Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

The matron at the school used to tell them stories of the witch Baba Yaga, how she lived in a dark forest in a log cabin that moved around on chicken legs and would hunt down children to eat. Pyotr pictured the stilts he'd seen outside that held up their cabin. What if this was the witch's cabin, hiding its claws deep beneath the ground?

He eyed the smoke more suspiciously.

And didn't the witch have invisible servants to help her?

He searched around for them. He didn't see anything move on its own. But then again, the flames danced shadows everywhere, so it was hard to tell.

He moved closer again to the warmth of the flames. Still, he kept his eyes on the swirling curls of smoke.

He rocked slightly in place to reassure himself. Marta came up and slid next to him, curling around him. He leaned into her. A strong arm pulled him even closer.

Do not fear.

But he did fear. He felt it itching over the inside of his skull like a thousand spiders. He watched the smoke, knowing that was where the danger truly lay as it swept up the chimney, possibly warning Baba Yaga that there were children in her house.

Pyotr's heart thudded faster.

The witch was coming.

He knew it.

His eyes widened upon the smoke. He searched for the danger.

Marta hoo-hoo-ed in his ear, reassuring him, but it did no good. The witch was coming to eat them. They were in danger. Children in danger. The fire popped, scaring him into a small jump. Then he knew.

Not children.

But child.

And not them.

But another.

Pyotr stared hard at the smoke, pushing through the darkness to the truth. As the smoke curled to the sky, he saw who was in danger.

It was his sister.

Sasha.

11:07 A. M.

Washington, D. C.

D. I. C., Lisa explained at the bedside of the girl.

Kat struggled to understand. She stood with her arms tight to her belly as she stared down at the tiny slip of a girl, so thin-limbed in her hospital gown, lost amid the sheets and pillows of the railed bed. Wires trailed from under her sheets to a bank of equipment against one wall, monitoring blood pressure and heart rate. An intravenous line dripped a slurry of saline and medicines. Still, over the past hours, her pale skin had grown more ashen, her lips a hint of blue.

Disseminated intravascular coagulation, Lisa translated, though she might as well have been speaking Latin.

Monk, with his medical training, would have known what she was talking about.

Kat shook this last thought out of her head, still rebounding from seeing the child's picture. She had plainly drawn it for Kat. They had formed a bond. Kat had seen it in the child's eyes when she read to her. Mostly the girl's manner was flat and affected, but occasionally she would turn those small eyes up at

Kat. Something shone there, a mix of trust and almost recognition. It had melted

Kat's heart. With a new baby herself, she knew her maternal instincts and hormones were running strong, her emotions raw with the recent loss of her husband.

What does that mean? Painter asked Lisa.

He stood on the opposite side of the bed beside Lisa. He had just returned after taking a call from Gray in India. His team had been attacked and was now headed to the northern regions. Painter was already investigating who had orchestrated the ambush the assassination attempt on the professor could not have been coincidence, someone knew Gray had been flying out there. Despite needing to follow up on the mystery, the director had taken time to come down here to listen to Lisa's report.

Dr. Cummings had finished a slew of blood tests.

Before Painter's question could be answered, Dr. Sean McKnight entered the room.

He had taken off his suit coat and tie. He had his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

He had gone to make some calls following Gray's debriefing. Painter turned to him, an eyebrow raised in question, but Sean just waved for Lisa to continue. He sank into a bedside chair. He had kept a vigil there for the past hour. Even now he rested a hand on the bedsheet. Kat and Sean had talked for a long while. He had two grandchildren.

Lisa cleared her throat. D. I. C. is a pathological process where the body's blood begins to form tiny clots throughout all systems. It depletes the body's clotting factors and leads contrarily to internal bleeding. The causes are varied, but the condition arises usually secondary to a primary illness. Snake bites, cancers, major burns, shock. But one of the most common reasons is meningitis. Usually a septic inflammation of the brain. Which considering the fever and

Lisa waved to the device attached to the side of the child's skull. Her lips thinned with worry. All tests confirm the diagnosis. Decreased platelets, elevated FDPs, prolonged bleeding times. I'm certain of the diagnosis. I have her on platelets, and I'm transfusing her with antithrombin and drotrecogin alfa. It should help stabilize her for the moment, but the ultimate cure is to treat the primary disease that triggered the D. I. C. And that remains unknown.

