leaf-strewn road, and because she had never had to say good-bye before to anyone she did not wish to see go, she remained motionless, and listened for as long as she could. She listened until the sound of my departure faded into the night.
When she said this to me, she told me that she would have been embarrassed to admit it, except that doing so is what had given the first warning, because by doing so, she heard two things she hadn’t expected.
The first was the sound of an engine, of a vehicle coming down the road (she admitted that, for a moment, she had hoped it was the same vehicle, that I was returning for some reason, but almost as quickly as she’d thought that, she had dismissed the idea: I was not returning). Then she heard another one behind it, and she understood that two vehicles were now approaching the house.
The second was the sound of the front door closing.
It was these things that provided the warning, or, more precisely, provided Alena with the warning at the same time that Vadim, in his tree house and with his rifle and his night-vision goggles and his phone, saw the two Suburbans coming quickly down the road towards the house, their headlights off. Being a good boy, and being trained by his father, he did what he was supposed to do. He got on his radio and told Dan that the house was about to be hit.
It was then that Vadim heard the front door closing, and turned just in time to watch Illya run for the trees.
(Vadim, who had disconnected himself from his iPod long enough to listen to what Alena was telling me, was eager to offer his version of events at this point, interrupting to say, “I asked Dan if I should shoot the little shit-eating motherfucker.” His English was flawless, his accent pure Brooklyn. “Dan said not to, he said Illya wasn’t the problem, and he told me to stay down and out of sight until the fuckers who’d arrived started into the house.”)
Many things began happening at once, then, Alena told me. She heard movement downstairs, and Dan shouting for the guard at the back, Yasha, to get ready, that they were about to be hit. She heard Natalie running, already starting to climb the stairs. Miata, too, had realized that something was wrong, and had gotten to his feet, following Alena as she had half hopped, half limped out of her room and into the one of the guard next door, Tamryn.
Alena shouted to Tamryn to get the fuck up, then grabbed his shotgun and spun back around to take a position at the top of the stairs. The shotgun was another Remington 870, the same make and model that Yasha and Illya had been issued by Dan (“He got a deal on them,” Vadim explained), but unlike Illya’s, both Yasha’s and Tamryn’s had been loaded with three-inch double-ought buckshot, which would be more effective at close range, inside the house.
Tamryn had scrambled out of bed, drawing his secondary weapon, a Smith & Wesson 910 semiauto (“How do you know that?” Vadim asked her, and Alena looked at him as if the question was beyond idiotic, and answered, “Because I saw it, Vadim.” She was always very precise in matters of equipment and gear, not because she was particularly obsessive about the tools of the trade, but because she felt it was her professional obligation to know and understand what each tool was, and what it could do), and rushed to follow her out. By the time they’d each left the room, Natalie had reached them, and Dan was close at her heels. On her way to the stairs, Natalie had grabbed Illya’s discarded shotgun, which she now tossed to Dan.
None of them had managed to take any reasonable, or even effective, defensive position at this point, which was unfortunate, because it was at this point that the people who’d arrived to kill them entered the house.
(“They poured out of those Chevys like their dicks were on fire,” Vadim told me. “All gung ho, ‘Let’s go, Marines!’ attitude and shit, but professional about it; they were trying to keep it
When she said this to me, she told me that she would have been embarrassed to admit it, except that doing so is what had given the first warning, because by doing so, she heard two things she hadn’t expected.
The first was the sound of an engine, of a vehicle coming down the road (she admitted that, for a moment, she had hoped it was the same vehicle, that I was returning for some reason, but almost as quickly as she’d thought that, she had dismissed the idea: I was not returning). Then she heard another one behind it, and she understood that two vehicles were now approaching the house.
The second was the sound of the front door closing.
It was these things that provided the warning, or, more precisely, provided Alena with the warning at the same time that Vadim, in his tree house and with his rifle and his night-vision goggles and his phone, saw the two Suburbans coming quickly down the road towards the house, their headlights off. Being a good boy, and being trained by his father, he did what he was supposed to do. He got on his radio and told Dan that the house was about to be hit.
It was then that Vadim heard the front door closing, and turned just in time to watch Illya run for the trees.
(Vadim, who had disconnected himself from his iPod long enough to listen to what Alena was telling me, was eager to offer his version of events at this point, interrupting to say, “I asked Dan if I should shoot the little shit-eating motherfucker.” His English was flawless, his accent pure Brooklyn. “Dan said not to, he said Illya wasn’t the problem, and he told me to stay down and out of sight until the fuckers who’d arrived started into the house.”)
Many things began happening at once, then, Alena told me. She heard movement downstairs, and Dan shouting for the guard at the back, Yasha, to get ready, that they were about to be hit. She heard Natalie running, already starting to climb the stairs. Miata, too, had realized that something was wrong, and had gotten to his feet, following Alena as she had half hopped, half limped out of her room and into the one of the guard next door, Tamryn.
Alena shouted to Tamryn to get the fuck up, then grabbed his shotgun and spun back around to take a position at the top of the stairs. The shotgun was another Remington 870, the same make and model that Yasha and Illya had been issued by Dan (“He got a deal on them,” Vadim explained), but unlike Illya’s, both Yasha’s and Tamryn’s had been loaded with three-inch double-ought buckshot, which would be more effective at close range, inside the house.
Tamryn had scrambled out of bed, drawing his secondary weapon, a Smith & Wesson 910 semiauto (“How do you know that?” Vadim asked her, and Alena looked at him as if the question was beyond idiotic, and answered, “Because I saw it, Vadim.” She was always very precise in matters of equipment and gear, not because she was particularly obsessive about the tools of the trade, but because she felt it was her professional obligation to know and understand what each tool was, and what it could do), and rushed to follow her out. By the time they’d each left the room, Natalie had reached them, and Dan was close at her heels. On her way to the stairs, Natalie had grabbed Illya’s discarded shotgun, which she now tossed to Dan.
None of them had managed to take any reasonable, or even effective, defensive position at this point, which was unfortunate, because it was at this point that the people who’d arrived to kill them entered the house.
(“They poured out of those Chevys like their dicks were on fire,” Vadim told me. “All gung ho, ‘Let’s go, Marines!’ attitude and shit, but professional about it; they were trying to keep it
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