The rutted surface and the insecure position of the guard manning the machine gun in back was limiting them to eighty kilometers per hour—a speed that seemed impossibly slow. “How far are you from Avass?” Omidi held the satellite phone with his shoulder and scrolled on a handheld GPS. The village, a crumbling rural outpost with fewer than three thousand residents, was too small to be noted on it, but based on the topography he could make a reasonable estimate. “Less than an hour, Excellency.” “And the facility?” Ayatollah Khamenei said. “What is the situation there?” “The infection is loose inside and the main door has been breached.” “Was it the Americans?” “Iranians. Members of the resistance, I suspect. But there can be little doubt that the Americans have a hand in it.” “Then they know a great deal.” “Too much, Excellency.” The alien sensation of fear was slowly working its way to his belly. There was no way to go back—they had burned every bridge behind them.
