Tom Clancy Under Fire by Grant Blackwood Page B

clothes.”
    “Why?”
    “Blood particles get everywhere, Ysabel.” Jack had no idea whether the Tehran police were sophisticated or dedicated enough to look for such forensics, but he was taking no chances. The idea of ending up in an Iranian prison—which was the best-case scenario—held no appeal at all.
    •   •   •
    AFTER THEY were both showered and their clothes were in the washer, they settled into the sunken living room, Ysabel with her second glass of Scotch, Jack his first.
    He took the nine-millimeter from his jacket pocket, as well as the Faraday bag holding both his phones, and placed them on the table.
    Ysabel sat in the chair opposite the couch, her legs curled beneath her and a glass pressed against her chest with both hands. Her eyes were vacant.
    “Were we followed, do you think?” she murmured.
    It was a good question. Jack had been careful to check for tails and they’d pulled into Ysabel’s apartment garage just as the police sirens began converging on Mellat Park. Though it seemed doubtful anyone had gotten the Range Rover’s license plates, Jack couldn’t be sure.
    “Tomorrow morning you’re going to call the police and report the Range Rover missing,” he said.
    Ysabel’s eyes went wide. “Jack, that’s crazy.”
    “That’s what an innocent person would do. If someone reports it being near the scene of the shooting, you need to be disconnected from it.”
    “They’ll ask a lot of questions.”
    “All of which you’ll have answers to. We’ll talk it through. They won’t be able to make the connection between you, Seth, and the Pardis condo. You’ll be a victim of a crime, nothing more. Where’s the closest sketchy area?”
    “Sketchy?”
    “Run-down, away from things.”
    “Uh . . . there’s a bunch of vacant lots beneath Velayat Bridge about three kilometers from here.” Ysabel stood up, collected her MacBook from the credenza, and then, after it was powered up, showed Jack Velayat Bridge on Google Maps.
    Jack scrolled around on the map, then tapped the screen. “Take your Mercedes and meet me a block south of this bus stop in about twenty minutes.”
    •   •   •
    AFTER POPPING the Rover’s ignition with a screwdriver and tearing out the wires, Jack parked it beside a pylon beneath Velayat Bridge, then doused the seats and dashboard with a bottle of Ysabel’s nail polish remover, set the interior ablaze, then ran the quarter-mile to where Ysabel was waiting for him. Forty minutes after leaving the apartment, they were back.
    “What time would you normally go out in the morning?” Jack asked.
    “I guess about eight, for breakfast.”
    “Then follow that routine. Walk down to the garage, look for your car, then call the concierge and report the theft.”
    “What will you be doing?”
    “Making myself scarce.”
    “Who was that, the one that died?”
    “One of the men who kidnapped me,” Jack said. “I’d named him Balaclava. And don’t ask me who or what or why, Ysabel, because I don’t know. I need to sort it out.”
    Ysabel took his admonishment in stride, simply nodding. She downed the rest of her Scotch—her third one—then gave him a sloppy half-grin. She was tipsy, bordering on drunk. “I’m glad they didn’t shoot you, Jack. That would have been a bad thing.”
    Despite himself, Jack laughed. “Me, too.”
    And why aren’t I dead?
he thought. Jack replayed the events in his mind. The sniper had him dead to rights. The slightest adjustment to that red laser dot would have put Jack’s skull in the crosshairs. The two pops he’d heard before the red dot went wild had come from a handgun; of that Jack was certain. Someone else had been on that roof with the sniper. Who was Jack’s guardian angel and why had he interceded?
    “You’re far away, Jack,” said Ysabel. “What are you thinking about?”
    “I’m wondering why I’m alive.”
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    Jack opened Ysabel’s laptop, brought up the chat