Laura and the three Coast Guard officers sped over the choppy sea. The helicopter was deafeningly loud, even through her headset. Yu watched idly out the window as they waited to reach Unalaska.

Burns activated her headset. "We received a low pressure system warning from NOAA. You can see the sea getting choppier. We're OK for this flight. Our return will be fine but rocky. After that, we may need to re-evaluate."

Yu tapped his headset. "Understood."

Laura tapped hers. "Roger."

Laura watched the sea unfold. It looked cold and forbidding. The sky was gray. It was only about time for dinner, but it was rapidly going dark. It wasn't a sunset, just a thick cover of gloom. She had a moment to catch her thoughts.

Something in the back of her head was ringing an alarm bell. She had a long-cultivated instinct for situations. She had worked enough cases to know how the pieces fell together. She had a good read for how people behaved; their motives and actions usually followed a neat pattern. They would try to sweep over their tracks and complicate situations, but people were usually a lot simpler than they appeared. She couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up. A piece wasn't falling together.

—----------

Bogdan and Aleksandr reached Rusty's neighborhood in his old truck. They could hear the crunch of gravel under their tires. They had to turn the headlights on against the incoming gloom. They punched little columns of light into the mist, under the gray sky above. They saw the same assortment of chain link fences, cars under tarps, and manufactured homes set at odd angles away from the street.

They reached Rusty's driveway and pulled in slowly. The crunch of the tires changed to a loose slosh as they moved across his less packed gravel. They stopped, and Bogdan turned off the engine. They got out, and he tossed the keys into the driver's seat. They unloaded the duffel bags from the seats and piled them in the driveway. Wordlessly, they both pulled their sleeves over their palms. They wiped down every surface they touched in the truck. Door handles, the dashboard, the steering wheel, the shifter, and the console were all wiped over. They closed the door with a thunk, and turned to look at Rusty's house. A few lights were on, but the door and the blinds were closed. They looked at each other and shrugged. There wasn't much to do there.

They turned to walk down the soft gravel driveway. Their arms were loaded down with heavy bags. Their breath made long trails of fog, carried away by the blustery wind. After a short walk, they reached their van. It was sitting low and cold. It was white, but covered in dents, peeling paint, and small patches of rust. The windows were covered in foggy condensation on the inside, and small droplets of misty rain on the outside.

Aleksandr heaved open the sliding side door with a loud clunk and a grinding whine. Inside, the walls of the van were simple corrugated metal, painted dull primer white. The floor was worn plywood, chipped and cracked. A small, yellow dome light came on. He dumped his bags into the cargo area, and then stepped aside while Bogdan did the same.

They heaved the door shut, and then climbed into the cab. The seats were gray vinyl, worn flat. The outer edges of the seats were torn open, showing the yellow crumbling foam underneath. The diesel engine started with a clatter. A small cloud of exhaust steam pooled behind the van, swirling around the dim tail lights.

Another set of headlights, this time the yellowed beams of the old work van, pierced the gloom. The exhaust trailed behind them, and they heard the crunch of gravel again. They drove slowly and carefully to the outskirts of town. The jumble of houses faded slowly into a nondescript section of warehouses. The road turned to asphalt that gave way to a tangle of weeds at the margins, growing under chain link fences. Yellow sodium street lamps lit the corners.

Some of the warehouses were galvanized steel, weather beaten and matte finished. The dull silver seemed to disappear against the gray sky, like a neutral camouflage. At one corner, behind a rusting fence, stood a long tangle of fishing nets and spools. The wooden spools were painted with nondescript text and symbols, and looked large and heavy. The fishing lines were a jumble of faded colors. Red, yellow, blue, and green, dotted through with black rubber floats. Faded lettering on the siding read "Net Shed #7," and a sign over the door read "Moorage Available." The next warehouse was a long row of self storage units, doors painted bright red.

At the far outskirts of the warehouse area, they reached "Net Shed #3." The fenced outdoor storage area was empty. A large wooden enclosure built for nets held only a thin puddle of rainwater, reflecting the gray sky above.

Bogdan pulled in at the gate, and put the van in park. "Sasha, get the gate please."

Aleksandr heaved his door open, which creaked in protest. He flipped his hood over his head to keep the chill of the rising wind away. The gate was locked with a simple combination lock. He spun the numbers one by one. 0-5-0-9, Victory Day in Russia; the most spectacular holiday. They knew their own victory was only days away. It seemed fitting.