She's not septic. Her blood and CSF cultures are all negative. Might be viral, but I'm thinking something else is going on, something we're in the dark about, something tied to the implant.

Kat took a deep, shuddering breath. And without knowing that

Lisa crossed her own arms to match Kat's pose. She's failing. I've slowed her decline, but we must know more. The initials D. I. C. have another connotation among medical professionals. They stand for Death Is Coming.

Kat turned to Painter. We must do something.

He nodded and glanced to Sean. We have no choice. We need answers. Maybe with time we could discern the pathology here, but there are certain individuals who know more, who are current with this biotechnology and know specifically what was done to this girl.

Sean sighed. We'll have to tread carefully.

Kat sensed a discussion had already occurred between Sean and Painter. What are you planning?

If we're going to save this child Painter stared at the fragile girl we're going to have to get in bed with the enemy.

11:38 P. M.

Trent McBride strode down the long deserted hallway. This section of Walter Reed was due for renovation. Hospital rooms to either side were in shambles, walls moldy, plaster cracked, but his goal was the mental ward lockdown in back. Here the walls were cement block, the windows barred, the doors steel with tiny grated cutouts.

Trent crossed to the last cell. A guard stood outside the door. They weren't taking any chances. The guard stepped to the side and offered a jangling set of keys to Trent.

He took them and checked through the small window in the door. Yuri lay sprawled fully dressed in the bed. Trent unlocked the door, and Yuri sat up. For an old man, he was wiry and spry, plainly he had been juicing up on a strong cocktail of androgens and other anti-aging hormones. How those Russians loved their performance-enhancing drugs.

He swung the door wide. Time to go to work, Yuri.

The man stood up, his eyes flashing. Sasha?

We shall see.

Yuri crossed to the door. Trent didn't like the resolute cast to the man's expression and grew suddenly suspicious. Rather than beaten, Yuri had an edge of steel to him, like a sword's blade pounded and folded to a finer edge. Maybe all the old man's strength didn't just come from injections into his ass cheeks.

But resolute or not, Yuri was under his thumb.

Still, Trent waved for the guard to follow with his sidearm. Trent had planned to walk Yuri back himself. Well over six feet and twice the man's weight, Trent hadn't been worried about needing an escort. But he did not trust the cast to

Yuri's eye.

They headed out.

Where are we going? Yuri asked.

To put a final nail in Archibald Polk's coffin, he answered silently. Trent had orchestrated the death of his old friend, but now he was planning on putting an end to one of Archibald's shining successes, his brainchild, a secret organization that the man had dreamed up while serving the Jasons.

A team of killer scientists.

Basically Jasons with guns.

But after murdering the professor, Trent must now destroy the man's brainchild.

For his own work to continue, Sigma must die.

12

September 6, 7:36 P. M.

Punjab, India

As the sun sank into the horizon, Gray admitted that Rosauro's choice of vehicle proved to be a wise decision. In the passenger seat, he kept a palm pressed to the roof to keep him in his seat as their SUV bumped along a deeply rutted muddy road. They'd left the last significant town an hour ago and trekked through the rural back hills.

Dairy farms, sugarcane fields, and mango orchards divided the rolling landscape into a patchwork. Masterson had explained that Punjab was India's abundant breadbasket, the Granary of India, as he described it, producing a majority of its wheat, millet, and rice.

And someone has to work all these fields, Masterson had said as he gave them directions from the backseat.

Kowalski and Elizabeth shared the row with him. Behind them, Luca sat in the rear, polishing his daggers.

Take that next left track, Masterson ordered.

Rosauro hauled on the wheel, and the SUV splashed through a watery ditch, almost a creek. Small downpours had dumped on them throughout the trip up here. Punjab was Persian for land of five rivers, which was one of the reasons it was

India's major agricultural state.

Gray checked the twilight skies as night approached. Clouds rolled low. They'd have more rain before the night was over.

Up ahead, Masterson said. Over that next hill.

The vehicle slogged up the slope, churning mud. At the top of the rise, a small bowl-shaped valley opened, ringed by hills. A dark village lay at the bottom, a densely packed mix of stone homes and mud huts with palm-thatch roofs. A couple of fires glowed at the edge of the town, stirred by a few men standing around with long poles. Burning garbage. A bullock cart stood beside one fire, stacked high with refuse. The single horned bull stirred at the approach of their vehicle down the hill.

