“I’ll get it,” Titov said; their phones were both on speaker. “I see what you’re talking about. I’ll go around the block.”
He did that, pulled over as though parking, got out, looked around—the streets were empty. He walked across a sidewalk and grabbed the low-hanging branch, put his weight on it, and cracked it near the tree truck. He left it hanging and hurried back to the car.
Abramova took the Chevrolet past it. Nikitin: “That will work.”
They couldn’t stop the car on Second Street, because they were afraid they’d be spotted and checked by the FBI agents before the Sokolovs were hustled out of the apartment. Instead, Titov would wait in the Ford, parked three blocks away, near a bus shelter.
When he saw the first agents exit the apartment, he would call, and Abramova would back out of Eighth Avenue onto Second Street, just far enough that Nikitin could make the shot. Experience suggested that the FBI agents would wait until they had the transport vehicles at the doors, then send one or two agents out first, to check the surroundings, then bundle the two Sokolovs out of the apartment and into the waiting cars.
The younger man was a foot taller than his father, so they shouldn’t be hard to tell apart.
With the shooting sequence worked through, they spent thirtyminutes checking three separate spots where Titov could drive the Ford as soon as they saw the FBI agents leaving the apartment building; they selected the closest one, only a quarter mile to the north. After the shooting, they would dump the Chevrolet, and all three of them would take the red Ford back on the interstate, head south through the Twin Cities, and return to Iowa.
From there, if there was no obvious pursuit, they were six hours by road from Chicago, and a rapid exit via a flight to Miami, Florida, then through Madrid to Frankfurt, assuming Sokolov was dead. If there was a pursuit, a net, they’d stay away from airports, stick to the highways and back roads all the way to Mexico.
“God willing,” Abramova said.
“God has no part in this,” Titov said.
• • •
With the shootinglanes and escape lines set, they drove out in both cars to a Starbucks for coffee and scones; Nikitin and Abramova waited in the Chevrolet as Titov went inside with their orders. Titov was addicted to the scones and brought back five—he’d eat three—along with straight-up Grandes for Nikitin and Abramova, and a Venti for himself.
When he came back, Abramova asked, “What is this sign on that truck?”
She nodded at the truck parked in front of them. A bumper sticker read, “My flesh-eating bacteria are smarter than your honor student.”
“It’s a joke,” Titov said, and spent a minute trying to explain the evolution of things that were smarter than your honor student, until Abramova waved him off. “More stupidity,” she said.
They were all crowded into the Chevrolet, Nikitin lying in theback, sitting, drinking, eating, when Titov’s phone rang. He checked the number, answered and said,“Da?”And then, to the others, “Oh, shit! We gotta go. Now!”
“What?” Abramova asked.
“The FBIs changed up the departure and are leaving at nine o’clock. Ten minutes.”
“We have time. No panic, go to your place, we will go to ours,” Abramova said. Titov scrambled out of the car and across the parking lot to the Ford, taking his scones and coffee, and followed Abramova and Nikitin out of the Starbucks parking lot.
Nikitin said, “The FBI timing might not be precise. Good technique to be imprecise.”
“Yes, but if they’re imprecise early, we have missed them. Imprecise late is better for us,” Abramova said, laser-focused on her driving, running a yellow light. Titov was no longer behind them, having broken away to park the Ford near the bus stop where he’d stand watching the FBI vehicles. She added, “The intel is amazing. Minute-by-minute alerts.”
“Yes. Maybe Sokolov is trying to commit suicide.”
When they turned down Second Street, they saw three SUVs parked in close formation outside the apartment, and the red Ford pulling into a parking space well beyond them. They were still hooked together on their cell phones, and Titov said, “In place.”
“We see you, and we were correct where they would come out. A good sign: luck is with us,” Nikitin said. “They’ll take him to the middle vehicle.”
“How is your butt?” Abramova asked.
“Not a factor, if I don’t have to run.” He began humming tunelessly, a tic he’d displayed before other hits.
Abramova turned down Eighth Avenue. There was on-street parking all along the right side, but only a few cars parked along the street. She pulled into the first parking spot, left the engine running.
Nikitin had tested the electric windows, and now he sat up, rolled down the back window, and put a hand-sized sandbag on his knee, where it would be instantly accessible. The rifle sat across his knees, an ugly, ungainly weapon, with its variable-power Leupold scope.
Nine o’clock came and passed. At 9:08, Titov called: “We have movement, we have a man walking to the second car, he’s opening the back door, not closing it, he’s looking at the apartment door…”
Abramova backed up, into Second Steet, and as they looked down its length, saw a cluster of men hurry out of the apartment. They had a heavyset man in the middle of the cluster, and a taller one trailing, and then the cluster opened a notch to let the heavyset man get in the back seat of the car.
