shoulder-length platinum-blond hair and heavy makeup.
Last evening, after a simple dinner of refried frijoles, chorizo, and tortillas, she’d settled down to read the news. For years now, she’d found nothing of importance in the papers, and never expected last night to be any different. Force of habit kept her at it. With some shock she noted the murder of a jeweler during a robbery. It wasn’t an unexpected occurrence, she realized, even if the jeweler was Gregor Rosinsky.
Ironically, she’d almost overlooked the tiny article tucked deep in the Examiner , near the obituary page, about the murder of another old man—Jacob Platt.
Only as she read about that second murder didher heart begin to drum and her nerves turn raw and tight.
She wondered if the authorities had found out yet that the victim’s name was really Jakob Platnikov. And if they had, did they realize what it meant?
She paced off exactly twenty steps from the target. Keeping her back to it, she placed her gear on the ground and picked up each item in turn. She first put on the polycarbonate wraparound safety glasses, then fitted the shooting muffs over her ears and slung her magazine pouch over her shoulder. Last, she removed the Glock 19 from her shoulder holster, dropped the half-used magazine, and slapped in a new ten-rounder. The 9 mm compact was less than seven inches long and five in width. It fit easily into her handbag, and was comfortable in her hand. She knew it intimately, knew every nuance of its high-impact-resistant polymer grasp. She’d used it to practice with on numerous occasions. Soon she would use it for more than practice.
She breathed deeply, head bowed slightly, feet wide apart, clearing her mind of the distractions of the day. A blue-black buzzard circled overhead. Near a dry creek bed, two cottontails scampered. She saw none of it, saw only the real target, not her phony paper one.
In one fluid motion, she spun to face the target, formed the isosceles position, and fired ten rounds. The completed magazine dropped out and she slammed a new one into place, then began moving leftward. As she did, she fired another ten rounds, then ten more as she worked her way back to her starting place.
Twenty-five of the shots were bull’s-eyes, the other five missing by scarcely an inch.
Last of all, she straightened, one arm extended, eye on the sight. She shot the five cans, watchingwith satisfaction as they pinged and flew up into the air, dropping down to land on the ground like so many dead men.
Gray-green eyes, cold and hard, swept the barren landscape. She shoved another magazine into the Glock. She knew what she must do.
Cops were easy to find.
So were dead men.
She had waited long enough. It was time to act.
Chapter 8
Angie hurried alongside Paavo from the parking lot to San Francisco General Hospital, a massive complex of old brick and modern cement-gray buildings. Her chest ached with fear. Aulis was the only family he had left.
Apparently a neighbor had found his stepfather and called for an ambulance. The police were contacted, and the responding officer knew Paavo. When he couldn’t reach him directly, he phoned Yosh. The blue brotherhood in action, she thought, not wanting Paavo to find out about Aulis from some stranger.
The hospital was chaotic. Most of the city’s emergency and trauma cases arrived there, hundreds each day, plus over a thousand scheduled patients. To simply get the desk nurse to direct them to the proper waiting room presented a challenge.
Seated on an aluminum and blue plastic chair in the bright yellow room, Paavo leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands folded, and stared silently at the gray linoleum floor.
“Aulis will be all right,” Angie said gently. She sat beside him, her hand lightly rubbing circles on his back.
His complexion had a sallow cast to it, his eyes filled with sadness. “Not many eighty-year-olds can survive a gunshot wound.”
She had no words to ease his pain and
Last evening, after a simple dinner of refried frijoles, chorizo, and tortillas, she’d settled down to read the news. For years now, she’d found nothing of importance in the papers, and never expected last night to be any different. Force of habit kept her at it. With some shock she noted the murder of a jeweler during a robbery. It wasn’t an unexpected occurrence, she realized, even if the jeweler was Gregor Rosinsky.
Ironically, she’d almost overlooked the tiny article tucked deep in the Examiner , near the obituary page, about the murder of another old man—Jacob Platt.
Only as she read about that second murder didher heart begin to drum and her nerves turn raw and tight.
She wondered if the authorities had found out yet that the victim’s name was really Jakob Platnikov. And if they had, did they realize what it meant?
She paced off exactly twenty steps from the target. Keeping her back to it, she placed her gear on the ground and picked up each item in turn. She first put on the polycarbonate wraparound safety glasses, then fitted the shooting muffs over her ears and slung her magazine pouch over her shoulder. Last, she removed the Glock 19 from her shoulder holster, dropped the half-used magazine, and slapped in a new ten-rounder. The 9 mm compact was less than seven inches long and five in width. It fit easily into her handbag, and was comfortable in her hand. She knew it intimately, knew every nuance of its high-impact-resistant polymer grasp. She’d used it to practice with on numerous occasions. Soon she would use it for more than practice.
She breathed deeply, head bowed slightly, feet wide apart, clearing her mind of the distractions of the day. A blue-black buzzard circled overhead. Near a dry creek bed, two cottontails scampered. She saw none of it, saw only the real target, not her phony paper one.
In one fluid motion, she spun to face the target, formed the isosceles position, and fired ten rounds. The completed magazine dropped out and she slammed a new one into place, then began moving leftward. As she did, she fired another ten rounds, then ten more as she worked her way back to her starting place.
Twenty-five of the shots were bull’s-eyes, the other five missing by scarcely an inch.
Last of all, she straightened, one arm extended, eye on the sight. She shot the five cans, watchingwith satisfaction as they pinged and flew up into the air, dropping down to land on the ground like so many dead men.
Gray-green eyes, cold and hard, swept the barren landscape. She shoved another magazine into the Glock. She knew what she must do.
Cops were easy to find.
So were dead men.
She had waited long enough. It was time to act.
Chapter 8
Angie hurried alongside Paavo from the parking lot to San Francisco General Hospital, a massive complex of old brick and modern cement-gray buildings. Her chest ached with fear. Aulis was the only family he had left.
Apparently a neighbor had found his stepfather and called for an ambulance. The police were contacted, and the responding officer knew Paavo. When he couldn’t reach him directly, he phoned Yosh. The blue brotherhood in action, she thought, not wanting Paavo to find out about Aulis from some stranger.
The hospital was chaotic. Most of the city’s emergency and trauma cases arrived there, hundreds each day, plus over a thousand scheduled patients. To simply get the desk nurse to direct them to the proper waiting room presented a challenge.
Seated on an aluminum and blue plastic chair in the bright yellow room, Paavo leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands folded, and stared silently at the gray linoleum floor.
“Aulis will be all right,” Angie said gently. She sat beside him, her hand lightly rubbing circles on his back.
His complexion had a sallow cast to it, his eyes filled with sadness. “Not many eighty-year-olds can survive a gunshot wound.”
She had no words to ease his pain and
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