The other side of India, Masterson said. Over three-quarters of India's population still live in rural areas. But here we have those who live at the bottom of the caste system. The Harijan, as Gandhi renamed them, which means

'people of God,' but they are mostly still derided as dalit or achuta, which roughly translates as untouchable.

Gray noted Luca had sheathed his daggers and turned a more attentive ear.

Untouchables. These could be the same roots as his clans.

Lit by flames, the village men gathered with scythes and poles, wary of the approaching strangers.

Who are these people? Gray asked, wanting to know more about whom they faced.

To answer that, Masterson said, you have to understand India's caste system.

Legends have that all the major varnas or classes of people arose from one godlike being. The Branmans, which include priests and teachers, arose out of the mouth of this being. Rulers and soldiers from its arms. Merchants and traders from its thighs. The feet gave rise to laborers. Each has its own pecking order, much of it laid out in a two-thousand-year-old collection known as the Laws of Manu, which details what you can and can't do.

And these untouchables? Gray asked, keeping an eye on the gathering men and boys.

The fifth varna is said not to have risen from this great being at all. They were outcasts, considered too polluted and impure to mix with regular people.

People who handled animal skins, blood, excrement, even the bodies of the dead.

They were shunned from higher-caste homes and temples, not allowed to eat with the same utensils. Not even their shadows were allowed to touch a higher caste's body. And if you should break any of these rules, you could be beaten, raped, murdered.

Elizabeth leaned forward. And no one stops this from happening?

Masterson snorted. The Indian constitution outlaws such discrimination, but it still continues, especially in rural areas. Fifteen percent of the population still falls into the classification of untouchable. There is no escape. A child born from an achuta is forever an achuta. They remain victims of millennia-old religious laws, laws that permanently cast them as subhuman. And let's be honest. Like I said before, someone has to work all these fields.

Gray pictured the vast rolling farmlands and orchards.

Masterson continued, The untouchables are a built-in slave class. So while there is some progress made on their behalf, mostly in the cities, the rural areas still need workers and the caste system serves them well. Villages such as this one have been burned or destroyed because they dared to ask for better wages or working conditions. Hence the suspicion here now.

He nodded to the welcoming party carrying farm instruments.

Dear God, Elizabeth said.

God has nothing to do with this, Masterson said sourly. It's all about economy. Your father was a strong advocate for these people. Lately he was having more and more trouble gaining the cooperation of yogis and Brahman mystics.

Because of his association with untouchables? she asked.

That and the fact that he was looking for the source of the genetic marker among the untouchable peoples. When word spread of that, many doors were slammed in his face. So much for higher enlightenment. In fact, after he disappeared, I was convinced he'd been murdered for that very reason.

Gray waved Rosauro to stop at the edge of the glow from the burning garbage fires. And this village? This is where Dr. Polk was last seen?

Masterson nodded. The last I heard from Archibald was an excited phone call.

He'd made some discovery and was anxious to share it then I never heard from him again. But he sometimes did that would vanish for months at a time into the remote rural areas, going from village to village. Places that still have no name and are shunned by those of higher castes. But after a while, I began to fear the worst.

And what of these people? Gray asked. Do we have anything to fear from them?

On the contrary. Masterson opened his car door and used his cane to push to his feet.

Gray followed him. Other doors opened, and everyone exited. Stay near the truck, he warned them.

Masterson traipsed toward the fire with Gray in tow. The professor called out in

Hindi. Gray understood a few phrases and words from his own studies of Indian religion and philosophy, but not enough to follow what the man was saying. He seemed to be asking for someone, searching faces.

The men remained a solid wall, bristling with weapons.

The ox lowed its own complaint beside the wagon, as if sensing the tension.

Finally Masterson stood between the two smoking pyres. The air reeked, smelling of fried liver and burning tires. Gray forced himself not to cover his mouth.

Masterson waved back to the truck and continued to speak. Gray heard Archibald

Polk's name followed by the Hindi word betee.

Daughter.

All the men turned their gazes toward Elizabeth. Weapons were lowered. Chatter spread among them. Arms pointed at her. The wall of men parted in welcome. A pair of the boys, their voices raised in a happy shout, ran back down a narrow alleyway between two stone houses.

