Inside Outt

armor-piercing ammunition. The gun was small, powerful, accurate, and durable as hell. Perfect for storing under outhouses like this one and of course in backup locations, as well, and perfect, too, for causing extreme mayhem after retrieving it.
    He loaded up three magazines from the package, popped one into the gun, racked the slide, and placed everything into the fanny pack he was wearing under his shirt, the contents riding just below his belly. He left the top open. He took the other items from the package—currency, false identification, an Emerson Super Commander folding knife—and pocketed all of it. Good to go. Just one more thing.
    There was a variety of synthetic opioids used for snatches. The most popular was called sufentanil, and it was about ten times more potent than its analogue, fentanyl, which the Russians had aerosolized and used in the 2002 Moscow theater hostage crisis. Typically, the drug would be delivered via an air-rifle-fired dart, with a medical team standing by to immediately administer first aid, including breathing assistance and opioid antagonists, as soon as the target dropped. Teams tended to err on the side of too large a dose for fast action, which meant swift application of the antidote was critical.
    But the medics wouldn’t have to worry about Larison. Since he’d set this thing in motion, he’d been orally self-administering naltrexone, another opioid antagonist used for detoxifing heroin addicts. The only side effect was anxiety and some enhanced receptivity to pain, because opioid antagonists blocked the action of endorphins, the brain’s natural opiates. A small price to pay, under the circumstances.
    The naltrexone would probably have been sufficient, but if they hit him with a big enough dose of tranquilizer, maybe not. Better not to take a chance. He opened his backpack, unwrapped a syringe from the medical kit inside it, measured off a dose of naloxone, a related antagonist, used for heroin overdoses and, not coincidentally, post-tranquilizer snatch-victim revivals—and injected it intramuscularly into his thigh, grimacing from the naltrexone-enhanced pain. He tossed away the syringe, blew out a long breath, and pulled his helmet back onto his sweat-slicked head.
    He’d already gamed the whole thing out, but he went through the plan again one more time anyway. If they had the manpower, they’d cover both Nico’s condominium and his office. The condo was on a residential through street. Lots of parking on both sides of the street, plenty of places to set up. But they wouldn’t know from which direction Larison would be moving in, so they’d need a spotter at each end of the street or, ideally, two spotters on each end to reduce the chances of a sentry getting taken out and exposing the primary team to a surprise attack. The primary team would be three men: one with flex-cuffs, one with a hood, one with a gun. So that was seven possibles at the condo.
    The office was on a cul-de-sac, so they’d only have to cover one end of the street. That meant a probable maximum of five men.
    If they had the manpower, they’d field full teams at both locations. If they could only cover one… it was impossible to know for sure, but he guessed the condo. They’d see the construction site on the lot across the street and figure he would use it for an unexpected approach. And in fact, he was tempted to do so. He was reasonably confident that with his superior skills, and knowing the terrain as he did, he would spot the opposition before it spotted him. But he had a better idea. Something a little less predictable, and therefore substantially more lethal.
    He was mildly concerned that in the midst of the coming mayhem he could actually run into Nico. But he recognized this was mostly just superstition. He’d have his helmet on for most of the op. The chances of Nico being right there on the street for any of it were slim.
    He rode the Kawasaki over to Nico’s street, the late afternoon air blowing inside his shirt and cooling his wet skin, the buzz of the bike’s engine loud in his ears. His heart was beating hard, but his mind was calm, clear, and purposeful. It was the way he always felt in the instant before an op went critical, like a well-oiled killing machine inside had taken the wheel and he was just along for the ride.
    He turned onto the street and immediately spotted a white van at the entrance—the sentries. His heart kicked harder. They were here. It was