that he always had with him.

  “I hit her.” Zahabzeh’s face shone with excitement, zeal, even in the poor light. “I hit her, at least once. She won’t get far.”

  “You fucking fools!” Shirazi pointed to Hossein’s body, glaring furiously at Zahabzeh, then Kamal. “You goatfucking fools, what have you done?”

  “She was …,” Kamal said. “She was going for his neck—”

  Shirazi slapped him hard, across the cheek, feeling himself vibrating with fury, and the silence that followed was awful. “He’s dead. He’s fucking dead.
The Supreme Leader’s nephew is dead, do you understand me? Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

  “The spy.” Zahabzeh looked up from Hossein’s body, and Shirazi saw that he, at least, understood how their world had changed in the last thirty seconds. “We can … it was the spy, we all agree it was the spy. He was murdered by the British spy before we could rescue him. A … it was a kidnapping attempt, that’s what we’ll say. She was trying to abduct him, we moved in to make a rescue, and she killed him.”

  “It was me,” Kamal whispered. He was a young man, only in his early twenties and baby-faced, and now his expression struggled to become that of a man’s. “My shot. I take … I will take the responsibility.”

  Shirazi shook his head in disgust, moved his glare from Zahabzeh to Kamal while the others remained in stunned silence. “Fine, then you will be the longest to die. But if you think that will spare the rest of us, you’re fucking wrong. None of you sees it yet, do you? It’s our bullet in his neck! And when they find that—and they will find that—they will want to know why we murdered the Supreme Leader’s nephew. And they will want to know why we are acting against the State. And they will want to know when we joined the counterrevolutionaries. And then—then—they will shoot us.”

  Javed started to speak. “But we aren’t—”

  “They won’t care!” Shirazi shouted.

  Zahabzeh looked to the body of his other man, Mahmoud, then back to Shirazi. “If we find the woman … if we find this spy …”

  “Yes,” Shirazi said. “Alive.”

  “Alive she could talk. Dead, she won’t be able to argue.”

  “No one will hear her. No, she must be brought in alive. Questioned. Put on trial. And then she can take the bullets meant for us. That is the only way.”

  The other men were motionless still, the only signs of life the regular puffs of condensation that marked their breathing. Shirazi and Zahabzeh stared at each other, and Shirazi was certain he saw accusation, even the hints of suspicion, in his deputy’s eyes. He knew what the younger man was thinking; that this had always been Shirazi’s folly, that he had pushed too far, and taken unnecessary risks. And now, Shirazi was sure, Zahabzeh had to wonder if this next gamble would play like the ones before, if it would fail, if it would bring all their ends.

  “All of us must agree,” Shirazi said. “All of us together, or all of us will die.”

  Another moment, and then Zahabzeh gave the slightest nod, reached into his coat for his phone. “Local police?”

  “And militia. Roadblocks, helicopters, boats on the water, all of it. Give them the description of the spy, and stress that she’s to be taken alive.” Shirazi indicated Hossein’s body. “Inform them about this, but give no details, no identification of either body. Bring the cars around. She can’t have gone far, not if she’s wounded. We’ll try their safehouse first.”

  Men scattered, Zahabzeh speaking quietly, authoritatively, on the phone, and for a blessed moment, Shirazi had no eyes on him, nothing he had to say, and he had time to think. After a moment, he knelt on one knee, took the small penknife he carried from his pocket. Murmuring an apology to the dead man, he lifted Hossein’s shirt, feeling his way along the cooling skin until he found the bandage at the left side of the corpse’s abdomen. Shirazi ripped it free, then, with the tip of his blade, dug into the half-healed flesh until he freed the tiny transmitter he and Zahabzeh had implanted in Hossein’s side. He stuffed it into a pocket, closed the knife against his thigh, rose.

  Zahabzeh had finished his calls, and already the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. “I told them to check the airport first.”

  “Good.”

  “It won’t take them long to identify him,” Zahabzeh said. “As soon as they do, they’ll notify Tehran. Tehran will have questions.”

  The cars were pulling up now, the sirens crying louder, coming closer. Shirazi could see the first flashes of red and blue through the trees of the park. Tehran would indeed have questions, many questions, and unless they could find Tara Chace, and find her quickly, Shirazi wasn’t at all sure his answers would suffice. From the start, he had decided that she was the one he needed, the only one for him.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t known how right he was.

  They were at the airport, the tiny terminal between Chalus and Noshahr, where Shirazi had unceremoniously taken over the administration offices, the dawn beginning to bleed in through the windows. Six men standing around a large map that had been pulled down from the wall and spread on the table, Parviz marking checkpoints with a pen. He handed it off to Kamal, who drew in the patrol routes of the boats, the helicopters, then gave it in turn to Javed, who marked each and every roadblock that had been set up along the major roads in the last two and a half hours.