Masterson turned to Gray. The achuta in this area hold Archibald in high esteem. I had no doubt the presence of the respected man's daughter would be met with hospitality. We have nothing to fear from these people.

Except for dysentery, Kowalski said as he reached them with the others.

Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs.

Gray led them into the village, sensing they had more to worry about than just upset bowels.

8:02 P. M.

Elizabeth crossed between the two fires. Beyond their glow, the village roused.

Someone started to clank loudly on a makeshift drum. A woman appeared, her face half covered in a sari. She motioned them toward the village center.

As she turned, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of scarred, sagging flesh, hidden under the thin veil. Masterson noted Elizabeth's attention.

She leaned toward him. What happened to her?

The professor answered softly and nodded to the woman. Your father mentioned her. Her son was caught fishing in a pond of a higher-caste village. She went to scold him off, but they were caught. The villagers beat the child and poured acid on the woman's face. She lost an eye and half her face.

Elizabeth's body went cold. How awful.

And she considers herself lucky. Because they didn't rape her, too.

Shocked, Elizabeth followed the woman, galled by such an atrocity, but at the same time, awed by her strength to survive and persevere.

The woman led them along a maze of crooked alleys to the village center. Another fire blazed there. People gathered at a few wooden tables around a well pump.

Women swept the tables free of leaves or carried out food. Young children ran all around, barefoot, mostly shirtless.

As Elizabeth passed, several men bowed their heads, sometimes even at the waist as she walked. Plainly in respect for her father. She had never known much about what he'd been doing out here.

Masterson motioned with his cane toward the men. Archibald did much good for the local villages. He exposed and disbanded a militia that terrorized these parts, even got better wages for the villagers, better medical care and education. But more important, he respected them.

I didn't know, she mumbled.

He won their trust. And it was in these hills that he concentrated his genetic testing.

Why here? Gray asked on the professor's other side.

Because just as Archibald devised that map I showed you, he also did a more detailed schematic of the Punjab region. A trail of genetic evidence pointed to these hills, but I think it was something more.

Elizabeth frowned. Like what?

I'm not sure. His interest in the region spiked about two years ago. He stopped testing broadly across India and began concentrating here. The professor glanced back to Luca. And with the Gypsies.

Elizabeth thought back two years. She had been finishing her PhD program at

Georgetown. She'd had little contact with her father during that time. Nor patience. Their occasional phone conversations were usually short and terse. If she had known what he was doing beyond his own field of study, maybe things could have been different.

Reaching the heart of the village, they were greeted with smiles and urged to come to the table. Food was already piling high roti flatbread, rice dishes, steamed vegetables, small plums and fat dates, bowls of buttermilk simple but heartfelt fare. A woman on her knees stirred a lentil stew on a horseshoe-shaped oven. Her daughter carried a bucket of cow dung to feed the flames beneath.

Kowalski joined Elizabeth, stepping close. Not exactly Burger King.

Maybe because they worship cows.

Hey, I worship them, too. Especially grilled rare with a nice baked potato.

She smiled. How did that infernal man always get her to smile? She was suddenly too conscious of how close he stood and stepped away.

Off to the side, one of the villagers began plucking the strings of a sitar, accompanied by a man with a harmonica and another with a tabla drum.

A tall newcomer stepped up to them all. He appeared to be in his midthirties, his hair cropped short, olive skinned. He was dressed in a traditional dhoti kurta, a spotless wrap of rectangular cloth that hung from waist to ankle, along with a tunic buttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. Atop his head, he wore an embroidered knitted cap called a kufi. He bowed deeply and spoke in English with a crisp British accent.

I am Abhi Bhanjee, but I would be honored if you would call me Abe. We Indians have a saying: At ithi devo bhava. It means 'Our guests are like gods.' And none more so than the daughter of Professor Archibald Polk, a dear friend of mine.

He waved them to the table. Please join us.

They obeyed, but it did not take long for his smile to dim as the man learned about her father.

I had not heard, he said softly, his face a mask of pain. It is a loss most tragic and sad. My condolences, Miss Polk.

She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

He was last seen here at your village, Gray added and nodded to Masterson. He called the professor, said he was coming here.

Masterson cleared his throat. We hoped you might be able to cast a light on where Archibald went.

I knew he should not have gone alone, the man said with a shake of his head.

But he would not wait.

