As soon as they entered, Rakitin knew that there would be no need for an identification, this time.
Blond like nearly all of the Ocelots,fair and pretty when he wasn't hidden beneath a balaclava.
He'd promised to show Ippolit the crocodiles.
Rakitin knew better than to let personal sentiment interfere with what needed to be done. How fortunate he'd had practice. His gloves were already on.
Immediately it was obvious this was different. No elaborately macabre pose. No works of grotesque art. This was a rush job.
Rakitin knelt by the corpse.
"The killer could still be nearby," Rakitin said. "He's still fucking warm."
Liadov was right. A sidearm lay by the lockers, as though knocked away. The amalgam of data didn't fit the modus operandi.
Rakitin's own gun at his hip was a weight of reassurance, for as little good as Gurlukovich's had done him. Whoever this was, he was fast.
"It doesn't fit," Ippolit muttered. Looking down at the still face of the boy who had laughed, and said, You're too hard on him. Looking for information. That's all a body was. Remnants. A message. After the rest had fled. Namu Amida butsu. "Our killer likes everything completely under his control. This must have been a mistake. Maybe he came back here to wash off blood-"
It didn't sink in that something in Liadov's voice had been off until Irinarhov called his name. The sniper's voice was taut with urgency.
Liadov was collapsed against the wall.
For a vertiginous instant, Ippolit thought that the murderer had phased through the gaps in time to slip a knife into Nika's gut.
Then reality snapped back, and Ippolit was peeling his gloves off and joining Kassian at Liadov's side.
Diabetic. He had said something about that. Hadn't he? He'd said it as if it were of no great importance.
"Nika!" Rakitin said sharply. He was pale, and his eyes were unfocused. He was always controlled, composed. Seeing him like this was frightening in ways a strangled corpse was not. "Stay with us."
no subject
Blond like nearly all of the Ocelots,fair and pretty when he wasn't hidden beneath a balaclava.
He'd promised to show Ippolit the crocodiles.
Rakitin knew better than to let personal sentiment interfere with what needed to be done. How fortunate he'd had practice. His gloves were already on.
Immediately it was obvious this was different. No elaborately macabre pose. No works of grotesque art. This was a rush job.
Rakitin knelt by the corpse.
"The killer could still be nearby," Rakitin said. "He's still fucking warm."
Liadov was right. A sidearm lay by the lockers, as though knocked away. The amalgam of data didn't fit the modus operandi.
Rakitin's own gun at his hip was a weight of reassurance, for as little good as Gurlukovich's had done him. Whoever this was, he was fast.
"It doesn't fit," Ippolit muttered. Looking down at the still face of the boy who had laughed, and said, You're too hard on him. Looking for information. That's all a body was. Remnants. A message. After the rest had fled. Namu Amida butsu. "Our killer likes everything completely under his control. This must have been a mistake. Maybe he came back here to wash off blood-"
It didn't sink in that something in Liadov's voice had been off until Irinarhov called his name. The sniper's voice was taut with urgency.
Liadov was collapsed against the wall.
For a vertiginous instant, Ippolit thought that the murderer had phased through the gaps in time to slip a knife into Nika's gut.
Then reality snapped back, and Ippolit was peeling his gloves off and joining Kassian at Liadov's side.
Diabetic. He had said something about that. Hadn't he? He'd said it as if it were of no great importance.
"Nika!" Rakitin said sharply. He was pale, and his eyes were unfocused. He was always controlled, composed. Seeing him like this was frightening in ways a strangled corpse was not. "Stay with us."
Ippolit looked to Kasya.
"What did he say?"