David ducked behind the car. He peeked around the side and saw the fourth man running flat out from the parking garage, gun in his hand. David squeezed off two rounds. He missed but sent the man diving for cover. He didn’t have time for more. He jumped into the front seat, slammed his door shut, and started the engine.
The back window exploded. The man was firing again.
David lowered his head, hit the gas, and raced down the alley. The security man was running hard behind him, firing again and again. Tires screeching, David peeled out onto the main street, narrowly missing the tail end of the tour bus in the process. The Peugeot was fishtailing. Fighting to regain control, he turned the wheel hard to the right, then back again to the left. He was about to accelerate when a pickup truck filled with crates of vegetables suddenly pulled out onto the street in front of him. David swerved hard to the right to miss it but clipped the back of the truck and spun out.
He jammed the car into reverse and started backing away from the pickup, but as he looked into his rearview mirror, he saw the final Revolutionary Guard operative dragging a businessman out of a silver Mercedes W211 at gunpoint, throwing him to the street, and jumping into the driver’s seat. David maneuvered away from the pickup as quickly as he could, then slammed the car into drive again and tromped on the accelerator on a straightaway through the center of the city. He was gaining speed—forty kilometers per hour, fifty, sixty, seventy—but the Mercedes was accelerating as well and rapidly closing the gap as the man continued firing at the Peugeot. David could hear round after round hitting the trunk, what was left of the back window, and the rear bumper.
“Stay down!” he ordered Khan.
As their speeds kept accelerating and the security operative kept firing, David now feared the man’s objective might not be to run him down as much as to kill the man he was sworn to protect, to prevent him from talking.
Swerving in and out of oncoming traffic, David knew it was only a matter of time before someone called the police. He had to lose this Mercedes, ditch the Peugeot, and get Khan someplace safe and quiet to find out what he knew and get it back to Langley before they were both dead. He glanced in his rearview mirror. The Mercedes was weaving in and out of traffic as well, but not as quickly. David could see he was actually gaining some ground, but it wasn’t enough.
He glanced into the backseat. Blood was everywhere. Khan was writhing and screaming in pain. In the rush of adrenaline, David hadn’t even heard the man for the last few minutes; he’d been focused on not crashing the car or being overtaken by the Mercedes. But now he realized he had even less time than he thought. If Khan didn’t get a tourniquet on that leg soon and some medicine, he was either going to black out or bleed out. Either would render all of this worthless. His mind was racing, but he was coming up with nothing.
“You still there?” he yelled as he passed a tractor trailer at a speed now topping 120 kilometers an hour and heading fast toward 140.
“I’m here,” Eva said.
“You sure this guy’s phone is jammed?”
“Absolutely — ever since he stepped out of the hotel.”
“He hasn’t made a single call.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
“Because if this guy calls for backup, that’s it. You know that, don’t you?”
There was a momentary pause; then Eva replied, “David, the whole hotel is calling the police now.”
Now that they were out of the congested traffic of Khorramabad and onto Route 37 heading east through towns David had never heard of before, he knew he was in trouble. The Mercedes W211 behind him was a newer, sleeker, and vastly more powerful car than his Peugeot 407 rental. It had a five-liter V8 engine, compared with the Peugeot’s three-liter V6. It was no surprise the Mercedes was now gaining on him.
It wasn’t a complete straight shot back to the fork with Route 62. There were some curves in the roads and a few hills. There were moments when David could see the Mercedes, but they were fewer and farther between now. Unfortunately there were no useful exits and few decent side roads for another forty kilometers.
“David, come on, man — lose this guy,” Eva urged.
“I can’t,” David said. “He’s too fast.”
“Do something,” Eva pressed.
“I’m doing everything I know.”
“He’s almost on you.”
David could hear genuine fear in her voice — whether it was for him or the mission, he didn’t know; probably both — but either way, it unnerved him. Eva was usually the steadiest on their team, cool under pressure, logical and methodical. If she was this scared, he was in even more trouble than he thought.
“Then take him out,” David shouted at last.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Did you hear me?” David repeated. “Take him out.”
“What do you mean?” Eva asked, sounding back in control of her emotions.
“You’ve got a Predator. It’s got missiles. Take this guy out now before Khan and I die.”
“David, I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, you don’t understand; I can’t,” she said again. “I wasn’t authorized to retask this Predator in the first place, much less order it to fire inside Iran. Murray will have my head.”
“Are you kidding me?” David yelled. “I’ve got the number two nuclear scientist in the country in my backseat, and the entire Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps is about to come down on me. Now take this guy out — NOW!”
David went whipping through a few light turns. As he rounded the last one, he could see a clear, open stretch of road ahead of him for at least five or six kilometers. No turns. No hills. Not much traffic. It was a kill zone for either the Mercedes or him.
He pressed the pedal to the floor and gripped the steering wheel for dear life. The car was now pushing 140 kilometers an hour. Then 150. Then 160. Then 165. He knew the car’s top speed was 117 miles — about 190 kilometers — per hour. He’d never imagined pushing such a car to its limit, but what choice did he have? The Mercedes could top 200 miles — or about 320 kilometers — an hour.
David glanced again in his mirror. The Mercedes was about a quarter mile behind and closing fast. All kinds of options flashed through his mind. He could slam on the brakes and hope the guy raced right by. But that was more likely to flip the car, he figured, and kill them all.
He could slow down more gradually and try to engage his pursuer in a gun battle. How much additional ammo could the guy possibly have on him — one mag, two, three at most? Yaghoubi had only been carrying one extra. That was most likely. David now had the one in the pistol (Yaghoubi’s spare) and the three he’d picked up in the hotel room. Still, slowing down and getting out of the Peugeot also meant the guy could stall for time until backup arrived. There was no question it was coming. It was just a matter of how soon.
Then again, what if he slowed down, spun the car around, and played chicken? Of course, then he’d be driving right back into Khorramabad, about the last place in the world he wanted to be just then.
He glanced back again. The Mercedes was now only a few hundred meters behind. A few moments later he was only one hundred meters back, and David still had no better plan than the Predator, though he certainly didn’t want to be anywhere near the Mercedes if and when fire came raining down from the sky.
“Where are you?” he yelled.
But no one answered.