Go where? Gray asked.

It was wrong to take him there to begin with. It is a cursed place.

Elizabeth reached and touched the man's hand with her fingertips. If you know something anything

He swallowed visibly and reached to a pocket inside his tunic. He slipped out a tiny cloth bag that clinked. It all started when I showed your father these.

He fingered the bag open and upended the contents onto the table. We find them occasionally when we till the fields of these lands.

Old tarnished coins, nearly black with age, rattled and danced. One rolled to

Elizabeth. She stopped it with her palm, then picked it up. She examined the surface, rubbing some of the grime with her thumb until she realized what she was holding.

Upon the surface, abraded but still distinct, was the face of a woman, her cheeks framed by a tangle of small snakes. It was the Gorgon named Medusa.

Elizabeth knew what she was holding.

An ancient Greek coin, she said with surprise. You found these in your fields?

Abe nodded.

Amazing. Elizabeth turned the coin toward the firelight. Greeks did rule the

Punjab for a while. Along with Persians, Arabs, Mughals, Afghans. Alexander the

Great even fought a great battle in this region.

Gray picked up another coin. His expression darkened. He held out the coin toward her. You'd better look at this, Elizabeth.

She took it and studied it. Her fingers began to tremble. Upon its surface, a

Greek temple had been minted. And not just any temple. She stared at the three pillars that framed a dark doorway. Prominent in that threshold stood a large letter E.

It's the Temple of Delphi, she gasped out.

It looks like the same coin your father stole from the museum.

She struggled to understand, but she could not think. It was as if someone had short-circuited her brain. When when did you first show my father these coins?

Abe frowned. I'm not certain. About two years ago. He told me to keep them safe and hidden, but since he is dead and you are his daughter

She barely heard him. Two years ago. The same time her father had arranged for her to work at the Delphi museum. She sensed she was holding the coin that had bought her the museum position. Too busy here himself, her father must have wanted her to follow up on this mystery. A spark of anger fired through her, but she was also too aware of the villagers around her and how they'd been treated.

Maybe her father couldn't leave, couldn't abandon them.

Still, he could have told her something.

Unless maybe he was protecting her?

She shook her head, filled with questions. What was going on here? She sought answers on the other side of the coin. The surface was black with a large worn symbol that did not appear to be Greek.

Abe noted her confused expression. He pointed to the coin, having studied it before. That is a chakra wheel. An ancient Hindu symbol.

But what's it doing on a Greek coin? she wondered.

May I see? Luca asked. He crossed around the table to stare over her shoulder.

His body stiffened, and his fingers tightened on the table's edge. That that symbol. It's also on the Romani flag.

What? Elizabeth asked.

He straightened, his brow crinkled with confusion. The symbol was chosen because the Sanskrit word chakra means 'wheel.' It is said to represent a

Gypsy's wagon wheel, symbolic of our nomadic heritage, while still honoring our

Indian roots. But there were always rumors that the symbol had deeper, more ancient roots among the clans.

As the others discussed the significance, Elizabeth studied the coin in silence, beginning to sense at least one truth.

Gray leaned toward her, reading something on her face. What is it?

She met his steely gaze. She held up the coin and pointed to the temple side.

My father pulled strings to get me that position at the Delphi museum shortly after finding this. She flipped the coin to the chakra side. At the same time, he started to investigate the Gypsies and their connection to India. Two sides of a coin, two lines of inquiry.

Elizabeth turned the coin on edge. But what lies between the two? What connects them?

She turned to Abhi Bhanjee. He had not told them everything.

Where did my father go? she asked with a bite to her voice.

A shout from one of the villagers answered her. A man came running from the outer fires. The music died away but a distant drumming continued, a heavy beat that thumped to the chest.

Gray jerked up.

Elizabeth stood, confused, and stared out toward the hills, trying to discern the direction of the noise, but it seemed to come from everywhere then three lights speared out of the overcast sky.

Helicopters.

Everyone back to the SUV! Gray shouted.

Abe yelled in Hindi, barking hard orders. Men and women fled in all directions.

In the tumult, Elizabeth got separated, spun by passing bodies. Disoriented, she fought to follow their group.

Like diving hawks, the helicopters swept toward the village, then split wide to circle. With her eyes on the skies, she stumbled, but a thick arm caught her.

