Page 61 of Last Violent Call
He tried again, harder. The door flew open.
They were just in time to see Eduard Kozlov climbing through his compartment window while clutching a briefcase. A beat later, he slipped down the side of the train and into the night.
10
“Hold on! Benedikt!”
Too late. Before Marshall could shout another warning, Benedikt had shot forward in chase, shoving a foot onto the side of the bunk bed to push himself up and clambering onto the windowsill. Quick as a flash, he squeezed himself through too and jumped out on Kozlov’s tail.
“Why,” Marshall whined. Still, he didn’t dawdle. While Lev stood there in shock, Marshall conducted the fastest scan of Eduard Kozlov’s compartment. He spotted a key lying on the bedside table. On the desk was an advertisement flyer with thick, dark numbers scribbled over the top, as if someone had been trying to balance an account. Marshall didn’t have the time to take a better look, but on mere first glance, he did think the flicked ends resembled the letters on the mirror.
“Lev, listen carefully.” Marshall picked up the flyer and shoved it at the boy. “Find your uncle. Have him signal to the engineer to wait for us. We will return on board.”
With that, Marshall ran for the window as well, hauling himself onto the sill and taking a flying leap out. The landing was rough on his ankles, but it was nothing he couldn’t quickly recover from. He searched the night and caught sight of two figures. The train had stopped a bit farther along the tracks, overshooting its usual position; Kozlov seemed to be running for the station, which meant they were moving parallel to the carriages.
Think. Think fast.
Marshall sprinted forward. He couldn’t think of anything. Was the station even open at this hour? Would there be other trains coming, or had they stopped running for the night?
“Mars!” Benedikt yelled from ahead.
Marshall jolted. How had Benedikt even known he was running after him? He was a considerable distance away.
“Get ready!”
“Ready?” he bellowed back. “For wha—”
With a whip-fast motion, Benedikt flung something, and Kozlov tripped, dropping his briefcase. Benedikt caught up to him in that quick tumble, diving to secure him in place, grappling in the dirt. Kozlov tried to punch up; Benedikt ducked fast and yanked his arm behind him.
Marshall felt around in his pockets.
Where is the gun, did it get put away this morning, oh wait, there it is—
Just before Kozlov could squirm his way out, Marshall drew onto the scene, pistol pointed. Slowly, Kozlov signaled that his hands were not going to move, staring at the barrel between his eyes. A single lamp at the side of the station lit their surroundings. Enough to catch every expression from the culprit held down in front of them, but not enough to differentiate the clumps of snow from the puddles of mud three paces away.
“Goddamn, it’scold,” Marshall huffed. His breath was near opaque, blowing clouds with each word. Novosibirsk was already prone to below-freezing temperatures in the winter, but the snowfall earlier in the day had locked a frigid sensation into the air. Standing out here without a coat felt much worse than it needed to be. At least there was no wind.
“Speak quickly,” Benedikt said, still keeping Kozlov in his hold. “How did you know Danila Andreyevich Popov, and what was your reason for killing him?”
“For crying out loud,” Eduard Kozlov said. Then, to Marshall’s utter surprise, the fight left him, the snarl disappearing from his expression and his shoulders slumping inward. Benedikt blinked rapidly, looking uncertain if he ought to keep holding onto him.
“I didn’t kill him. I have no clue who he is. I only wanted to get out at Sverdlovsk, and now I will get punished for running late without a thing to show for it.”
He… what?
“The message, though,” Marshall guessed. “That was you. This whole investigation is messing with your plans.”
Eduard Kozlov nodded. “I am no killer. I am only a product runner who cannot afford to make a seven-day journey when I was only supposed to be on that train for two.”
Now Marshall knew how to make sense of this. The illicit substances in that empty room. He would bet that Kozlov had moved them into his own compartment when he saw searches being performed, afraid that the officer would stumble onto something.
His eyes darted to the side, where Kozlov’s briefcase had fallen. If they opened it to look inside, they would surely find it filled to the brim with the same substance.
“Christ.” Benedikt let go of him suddenly. “Gang activity?”
Kozlov looked hesitant to answer. “Well…”
That was a yes.
