None of the cars was less than a decade old, and a few appeared to be missing significant parts, ranging from a fender to an exhaust system. The prices, as best as Turk could tell, were commensurate; the highest was only 50 million rials—$2,500, give or take. The Israeli haggled over the prices, but it was all show; none of these vehicles would suit their purposes.

Turk saw one that might—a school bus, parked next to a pair of vans and a panel truck at the far end of the lot. The Israeli saw it as well, but he worked the owner like a pro, meandering around, arguing, dismissing, obtaining a price for everything and committing to nothing. Eventually, he settled on one of the vans next to the bus, going back and forth on the price and requirements—he wanted new seat cushions, which the dealer couldn’t do, and a full tank of gas, which would have come close to doubling the price of eight million rials. Feigning frustration, he pointed to the school bus and asked how much that was.

One hundred million Rials, with some diesel thrown in.

Too, too much. The Israeli went back to the van.

“I’m going to get him to help me buy my next car,” Turk whispered to Grease.

Grease didn’t answer. He was gazing across the empty lot at the side, to the far road. The police car they’d seen earlier had driven over and parked nearby.

“Watching us?” said Turk when he saw it.

“That or they’re thinking of upgrading.”

The Israeli spent a few more minutes haggling before the lot owner gave up in frustration, deciding that he was just a tire-kicker.

“We’ll come back,” whispered the Israeli, walking over to them. “I think we can steal the bus.”

“Cop’s watching us,” said Grease under his breath.

“I see.”

They got into their car and drove a short distance to a small restaurant. The Israeli did all the talking here, ordering an early dinner and filling the server in on their backstory—Russians, visiting sites that promised to yield oil, and how bad was the earthquake? The story was intended for the policeman, who had followed but stayed outside; surely he would come in and question the owner if he didn’t stop them himself. Turk and Grease played along, exchanging bits of Russian while the Israeli chatted up the waiter, who turned out to be the owner of the place.

The man’s face grew worried when pressed for details about the earthquake. He had heard rumors, he said, that it wasn’t an earthquake at all, but an attack by American stealth bombers. If so, there would be hell to pay, he predicted; the Americans would be wiped off the face of the earth.

The Israeli pretended to translate all of this into Russian, then translated their “responses,” agreeing with the Iranian that the Americans were the worst people on earth, always ready to stir trouble. Absolute devils.

No, said the shop owner, it was just their government that was bad; he had met Americans several times, and always they were polite and even generous. It was a shame that their leaders were so horrible.

Grease grinned when the Israeli relayed this after the owner disappeared into the back. The dishes came out shortly—rice and vegetables covered with a thin sauce. The sauce had a curried taste, which ordinarily would have turned Turk’s nose if not his stomach, but he was hungry, and he finished his small plateful quickly.

They spent just under an hour in the café. During that time, they could have been tourists or even the Russian oilmen they claimed to be, oblivious to the dangers both of their mission and Iran in general. But reality confronted them as soon as they emerged—the policeman who’d been watching them earlier had been joined by a companion. They were now camped on the front bumper of their car.

They’d obviously searched the vehicle—the two AK-47s they’d left under the seats as a precaution were on the hood.

“I’ll handle it,” whispered the Israeli. “Stay back a bit. They just want bribes. Speak Russian only.”

The Israeli stormed toward them, yelling in Russian that they were thieves and waving papers in their faces. The Iranians wilted under the pressure of his complaints, backing toward the car and gesturing with open palms.

Grease casually positioned his hand at the back of his right hip, ready to grab the pistol hidden in the small of his back. Turk’s pistol was at his belt, under the baggy shirt—harder to grab. He stood with his arms crossed, trying to rehearse grabbing it in his mind. All he could think about was an infamous case a few years before back in the States, where a football star accidentally shot his leg while grabbing a Glock from his waistband.

The Israeli modulated his tone, and it was clear they were now negotiating the price of a “fine.” Turk started to relax, until he saw Grease’s mouth tighten. He followed Grease’s stare out to the highway, where another police car was just turning toward them.

“Getting expensive,” said Turk.

“Let’s hope that’s all it is.”

Grease took a small step toward their car, then another. Turk realized what he was doing—he wanted to be as close as possible to the rifles if there was trouble. Turk decided to take a more direct route; he walked over to the Israeli as if listening in. The Israeli swatted the air, waving him off; Turk slid back against the fender of the car. Grease joined him.

The policeman the Israeli had been negotiating with suddenly stopped talking, noticing the other police car for the first time. He yelled something at the Israeli and pushed him back, his fist suddenly in the Israeli’s chest.

The other officer went for his gun.

Grease got his first, firing two shots into the man’s chest. Turk grabbed both AKs and ducked behind their car as Grease fired at the policeman they’d been negotiating with. The police car that had come off the highway, meanwhile, sped toward Grease and the Israeli. Turk rose and began firing, riddling the passenger compartment with gunfire as the car careened across the lot toward Grease. The sergeant leapt out of the way at the last moment, but the Israeli was caught by the back end of the police car as it fishtailed. He fell back, just barely missing being pinned as one vehicle smashed against the other.

Turk had backed away from both vehicles, but the impact drove the police car against the front of their car and pushed it all the way to where he was standing, knocking him onto his back.

“Turk, Turk!” yelled Grease.

“I’m good, I’m good.”

He struggled to his feet, the rifle still in his hands. Grease made sure the policemen were all dead, then went to the Israeli, who was bent over the hood of the second car.

“I’m all right,” said the Israeli. “We have to get out of here.”

Turk looked into the police car. His bullets had shattered the heads of both men inside; the interior was full of blood. He pulled open the door, then pushed the driver toward his companion.

“What are you doing?” Grease asked as he got in.

“I’ll back it up.”

The car had stalled. Turk turned the key but nothing happened. The smell of blood and torn body parts started to turn his stomach. As calmly as he could, he put the car in park, put his foot on the brake, and tried the ignition again. The car started; he backed up.

Grease helped the Israeli limp back to the vehicle. Though in obvious pain, he remained silent, moving stoically. Turk backed the police car out of the way, then got out and ran to the others.

“We better get the bus now,” Turk told Grease.

“They’ll look for it.”

“You don’t think they’ll look for this?”

They drove over to the lot. The man who ran the garage must have seen or at least heard the gunfire, but he was nowhere to be seen. Turk pulled near the school bus and got out. Unsure how to work the exterior lock—it was a handle that turned on the front part of the cab—he forced the door open with his rifle, then dashed up the steps.