Fisher gave a quick nod to Briggs, the barrier lifted, and they sped on through.
The Suzuki was a far cry from the bike Fisher had stolen back in Bolivia, and the road, while glistening here and there with streaks of ice, had certainly not claimed more than two hundred lives this past year. However, it did present a different kind of danger.
They cut through a heavily forested area, the barren limbs already suggesting the lifelessness of the towns to come. Grim had gained them access into one of the satellites of the National Reconnaissance Office, or NRO, and while they’d only had the Keyhole on target for a few minutes, she’d been able to photograph a 2009 Renault Kangoo minivan heading into Vilcha less than an hour ago. Grim had photographed the tag; it was a rental signed out to one Glib Lakeev. Moreover, Kobin had confirmed that, yes indeed, Kestrel had gone through the checkpoint and was heading home.
Consequently, they were losing precious time. Fisher had planned to arrive at the town before Kestrel in order to stage an ambush, but maybe it was better they didn’t spend additional time here. During the first five years after the catastrophe, the level of radioactive isotopes of cesium had reached 60 curies per square kilometer, with plutonium at 0.7 curies and strontium at 15 curies. Such radiation levels were deadly for humans; however, Grim had assured Fisher that while some of the radioactive isotopes, such as strontium-90 and cesium-137, still lingered, they were at tolerable exposure levels for limited periods of time.
The narrow road began showing signs of serious neglect as they left the forest and passed through several fields. Larger cracks and ruts rattled Fisher’s bones, and weeds heavily encroached up from the embankments. Leaves and branches booted by high winds were strewn everywhere, cleared only by more winds, and in some sections Fisher found himself leaning hard into turns to navigate around a branch and even a few fallen trees. Soon the fields surrendered back to the more dense woods, with trees beginning to tower over roofless houses and barns whose pale white walls were streaked in heavy layers of rust visible even in the dim headlights. A few signs written in Cyrillic and English proclaimed: DANGER.
Fisher’s skin began to crawl. He imagined he could feel the radioactive particles entering his lungs, then flowing into his bloodstream. He shuddered off the thought and checked his rearview mirror.
Briggs kept his bike about five meters back, allowing Fisher to pick the route across the potholes and debris. He’d been beating himself up over that missed shot, and while Fisher appreciated his determination, Briggs needed to accept and learn from setbacks. The lessons were sometimes bitter tasting, but you took your mental notes and moved on. Although he’d never admit it, Fisher thought that maybe, just maybe, Briggs was a better rifleman than he was. Fisher spent much more time firing pistols, perfecting his quick draw and close combat skills. Briggs did demonstrate an appreciable advantage with his various sniper rifles. One day they’d have to compete to see exactly where they stood.
As they neared the outskirts of the town, marked by a blue faded placard that read simply 
, they pulled over, killed their engines and lights, then began walking their bikes quietly down the road, with the buildings lying about two hundred meters ahead.
For a moment, the pervading darkness and silence were overwhelming. The plinks and pings of their cooling 1,462cc engines, along with the scuffle of their boots, barely rose above the soft wind.
They seemed to be the only living creatures here.
But then out in the forest to their left came the half-muted chuffs and shuffling of an unknown number of four-legged animals. They paused to remove their helmets and slip on their trifocals, the twilight now pushed back by their night vision.
Grim had said she’d known why Kestrel had come to Vilcha, and it sure as hell wasn’t to get nostalgic. A Voron agent the CIA and NSA were closely monitoring was found murdered in his hotel room in Kiev. A second agent operating in the same area was reported missing, according to their intel sources on the ground. That second agent was ID’d as Vasily Yenin, who, according to the CIA, had been a double agent working under former 3E director Tom Reed and possibly one of the men who’d been holding Kestrel prisoner.
If Kestrel was going into the contaminated zone, it was for one purpose, according to Grim: to interrogate and murder Yenin.
“Why get special permission and drive all the way into a contaminated zone just to kill a man?” Fisher had asked.
“It’s quiet. No one to hear the sounds of torture. Easy to get rid of the body.”
“If he killed one guy in Kiev, why would he take this guy to Vilcha?”
“Maybe Grim’s right. Maybe he wants to drag it out,” Briggs had suggested.
“And he’s also got another reason for going there. Killing Yenin and dumping the body is convenient,” Fisher had suggested. “He’s killing two birds.”
The answers were only minutes away.
They neared a row of shops emerging from the trees like broken teeth, their awnings shredded, their signs caked in a thick layer of dirt and dust. Fisher noted the briefest flash of light from a filthy window about midway down the row. A sign above read: 
, or MEAT.
“Grim, he’s gone into an old butcher shop.”
“I’ll try to confirm,” she answered.
Running now, they reached the first alley and ducked into it to park their bikes. Fisher gestured for Briggs to head out across the street and climb up into the small church with Orthodox crosses rising from its stained steeples and what looked like a small, mold-covered balcony above the archway entrance.
Briggs took off with his SIG SSG 3000 sniper rifle slung in its soft case over his back. The rifle was chambered in 7.62mm and featured a modular chassis system, making it perfect for an operation like this.
Fisher reached into his holster and deployed another of their micro UAVs like the drone they’d used up in the Caucasus Mountains. He reported the bird was in the air.
“Okay, Sam, I’ve got control,” Charlie answered.
Fisher watched as the tri-rotors purred more loudly, and the device flew away, rising high above the alley.
“I see Kestrel’s van out back behind the old butcher shop,” Charlie said.
“Hey, Sam, it’s Kobin here.”
“What the hell’s he doing on the channel?” Fisher asked.
“I wanted him to monitor,” said Grim. “Not talk.”
“Yeah, but I got something else, comes straight from Kestrel’s old mentor. So that’s not just any butcher shop. Kestrel used to work there when he was fourteen. His foster father made him lie about his age. It was all the blood and gore that made him run away to St. Petersburg.”
“It seems the blood and gore don’t bother him anymore.”
“No shit. Do us both a favor and leave that fucker there to rot.”
Fisher groaned. “Okay, Grim, get him off the line. Briggs, you in position?”
“Roger, up top, weapon ready in thirty seconds.”
“Okay, stand by.” Fisher skulked his way around the corner, along the frozen earth behind the buildings, then reached the butcher shop’s rear door, whose tarnished brass handle and splintering wood around the knob were darkened by decades-old bloodstains. He slowly turned the knob, finding the door unlocked.
When noise of any kind was your enemy, you always came prepared. From his breast pocket he withdrew a pen-sized bottle of silicone spray and doused the door’s hinges; the pump action was quiet enough to be dampened by the wind. He waited a few seconds more for the silicone to soak in.