Page 43 of What is Lost

“Next slide, one guard,” Parviz’s tone was adamant. “Two work then switch. And use gun no rifle.”

“Still leaves us with one weapon holstered, though,” John said. “So, what’s the point?”

“I’ll have the AK,” Davila said.

“Which you’ll strap on half the time to clear rocks.”

“But we will be nearer people, and if Parviz is right about bandits...” Davila punctuated with a shrug that put Ustinov to shame. “I think it’s a good plan.”

“Yes, good. Good plan.” Parviz’s head bobbed along with his music. “We use weapons next place.”

“If we even have to,” John said. “May not be another slide.”

“Sure, sure,” Parviz said and turned his music up high enough that John felt the bass shuddering into his butt. “If have to.”

A half hour later.

Parviz’s sudden desire for them all to suddenly carry felt…off.

Eyes closed, AirPods screwed in, John lay on his back and thought about that. Claiming fatigue, he’d moved to the back of the van, hoping for a nap. But his mind wouldn’t stop.

Because why now? Why have us locked and loadednowas opposed to this morning or yesterday? He was certain Ustinov would’ve suggested they keep their weapons close. Yet he hadn’t.

The image of that mountainside swam onto the black screen of his eyelids. A problem there...maybe. As he remembered, the jumble of rocks they’d just cleared had only a thin layer of snow. Which meant the slide had been recent except...was it his imagination or was there no place on the mountainside that had looked as if a section had sheared away, leaving behind an enormous gash similar to what he’d seen when he was twelve and on the Going to the Sun Road? He didn’t think there had been.

You should check. If you’re right...

Beyond the closed curtain, the music entered into a stretch that he knew was loud, raucous, and—most importantly—long. Rolling onto hands and knees, he eased over to the gun cases at the very back of the van.

The cases containing the Glocks were squaredalongside their respective rifles: one next to Parviz’s Kalashnikov and another alongside his Mk22.

Closing his eyes, he rewound the moments right before they left the airport in Dushanbe: how he had fiddled with a loose tongue of duct tape wrapped around his water bottle; how he’d field-stripped his Glock then replaced it and reached for the case that held Parviz’s weapon, actually had it in his hand and was snapping the catch?—

And that’s when Parviz came around and said we had to get going.

That was also the moment he’d put Parviz’s Glock to the right of the Mk22 and settled the case with the Glock he’d field-stripped next to the driver’s AK.

Opening his eyes, he turned over Parviz’s gun case.

He stared a good five seconds, long enough for the music to shift to a drum riff which vibrated through the van and shivered into his thighs.

There was nothing on the case. Not even a speck of dust.

Maybe it fell off.Reaching for the case he’d laid next to his Mk22, he turned it over—and thought,Okaaay.

Because therewassomething on this case: a tiny bit of duct tape which he’d torn from his water bottle. He’d thumbed on the scrap so he wouldknow which Glock he’d field-stripped and then replacedthatcase next to Parviz’s rifle.

Because he had noticed something important. Something that might have been a mistake. But facts were facts.

Someone had switched the cases. The Glock he’d checked out was, once again, snugged next to his rifle case.

Who? Ustinov? Parviz? Might have been either: Ustinov when playing with the slider or Parviz while fussing with the items in the back of the van or even while he and Davila took potty-breaks.

And...why? Why switch the cases?

He thought he had a pretty good idea about that, actually. He didn’t want to be right, but he thought he was—and that was bad.

Fishing out the Glock he’d not examined, the oneParvizwas meant to have, he jacked out the magazine, quickly opened the slide to check for a round then slid the pencil Ustinov had given him into the barrel. Turning to his left, he squeezed the trigger.

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