He pushed the gate to the side. It slid slowly on old rubber wheels. He stood to the side as Bogdan drove the van inside, and parked it in the old net storage. He slid the gate back into place and spun the combination lock again. The air was chill, and the wind was carrying the smell of brine and decomposing fish in the air.

They pulled the duffel bags out of the van, and knocked at the door of the old warehouse. There was a moment's pause. They knew Oleg would be looking at the small camera he had hidden by the door. He was too cautious to check the door through a window or a peep hole. It was too easy to send a bullet through a window or a peep when shapes appeared. Moments later, they heard the scuff of footsteps on concrete, and the lock snicked open.

The door opened, and Oleg took them in with a quiet stare. His eyes were sharp, cold, and penetrating. Behind him, the warehouse was cavernous. The walls were unfinished plywood, and large iron hooks hung from the high ceiling. Between the hooks hung a row of green and yellow enamel light fixtures with metal cages over the bulbs. They cast a dim, harsh light across the space. Oleg looked at the duffel bags, nodded, and stepped to the side. He gestured the two men inside with his hand. He was wearing a heavy coat and knit gloves against the cold.

They walked into the warehouse, and threw the duffel bags in a pile near an old wood work bench. Oleg had turned it into his desk. It was his makeshift command center. A handheld radio sat at one end, and a burner flip phone at the other. In the center, next to an old wooden stool, sat a pen and a spiral bound notebook. Oleg always organized his plans on paper. It helped him collect his thoughts.

Oleg sat down at the stool. "So? How did it go? Any surprises?" He gestured for the two men to sit at a pair of folding chairs.

Bogdan sat down. He thought for a moment. "No, nothing big. Mostly as expected. The passengers are... excitable. We saw a mob of them. They were in a panic that we were on board. They were shouting."

Oleg nodded. His eyes glinted through his glasses. "Interesting. Tell me more."

"Not much to say. They are rich and entitled. В сорочке родиться, you know how it is."

"Any resistance?"

Bogdan settled back in his chair, and took a long easy breath. It was more like a sigh. "No. We expected some. Would have made it more interesting, right? They were scared. No fight at all. It was beautiful. They didn't know they were a 'cat scared with a sausage.'"

"Good. How much cash?"

"About what we thought. They keep enough reserve for chips. A few heavy bags."

Oleg looked passively at the pile of bags. "Good. Are they unmarked? Did you look for trackers?"

"It was on the list of demands. We made sure they understood."

"That doesn't mean they complied."

"Sure. We swept them with the bug detector. Nothing."

"Good. Dye packs?"

"None."

Oleg seemed to ease. He adjusted his knit wool watch cap, and stood up from the stool. He strode over to the wall, and grabbed an olive green canvas case. It was long and heavy, tied with cords that dangled as he walked. He handed it to Bogdan. He reached under the desk and hefted out a green canvas tool bag. He slid it across the workbench. It left a streak in the dust. "We're nearly done with phase one. Now, I need you at the airfield. We need to slow them down."

Bogdan laid the case down on the workbench, and undid the cords. He unfolded the flaps, and saw a long, Mosin Nagant PU rifle. The unmistakable smell of cosmoline drifted to his nose. He smiled. The rifle's stock was pitted and chipped, and the action was worn to a shine. A side mounted scope jutted from the rifle, and a green canvas sling hung from it. The Mosin had been a stalwart. Bogdan knew it predated even the Soviet Union, all the way back to 1891. He unzipped the tool bag, and found a pile of ammunition on brass stripper clips.

He folded the rifle bag back together, and carried them to the van. A short drive later, he arrived at the airfield. He parked the van, slung the rifle's sling over his shoulder, and loaded his pockets with clips of ammunition. He started the long walk.

When he had arrived with Rusty that morning, he had scanned for the best location. He made his way toward it, snaking into the dense woods around the perimeter fence. He climbed steadily up the hillside. In places, he dropped to his hands and knees. He cursed as the rifle slid around his back and crashed into a tree. It was slow progress. He could feel the forest duff compress under his feet, and hear the crunch and snap of generations of fallen branches.

Finally, he reached a rocky outcropping. It hugged the steep hillside, but gave him cover behind a large boulder. He could balance the rifle against the rocks, and lay behind it in a prone position. The forest floor was damp and cold against his chest. He pulled a stripper clip from his coat and loaded the rifle. He worked the bolt with a quick, practiced motion. He knew the old, powerful cartridges were good for 500 meters, easily. The husk of Rusty's helicopter sat well below him. It was still belching thick, noxious, black smoke. That was good. He settled in to wait.