Lucas: “The guy was trying to get to that weapon, whatever it is. The machine gun.”
The agent who’d shot Nikitin looked at Lucas, nodded, and said, “That’s right.”
Sherwood said, “That’s bullshit.”
Lucas: “It is what it is.He was going for the gun.”
Haskins started crying and said, “Hurt, hurt. I hurt.”
Lucas: “Ambulance coming, man, ambulance is coming.”
• • •
The ambulances cameand left with the two wounded men, and a cop convention began gathering in the street. Lucas got on his phone and called Mallard.
“Lucas, do you know what time it is?”
“Yeah, it’s eleven forty-five, according to my phone,” Lucas said. “I’m looking at three dead men, including two FBI agents. Two more agents are on their way to Hennepin General. One of them will make it, I’m not sure about the other—he was hit three times, in the chest and stomach and leg. He’s bad.”
“What!”
“We got one member of the hit team dead, shot by one of your guys. They’re all in the street here.”
“Give me the address.”
Lucas gave him the address and said, “Call St. Vincent. He’s probably heard already, but I’m not sure about that.”
“Where’s the hit team?”
“Gone.”
“Stay where you are. We’re coming.”
27
If the truck hadn’t been so heavy, it would have been on two wheels when Abramova took it around the corner. Sokolov was thrown against the back seat door. The front passenger side door was still rattling loose, and Sokolov stretched over the back seat to grab the door handle and drag it shut.
Sokolov: “Where are we going?”
“Another five hundred meters,” Abramova said. Her face was twisted, but her voice was controlled, sharp. “There’s nobody behind us but we have to leave this truck.”
“The man we left…”
“Lev Nikitin. He’s dead, or will be.”
Sokolov shut up as Abramova took two more corners and then pushed the truck down a dimly lit lane where Titov waited in the van. Abramova pulled up behind it, and ten seconds later, she and Sokolov were in the back of the van, out of sight.
Titov: “Where’s Lev?”
Abramova, her voice as tight as a guitar string: “Dead. Go. Go now.”
“Dead! How…”
“Go now! Go!”
Titov went, pulling down the block to Eighth Street as planned, a left turn, a block later and right onto Hennepin Avenue. Then they were free in the night, merging into the traffic, no flashing lights anywhere. They passed the golf course parking lot where they’d initially staged while waiting to pick up Sokolov, driving slowly and carefully across town to I-35, then south to I-94. Twelve minutes after they got on I-94, driving east, they crossed the St. Croix River and into Wisconsin.
They hadn’t spoken much as Titov drove them across town, until they got on I-94, where Titov said, “Tell me.”
