But Ethan Munger was a problem. The young guard began backing toward the van, unaware that his partner had been disarmed. Ethan Munger had his free hand in the air, the other holding the metal container. And he said, “Lady, you don’t want to do this. Please put that little gun away. It will probably blow up in your face. Just put it away.”

“Drop the can!” Ilya screamed it. And it was all she could do not to burst into tears, she was so scared.

“Just don’t get excited, lady,” the young guard said, still backing up with Ilya coming toward him.

It seemed to Ilya like minutes had passed, but it was only seconds, and she expected to hear sirens because several passing shoppers were looking and a woman was yelling, “Help! Somebody call the police!” Another woman was shouting into her cell phone.

Then Cosmo came running up behind the young security guard with a pistol in each hand. Ethan Munger turned, saw Cosmo, and perhaps from having seen too many Hollywood films or played too many action videos tried to draw his pistol. Cosmo shot the young guard with the other guard’s pistol. Three times in the chest.

Ilya didn’t grab the can. She just put her pistol in her purse and ran screaming back toward the stolen car, the gunfire ringing in her ears. Within a minute, which seemed like ten, Cosmo jerked open the back door of the car and threw the can and two guns inside. And for one terrible moment couldn’t get the old Mazda to start. Cosmo turned the key off, then on again three times, and it started and they sped from the parking lot.

Watch 5 was just loading up their war bags and other equipment when the code 3 hotshot call was given to 6-A-65 of Watch 2. And of course all the midwatch officers started throwing gear into their shops, jumping in, and squealing out of the station parking lot. They headed in the general direction of the robbery but really hoped they’d spot the red Mazda containing a dark-haired man wearing a baseball cap and a red-haired woman on the way. It wasn’t often that there was a robbery and shooting of a security guard to start off their evening.

Benny Brewster and B.M. Driscoll of 6-X-66 were the last midwatch car out of the parking lot, which didn’t surprise Benny. B.M. Driscoll had to run into the station at the last minute to get a bottle of antihistamine tablets from his locker because the early summer Santa Anas were killing him. Benny Brewster just sat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought about how miserably unlucky he had been in losing a heroic cop like Mag Takara and inheriting a hypochondriac whom nobody wanted.

Benny had visited Mag three times in the hospital and called her every day since she’d been home with her parents. He wasn’t sure if her misshapen left cheekbone would ever be rebuilt to look exactly the way it was supposed to look. Mag said that the vision in her left eye was only about sixty percent of what it had been but that it was expected to improve. Mag promised Benny that she was coming back on duty, and he told her sincerely that he longed for the day.

There was still no court date set for the pimp who had assaulted her. Mag had suggested to Benny that with the huge lawsuit filed against the city for internal injuries suffered from the kicks by Officer Turner, maybe some sort of deal was coming down. A deal where the pimp would plea-bargain to county jail time instead of prison hard time, and a settlement would be made with the financially strapped city. Mag said she was very sorry for Turner, who had resigned in lieu of being fired and was awaiting word about whether he would be prosecuted.

“I jist wish I coulda been there, Mag,” Benny said when last they’d talked about it.

Mag had looked at her tall black partner and said, “I’m glad you weren’t, Benny. You’ve got a good career ahead of you. I predicted that to the Oracle first time you worked with me.”

Benny Brewster was still thinking about all of that when B.M. Driscoll finally got in the car and said, “Let’s not roll down the windows unless we have to.” Then he sniffed and blew his nose, taking another tissue from the box that he put on the floor beside the shotgun rack.

Benny started the car and drove slowly from the parking lot, saying disgustedly, “Fucking two-eleven suspects that shot the guard’re probably outta the county by now.”

B.M. Driscoll didn’t respond, only taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a tissue so that he could better read the dosage on the antihistamine bottle.

All that Cosmo Betrossian could think about as he drove away from the scene of the robbery while the young security guard lay dying was the bartender at the Gulag. Cosmo was going to ask Dmitri to torture and kill that Georgian if he and Ilya were not killed themselves in the next few minutes. The stolen Mazda that the bartender assured him was in good working order had stalled at the first traffic light. And as Cosmo sat there grinding and grinding the starter, a police car sped past, light bar flashing and siren screaming, going to the very place from which they had just escaped.

“Let us get out of the car!” Ilya said.

“The money!” Cosmo cried. “We have money!”

“Fuck money,” Ilya said.

The engine almost started, but he flooded it. He waited and tried again and it kicked over, and the Mazda began lurching south on Gower.

Cosmo decided that she was right, that they must get out and flee on foot. “Son of bastard!” he screamed. “I kill fucking Georgian that give me this car!”

“We leave it now?” Ilya said. “Stop, Cosmo.”

Then the idea came to him. “Ilya,” he said, “you know where we be now?”

“Yes, Gower Street,” she said. “Stop the car!”

“No, Ilya. We be almost at the house of the miserable addict Farley.”

Ilya had never been to Farley’s house and could not see the significance of this. “So who gives damn about fucking tweaker? Stop the car! I get out!”

Cosmo realized that he was a block and a half away, that was all. A block and a half. “Ilya, please do not jump out. Farley has little garage! Farley always park his shit car on the street so is easy to push it.”

“Cosmo!” she screamed again. “I am going to kill you or me! Stop this car! Let me out!”

“Two minutes,” he said. “We be at house of Farley. We put this car in garage of Farley. Our money shall be safe. We shall be safe!”

The Mazda bucked and shuddered its way down Gower to the residential street of Farley Ramsdale. Cosmo Betrossian was afraid that the car wouldn’t make the final turn, but it did. And as though the Mazda had a mind and a will, it seemed to throw itself in a last lurching effort up the slightly sloping driveway, where it sputtered and died beside the old bungalow.

Cosmo and Ilya got out quickly, and Cosmo opened the garage door and threw some boxes of junk and an old, rusty bike from the garage into the backyard, making room for the Mazda. Cosmo and Ilya both had to push the car into the garage. Cosmo tucked both pistols inside his belt, grabbed the container of money, and closed the termite-riddled door.

They went to the front door of the bungalow and knocked but got no answer. Cosmo tried the door and found it locked. They went to the back door, where Cosmo slipped the wafer lock with a credit card, and they entered to await the return of their new “partners.”

Cosmo thought that now he had more reason than ever to kill the two tweakers, and that he must do it right after they entered the house. But not with the gun. The neighboring homes were too close. But how? And would Ilya help him?

The canister contained $93,260, all of it in twenty-dollar bills. By the time they had finished counting it, Ilya had smoked half a dozen cigarettes and seemed calm enough, except for her shaking hands. Cosmo began giggling and couldn’t stop.

“Is not so much as Dmitri promised, but I am happy!” Cosmo said. “I am not greedy pig.” That tickled him so much he giggled more. “I must call Dmitri soon.”