Tom Clancy Under Fire by Grant Blackwood Page A

tree-lined Princes Street Gardens. She glanced left and saw Amy in her red cardigan step onto the sidewalk and head in Helen’s direction.
    Helen kept going and soon was on the curving path that led past the garden-keeper’s cottage. On either side of the path, green tulip leaves were poking from the soil. The sounds of the cars on Princes Street faded until all Helen could hear was the hissing of tires on the wet pavement.
    Helen glanced over her shoulder. Amy was thirty feet behind, her face illuminated in the glow of her cell phone’s screen as she double-thumb texted someone—Robby, Helen assumed, letting him know she was on her way.
    Their “snog spot,” as Margaret had dubbed it on Amy’s behalf, was the decidedly unromantic roof of a toolshed beside some railroad tracks; above these, atop a lush hill a quarter-mile away, sat the decidedly romantic Edinburgh Castle.
    The path straightened out. Ahead, Helen saw the van sitting on the maintenance road that bordered the railroad tracks. Yegor had positioned the vehicle perfectly, bisecting the path leading to Amy’s snog spot so she would have no choice but to go around the van.
    Helen slowed her pace and started rummaging through her purse until Amy passed her on the path and started across the maintenance road. As she did, Helen upended her purse. Its contents spilled onto the gravel.
    “Oh, bloody hell,” Helen cried, putting a little sob in her voice. “Of all the damned nights!”
    Amy stopped and turned around. “You all right?”
    “My boyfriend, that wanker . . .” Helen replied.
    “Here, let me help,” Amy said, and started walking back to Helen.
    Yegor, climbing from the van’s driver’s-side door, was already striding across the road to Amy, the flour-sack hood dangling from his left hand. Suddenly, Roma came around the rear bumper and charged toward the girl. His face was a mask of anger.
    Despite herself, Helen called, “Yegor, grab him!”
    Amy stopped in her tracks. “What?”
    Yegor grabbed at Roma’s shoulder as he passed, but it was too late.
    Amy had stopped in her tracks. “Yegor? Who’s—”
    She turned around.
    “No, Roma!” Helen screamed.
    Roma was already swinging, a right haymaker hook that caught Amy squarely in the jaw. Her head snapped around. She stumbled sideways, trying to regain her balance, but Helen, already rushing forward to catch Amy, saw the light go out of her eyes. She landed in a pile in the street. Roma was still charging, closing in on her inert form. Helen stepped in front of him and he skidded to a stop. She shoved him backward. “You fool!”
    At the van, Olik was climbing out the rear doors.
    Helen said, “Yegor, check her. Olik, get over here. Roma, you get in the passenger seat.”
    Roma didn’t move.
    “Do it!” Helen barked, and Roma stalked off.
    Helen looked around and saw no one. Yegor and Olik were kneeling next to Amy. Helen asked, “Is she alive?”
    “Yes,” said Yegor, relief in his voice.
    “Put the hood on her and get her in the van.”

Tehran, Iran
    W HAT JUST HAPPENED, Jack?” asked Ysabel. She shrugged off her purse and let it drop to the floor, then tossed the binoculars and her keys onto the counter and walked to the sideboard, where she poured a glass of Scotch.
    Jack clicked the door shut behind him, then leaned his back against it and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another. It felt good to be . . . home. It wasn’t quite the right word, but Ysabel’s apartment had become not only Jack’s base of operations, but his safe house as well. So far, no one knew of this place.
    Ysabel said, “I saw his . . . His head just—”
    “I know.”
    “Who was shooting at us?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What—”
    “Ysabel, stop. Let me think.” He paused for a few moments to orient his thoughts. “Do you have a washing machine in here?”
    “Yes.”
    Jack headed for the bathroom, calling over his shoulder, “We should both shower and wash our