Kowalski scooped her around the waist and lifted her to her toes, urging her faster.

C'mon, babe.

He forded through the chaos, a rolling rock.

At the edges of the village, the helicopters settled to a hover. Ropes slithered out from open side doors. Even before their ends reached the ground, dark forms slid down the lines, heavy with helmets and gear.

They would never make it to the SUV.

8:38 P. M.

Pripyat, Ukraine

Nicolas snapped his cell phone closed. So that was one less problem to worry about. He crossed down the hallway toward the gala. Music wafted, a traditional

Russian composition from the nineteenth century, Sneg*rochka, The Snow

Maiden.

He drew his palm down the lines of his tuxedo. While others dressed in modern couture, Nicolas had handpicked his outfit in Milan, a single-button Brioni cashmere jacket with a peaked lapel and shawl collar. It was classic and elegant, chosen because the Duke of Windsor had worn such suits in the 1930s and

1940s. It had a vintage look that melded with Nicolas's rhetoric, but he had updated his appearance by replacing the traditional bow tie which never looked good with his trimmed beard with a silk pleated tie, accented by a diamond tack set in Russian silver.

Knowing how well he looked, he entered the ballroom.

New marble floors shone under the light of a dozen Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a charitable donation by the company for this event. Tables circled an empty dance floor. But the true dancing had already commenced. The crowd mingled and swirled in eddies of political power, vying for the right nod, a moment alone with the right potentate, a whispered deal.

Russia's prime minister and the U. S. president created the largest pools. Each was vying for support in regard to how to handle sanctions against burgeoning nuclear threats. An important summit on the matter was scheduled in St.

Petersburg after the ceremony here. The sealing of Chernobyl was the symbolic start of that meeting.

Nicolas stared over at the pair, surrounded by a sea of people. He intended to wade into those waters. With his growing popularity as the spokesman for nuclear reform, those seas would easily part for him.

He should at least shake the hands of the two men he planned to kill.

But before he waded into those waters, he headed over to Elena. She stood by one of the arched windows. Heavy silk drapery framed both the window and the woman.

She cut a stately figure in a black dress that flowed like oil over her lithe form, a Hollywood matinee idol brought back to life. She carried a flute of champagne in one hand, as if forgotten. She faced the darkness beyond the window.

He joined her.

Beyond the ruins of the city, bright lights twinkled near the horizon. Work crews would labor throughout the night to ready the viewing stands and ensure that the installation of the new Sarcophagus over the shell of Chernobyl went smoothly. The eyes of the world would be on the event.

He touched her arm.

She was not startled, having noticed his reflection in the mirror.

His voluptuous Rasputin.

It is almost over, he said and leaned to her ear.

According to his man, the concussion charges had already been secured in place.

Nothing could stop them.

8:40 P. M.

Punjab, India

Gunfire erupted before Gray could reach the edge of the village. Screams and shouts echoed. Helicopters thumped overhead. He flattened himself against a stone wall. Beyond the pair of garbage fires, the Mercedes SUV rested at the edge of the glow.

A soldier in black gear ran low across the open ground, assault rifle at his shoulder. Others had to be already solidifying positions around the village, locking the place down. Then they'd close in for the kill, sweeping through the maze of the village.

Gray knew the only hope for the villagers was for his team to flee, to draw off the hunters. They had to make their escape before the village was secured.

He stretched an arm back to Rosauro. Keys.

They were slapped into his hand, but Rosauro had more bad news. Kowalski.

Elizabeth. They're not here.

Gray glanced back. In the mad rush through the twisted alleys, he'd failed to notice. Find them, he ordered Rosauro. Now.

She nodded and dashed away.

Gray stared hard at Luca. Guard the professor. Stay out of sight.

The Gypsy nodded. Two daggers glinted in his fingers.

Gray could wait no longer.

Crouching low, he ran out of hiding and into the open.

Elizabeth fled with Kowalski down a crooked alley. A sewage trench lined one side, reeking and foul.

Follow that, she urged. It has to lead out of here.

Kowalski nodded and took the next corner. He had a pistol clenched in a meaty paw. She kept to his shoulder.

Do you have another gun? she asked.

You shoot?

Skeet. In college.

Not much difference. Targets just scream a bit more.

He reached under his jacket to the small of his back and slipped out a small blue steel Beretta and passed it blindly back to her.