  Shirazi gazed at the map for a long time after the markup was completed, not moving, lost in his thoughts. Someone offered him a cup of tea, and he took it without thinking, drank it without tasting it, lost in the lines of terrain. His eyes kept going back to the water, back to the Caspian, what had to have been the initial exfil point. There had to have been a ship waiting for them, or a helicopter, something far from the shore. That had been clever, he thought, that would have worked.

  But Tabriz, he realized, that wasn’t clever at all. That was expected.

  She wasn’t going to Tabriz, he realized, and he turned his head, put his hands on the map, covering the routes east and west from Chalus. North and south—not north, either, because certainly the exfil was blown, and there was no way she could have cleared the shore unnoticed. South, it had to be south, and it was such an absurd thing for her to have done that he was all the more certain she had done it.

  “Sir?”

  Shirazi looked up, saw Zahabzeh standing only two feet away, holding out his phone, his expression grave. Shirazi hadn’t even heard it ring.

  “Sir,” Zahabzeh said. “Your presence is requested in Tehran.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  IRAN—ALBORZ MOUNTAINS, 38 KM SSW CHALUS

  11 DECEMBER 0746 HOURS (GMT +3.30)

  Chace sat in the driver’s seat of the stolen Samand with a new syringe in her hand, the car half-hidden in a copse of spring pines, snow on the ground, and a view that would have been spectacular if she’d had the time or inclination to pay it any heed. The pain in her chest had grown appreciably more acute in the last hour, her breathing shallowing with the increasing pressure from within, now becoming, once again, dangerously short.

  She hadn’t meant to put it off for this long, in fact, but circumstances had prevented her from acting prior. Twice on the drive south she’d narrowly avoided roadblocks, each time tipped off to their presence by the line of cars backed up along the roadway. The first time, she’d turned before becoming stuck in the traffic jam, had followed side roads through forest and fields, circling around back to the highway. The second time, as soon as she’d seen the congestion, she’d reversed, taken the first turn she could off the road, ending up on a dirt track that wound its way steeply higher and higher into the mountains until she’d crossed into snow. Every time she’d thought it safe to pull off and stop, another car had appeared, each of them heading the opposite direction, none of them official-looking, but they had been enough to make her keep going.

  Checking her mirrors and the view out the windows, Chace thought she was as safe as she was likely to get for the time being.

  She stepped slowly out of the car, moving cautiously, stiffly, the syringe still in her hand. The air bit at her, cold and yet surprisingly pleasant against her skin. She was still wearing the torn manteau, had driven with the wool blanket from the police car wrapped around her shoulders and covering her head. Somewhere along the line, she didn’t know where or when, she had lost her maqna’e. She made another survey, listening to the world as much as trying to see it, all the while fighting the creeping panic caused by her slowly increasing breathlessness.

  She heard nothing, saw nothing.


  Carefully, she spread the blanket out over the hood of the car, then brought out the first-aid kit, as well as all of the supplies she’d managed to grab from the pharmacy. The owner of the car had left an unopened bottle of Zam Zam Cola rolling around on the floor, and she took that now, opened it, and then opened the box of amoxicillin. She swallowed two of the antibiotic pills, and used the soda to wash them down, the cola tepid and sticky sweet in her mouth. Last, she put one of the pistols she had taken from the police on the blanket, within easy reach, should she need it.

  Stepping back from the side of the car, Chace raised her right leg and threw out a kick at the driver’s side mirror. It broke away easily, snapping clear of the Samand with a crack that bounced off the snow and vanished amongst the trees. The kick had hurt, cost oxygen, and she needed a moment to steady herself against the car, for the bright spots of light to fade, before she was ready to bend and pick up the mirror.

  Thus far, the only examination she’d been able to give herself had been cursory, as opportunity had allowed. The arrival of daylight had made things a little easier, and she’d confirmed what she already knew as she drove; she hadn’t taken a hit to the front. While the chest pain had been significant and constant, an ache that moved through her like a tide, she’d begun to discern within it a purer note, high on her back, below the shoulder, where she couldn’t reach and couldn’t see.

  Chace set down the mirror long enough to remove the manteau. Free from her arms and off her shoulders, the long shirt began to slide down, but then snagged, and she had to bite back on a cry as fresh misery sliced along her back. Gravity continued to pull, and the manteau suddenly fell the rest of the way, and instantly Chace could feel blood trickling down her back, and just as quickly, the pressure in her chest expanded, her ability to draw breath stealing away.

  Fighting panic, Chace picked up the mirror in her left hand, turning her head to catch its reflection, and she saw the blood leaking down her back, followed its trail to the wound, a small, narrow, leaking hole above the back of her bra, just inside the shoulder, narrowly missing the scapula. The fabric of the manteau had sealed it, had acted as a bandage, allowing a clot to set, and she understood now what had happened to her, what was happening, what was going to happen. Removing the manteau had reopened the wound, allowing air to again invade her chest to crush her lungs. She was still standing, albeit with difficulty, still had enough air to know she had to work quickly.