• • •
The two ofthem walked out to the Jeep, each one with a gun, heavy in their hands; the cold wind like a slap on their faces. A dark starless bitter night. A weather app said temperatures would drop below zero, with wind to fifteen miles an hour.
“Watch for ice,” Abramova said, when they’d settled into the Jeep. She pulled on a ski mask, rolled up as a watch cap. “We don’t need to fall into a ditch.”
“When we get there, you will walk in, look for cameras,” Titov said, pulling on his own cap.
“Yes.”
“And we keep the phones live, all the time that we are there,” Titov said.
“Yes. Crazy American shooters. This should not have happened.”
“Shit happens,” Titov said. “I once had a tee-shirt that said this.”
“I have to say, you have been very good, Melor. I was not certain of you,” Abramova said.
“It’s what I do for a living, but this shooting—not so much,” Titov said. “I can pretend, but you have to be the operator at the hospital. You have to be the frightener.”
“This is whatIdo for a living,” she said, smiling across at him. She was a stress-seeker, and she knew it.
There weren’t many house lights around—they were on a side road—and the night didn’t get brighter until they got on the highway. A highway they soon left, heading north on more back roads.
The navigation system directed them through a thick, ice-fog gloom, and Titov had to be careful not to outrun his headlights. Individual houses and even small subdivisions were visible through the fog at some points, but with long stretches of stygian dark farmland between isolated lighted windows. The roads were clear, but narrow; Titov had chosen a back route because he could drive faster. He was good behind the wheel, but the fog was a problem. The navigation showed the trip as taking thirty minutes; they took thirty-five.
All along the way, they talked about the raid. This was not a specialty of the Unit, but they had enough training to have some confidence. If what Titov had read on the Internet was accurate, the hospital had only a small, limited emergency room, though it was open all night.
Ten minutes out, Abramova said, “When we do this again…”
Titov laughed and said, “I pray we should live so long.”
Abramova didn’t laugh: “When we do this again, we have local police radios in the gear bag.”
“Ah. Yes. Next time.”
And: “They cannot see our faces,” Abramova said. “If we get a doctor, he cannot see our faces. If he does…”
“I don’t want to do that,” Titov said. He didn’t want to kill the doctor.
“I don’t either, but if we must. You are the concierge, I don’t expect you to do the shooting.”
• • •
They talked aboutthe missed hit: “Lev said Sokolov tripped as he pulled the trigger, stumbled. He thinks he hit Masha. I don’t know what to think,” Abramova said.
“You might have to go back after him,” Titov said “The marshals will probably evacuate them to Washington, now that Minneapolis is blown. Then, they’ll be out of reach, at least for the time being.”
“The marshals—they were fast. They didn’t seek protection,” Abramova said. “They attacked. Their reaction was excellent, as was their marksmanship. Good technique. I didn’t have time to look at them carefully, but it’s possible that one of them was a woman.”
“You sound as though you approve.”
“Well, you know…they are in the same business as we are.” After another moment, she asked, “Is there more heat on the floor? My feet are freezing.”
“Let me…” Titov reached over and adjusted a vent to blow heated air down to her feet.
“I would prefer to hit them again, if we can do it with a reasonablerisk profile,” Abramova said, resuming the discussion. “You know…for reasons of status.”
“Not up to us,” Titov said. “We can’t do anything without intelligence.”
