They reached Shymkent in the cold hours of Wednesday morning. Franny had been forced to stop more than he wanted to allow troop conveys to rumble past. He’d stopped twice more when he became alarmed by Baba Yaga’s moans and the streaks of black that were spreading like tentacles up her arm. One time he managed to get a bit of water down her throat and she had cried out what sounded like a name, Tolenka, and clutched at Franny’s shirt. More alarming were the few tears that ran into the wrinkles on her sunken cheeks. She didn’t seem like the kind of broad who would cry about anything.

During the drive Franny had tried to plan. He would have to find a pilot with flexible ethics, and hire a private jet. He hoped that satchel held enough to do the job. On the outskirts of the city he debated—hospital or hotel or just park the car at the airport and wait for morning? He glanced back at Baba Yaga. Her skin was waxy, yellow, and drool ran from the corner of her mouth. If possible she looked worse than she had only a few hours before. He had to find medical help, but if he went to a hospital there were going to be awkward questions. He was also low on gas, and when he spotted an all-night truck stop he pulled in to refill the tank.

As he climbed out of the van there was a sound like a giant chewing rocks and out of the darkness came a link of tanks grinding their way down the street. First troops and now tanks. Things were clearly escalating, but what? Once more he thought about Mollie. She could have taken him anywhere and it would probably be better than this shit. He shook it off and went inside to pay.

The man behind the counter had a five o’clock shadow that almost rivaled Franny’s and soul-empty eyes. Those blank eyes did flick down toward the bloodstains on his shirt and the waistband of his trousers, but no comment was made. Franny didn’t speak, just jerked his head toward the van and the gas pump and laid money on the counter. The man was equally silent, just turned on the pump.